Say a Little Prayer(41)
I remember her in the locker room this morning, fingers curled around the edge of the sink. I remember the spider-thin cracks in her facade this afternoon as she stormed off the porch. And even though I don’t care, even though most of me wishes she’d cease to exist, the other part is achingly familiar with what it feels like to be alone.
“You coming, Amanda?”
I feel her stiffen at the sound of my voice. Behind me, the others stop moving, like they’re afraid this is some kind of trap. Honestly, I wish it was. I wish I had some elaborate plan to destroy her, too, but for once, my offer is genuine. Amanda glances toward the ladder, weight shifting like she’s about to climb down. Then she shakes her head.
“I’m not hungry.”
Fine. So much for that. I bite back my frustration and turn to face the others. “Ready?”
One by one, they nod. No one wavers in the middle of the floor, no one second-guesses their decision, and no one hangs back to convince Amanda to join us. For once, I’m in control.
“Excellent.” I grin, instinctively reaching for Julia’s hand in the dark. “Let’s go.”
XI
Talk About Forbidden Fruit
There are lots of reasons why I prefer the indoors, and most of them, I realize, have to do with the fact that I’ve never once encountered a bear in my house. Not that I’ve seen one outside either, but when we all file onto the porch at 12:17 a.m., it feels like it’s becoming a distinct possibility.
Torres is the last one out. She quietly eases the screen door shut, but the porch still groans ominously beneath our feet. It’s colder than I thought, the night air crisp with the scent of pine, and I shiver as I pick my way down the steps. Inside, my plan had felt solid. Practical even. But now that we’re out here alone, miles of dark forest surrounding us on all sides, it’s starting to feel like the opening scene of a very low-budget horror movie.
Camp Thriller Three: The Body of Christ. Five girls, one demonic spirit. May or may not take the form of a Kentucky black bear.
Julia slips her arm through mine as we sneak around the edge of the field, away from the semicircle of cabins. It’s so dark I can barely make out the shadow of her presence next to me, but I feel the tremor in her fingers as she pulls me close.
Once during rehearsal for last year’s production of Macbeth, a tech kid accidentally tripped a breaker and blacked out the entire auditorium. We kept going as we waited for the lights to return, with Ms. Tina encouraging us to recite the script from memory. It was like every one of my senses sharpened to a singular needle-tipped point. I couldn’t see Kev behind me, but I heard him each time he swallowed. I felt the way he lifted his chin ever so slightly before he spoke, and when it was my turn, the other witches and I recited our lines in perfect, uncanny unison like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That’s how it feels now, creeping through the woods with Julia at my side. Like even though I can barely see the ground under my feet, I’m still completely, devastatingly aware of her.
I don’t think any of us breathe until we emerge from the trees and into the camp’s central field. It’s significantly easier to navigate without the curtain of branches overhead, but Julia keeps our arms intertwined as she motions us toward the cafeteria. Only when we’re all clustered nervously at the back door does she finally release me. She crouches to the ground, fingers gingerly lifting the edge of the welcome mat, and there, lying face up in the dirt, is a single golden key.
Julia straightens, unable to mask her growing smile as she mouths, Told you, and slides the key into the lock. The click that follows feels too loud against the night. I wince as it echoes against the trees. The door swings open, and we all pile into the cafeteria, only relaxing when Julia flips the lock back into place.
“Oh my god.” Delaney sags against the wall. “We did it.”
Torres’s nervous laugh bounces across the empty cafeteria. “I feel like a spy,” she whispers. “Like a…secret agent or something.”
Greer scoffs, but even her voice doesn’t have its usual bite. “You’re not spying on anyone. I could hear you breathing halfway across camp.”
“That’s not fair. I have a deviated septum.”
“Okay? You know you can fix that, right?”
Torres rolls her eyes before turning her back on Greer and stomping into the kitchen. My pulse thrums in my ears as I follow. Without the regular bustle of mealtime conversation, the cafeteria feels as cold and eerie as the forest outside. Still, no one dares to turn on a light. Instead, we all feel our way through the room one foot at a time until my hand smacks something solid and cold. The refrigerator.
I don’t know what Heaven is supposed to look like. I don’t know what kind of utopia Pastor Young imagines for himself, but as I yank open the refrigerator door, I think mine would look a little like this—shelves upon shelves piled high with food and glowing with a soft blue light.
Next to me, Delaney lets out a low whimper. “Look.” She stretches a tentative hand toward the top shelf. “Cinnamon rolls.”
Sure enough, four enormous trays of prebaked pastries stare back at us. I choke on a laugh and quickly scan the rest of the shelves. We don’t just have cinnamon rolls. We have everything—rows of perfectly good, ready-to-eat food that our good Christian counselors have been keeping from us all day. Bagels and sodas and baskets of fresh fruit. Pudding cups and sandwiches and more cold cuts than any human person could consume in their lifetime.