Say a Little Prayer(4)
It says a lot about how much I hate Pleasant Hills that this is even a remotely difficult decision. It shouldn’t be. I’d practically begged Mr. Rider for an alternative and here it is. He’s handing me a way out, but I’ve never been good at letting things go. Mom says it’s because I think too much. My sister, Hannah, says it’s because I’m a Scorpio. Either way, I don’t think I have much of a choice now.
“Why does it have to be camp?” I ask, arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Can’t I, like, volunteer at the nursing home or something?”
I don’t miss the way Mr. Rider’s gaze flicks toward Mom and Dad. He must know they also haven’t attended a service since Christmas, and I wonder if this is some weird ploy to save all of our collective souls. Maybe Pastor Young put him up to this.
“Shifts like that require more preparation, more paperwork.” Mr. Rider slides the pamphlet toward me. “Long story short, I’m your principal, Riley. I want you to succeed. I want your time at Madison to be an exciting learning experience, both in and out of the classroom, and studies show that students are happier when they’re involved in their communities. I can’t make you go anywhere, but if you truly don’t want a suspension, I think this would be a great opportunity for you.”
He’s watching me with a mixture of pity and wary concern, like he’s afraid I’m going to burst into flames at the mere mention of the Lord. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll set myself on fire to prove a point.
I glance over my shoulder to where Mom and Dad are silently watching our exchange. Dad’s expression is stubbornly neutral, but I can tell Mom is angry by the way her left eyebrow arches slightly higher than her right. It’s a small comfort, but I take it. She might lecture me later tonight. She might ground me for the rest of the year, but right now, within the confines of this office, she is stubbornly and unshakably on my side.
“It’s your choice,” she says, and I know she means it.
In the end, it’s not much of a choice at all. I can’t lose this show. I can’t disappoint my cast. I might feel messy and tangled and wrong most days, but onstage, I’m untouchable. And that’s not something I’m willing to give away.
“Fine.” I reach across the desk and slide the pamphlet toward me a fraction of an inch. “I’ll go. I’ll write your essay.”
Mr. Rider’s face splits into a wide grin. “Excellent! That’s wonderful, Riley.”
He turns to say something to Mom and Dad, but I’m no longer listening. I grab my backpack, and when I stand to leave, pamphlet crumpled between my fingers, I think it’s almost a pity I don’t believe in God anymore.
I think this would probably be a good time to pray.
II
My Lord and Savior Daddy Christ
“I can’t believe they’re sending me to Kentucky.” I toss a wadded-up T-shirt in the vague direction of my overflowing suitcase. “It’s not even a real state!”
Hannah catches the shirt in midair from where she sits on the corner of my unmade bed. “I don’t think you’re allowed to slander the Midwest when you live in Ohio,” she says, smoothing the wrinkles from the fabric before tucking it next to my other clothes. “But I suppose you can always tell Mom and Dad you changed your mind.”
“Absolutely not. Ms. Tina would kill me if she had to find another Donkey a week before tech.”
“Right.” The corner of Hannah’s mouth lifts in an exasperated smile. “I forgot Donkey is the real star of Shrek the Musical.”
“I don’t know why you’re saying that like it isn’t true.”
I turn back to my closet, trying not to think about how disappointed Ms. Tina had looked when I told her I wouldn’t be able to make this weekend’s rehearsal. Next week’s hours are optional—just a casual get-together for anyone still in town over spring break—but I’m the drama club vice president. I’m one of the only students who actually wants to study theater when I graduate, and I’m supposed to be someone she can count on. I’m definitely not supposed to spend the week before tech rehearsal in rural Kentucky with no way to practice our new blocking, but that’s not entirely my fault.
Personally, I blame Amanda Clarke and Madison High School’s borderline-unconstitutional obsession with producing students with “good Christian values.”
Across the room, Hannah holds up a well-worn T-shirt with the words Live, Laugh, Lobotomy stamped over the front. “Was this a yes or a no?”
I sigh. “That’s a maybe. Put it in the pile.”
“There’s a pile?”
There’s supposed to be. I glare at the mountain of clothes. I’ve spent the last three years watching Hannah pack for this very camp, tucking dusty pink compression cubes into an equally pastel suitcase and zipping it shut without protest. She made it look easy, simple, but I must have torn through half my closet in the hour I’ve been home, and I still have no idea what to pack.
The Pleasant Hills camp pamphlet suggested bringing “hiking shoes, a Bible, and a spirit ready to receive the Lord,” which was entirely unhelpful considering I currently have none of the above.
“It’s fine,” I say, nudging a pair of discarded gym shorts aside with my foot. “I probably won’t need those, right? It’s just a week. And Mr. Rider didn’t say I had to turn in a good essay, so theoretically, I could write about how Amanda Clarke is a judgmental, hypocritical bitch who totally deserves to get slapped and call it a day.”