Say a Little Prayer(42)
I don’t know where to start. We’re all just standing there, frozen by the overwhelming choice of it all, when Julia reaches down and plucks an Uncrustables sandwich from a box near the bottom.
“Here,” she says, holding it in my direction. “It’s strawberry. Your favorite.”
Her voice must crack through whatever threads of self-restraint have been holding us in place because everyone starts moving at once.
There’s a strategy at first—rules we attempt to enforce as we all dive for the food. Don’t open anything new. Don’t make a mess. Don’t take too much or someone might notice in the morning. But when Delaney rips the lid off a brand-new container of potato salad and plops it in the middle of the kitchen table, I think all semblance of order goes out the window. Because why does it matter? There’s more than enough food here to get everyone through the week. It’s not like the other campers would go hungry. I grab another handful of sandwiches, and by the time we’re done, there’s a small feast spread across the stainless steel table between us.
For the next several minutes, it’s quiet except for the crinkling of plastic and the pop of soda can lids. Julia takes the spot next to me, arm brushing mine each time she reaches for more chips, but for once, I’m too preoccupied to notice the way my skin prickles at the touch. Even Greer looks content with a bag of honey-glazed ham, and it’s not until Delaney points a pretzel stick in my direction that the spell finally breaks.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I freeze, every cell in my body tensing instinctively. “Sure?”
It’s not a convincing answer, but Delaney doesn’t seem to mind. She bites down on the end of her pretzel and asks, “Why did you come to camp this year? It doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
“How would you know?”
“Well, you’ve never attended before. And you very clearly hate everything Gabe says.”
I’m about to tell her that doesn’t count—I’d probably hate Gabe regardless of if I’d attended camp before—when the back of Julia’s hand grazes mine. I look down and realize I’m slowly shredding the remains of my sandwich, crumbs scattering across the floor at our feet. I exhale and force myself to stop. Of course Delaney is curious. She doesn’t know me. I’m an outsider here, and the question is an echo of the same one Amanda asked me on day one.
Are you ever going to tell us why you’re here?
I drop my mangled crusts on top of the sandwich wrappers and mutter, “I got into a fight at school last week. My principal told me it was either this or a suspension.”
I brace myself for the inevitable judgment, but Delaney just throws her head back and laughs. “Oh my god,” she says. “I miss public school!”
Torres leans forward, bony elbows braced against the table. “Who did you fight?”
“Um…” Shame prickles down the back of my neck. I grab a fistful of Julia’s chips and purposefully don’t look at Greer. “Amanda Clarke?”
“Really? Why?”
I’m honestly surprised Torres hadn’t heard about it. Sure, it happened the day before spring break and she’s only a sophomore, but I’d assumed news like that would travel—Amanda Clarke, Madison High School’s reigning queen of all that is perfect and holy, getting smacked by a girl in a Shrek the Musical T-shirt. It’s a good story. But if Torres doesn’t know why I’d want to fight Amanda in the first place, maybe people aren’t talking about me or Hannah as much as I think they are. Maybe they don’t care as much as Pastor Young wants me to believe.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The point is I’m here and I have to write Mr. Rider an essay on what I learn this week.”
“Oh?” Delaney grins. “And what have you learned so far?”
My next bite tastes like cardboard, peanut butter too sticky in the back of my throat. I struggle to swallow as I think of the notes scrawled in my prayer book and all the things I intend to do with them. I’ve learned a lot of things I wish I could share now—that I was right to leave Pleasant Hills when I did, that I’ll never understand what they all see in it, that I’m still planning to burn this place down when I leave.
I decide on the safer answer. “I learned I’m never fasting again.”
Torres laughs, the soft glow of the refrigerator catching in her dark hair. “So true.” Then she straightens. “Wait, who took the nacho dip?”
She lunges in Delaney’s direction, hands outstretched as the two of them fumble for the near-empty container. Greer shrieks as someone’s elbow nearly upends her bag of ham, Julia snorts out a choked giggle, but I just watch. I think about yesterday, about how the only thing I wanted was more time in that thrift store. If greed is wanting too much, then I think gluttony is excess. It’s consuming things until they make you sick, and even though I’m uncomfortably full now, I can’t imagine a world where I feel sick of this. Sneaking out and eating cold peanut butter sandwiches in the glow of the camp refrigerator. Feeling the solid press of Julia’s arm against mine. Watching Torres yank her jar of dip from Delaney’s grasp and scramble toward the other side of the kitchen. Feeling, for a moment, like I might belong.
It’s strange, I think, that after a day of being nothing but virtuous and temperate, the five of us are finally coming alive in the afterglow of this singular deadly sin.