Say a Little Prayer(46)
3. Finishing the mile dead last only to turn around and sprain my ankle on the way back to the bleachers.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that all these things occurred during gym class.
It doesn’t matter how many times Julia tells me I’d like softball or how often Hannah begs me to try ballet. I know my limits, and I have absolutely no interest in learning all the niche ways I can embarrass myself through team activities. But when we gather in the chapel the next morning, it’s with the unmistakable buzz that only accompanies major sporting events—the US Open, the Super Bowl, and apparently, the biannual Pleasant Hills game of capture the flag.
“Oh my god,” I say, sliding onto the bleachers next to Ben. “You guys weren’t kidding. This is intense.”
Ben has always been my unathletic partner in crime, but today, he’s grinning up at me through a very unsettling mask of blue face paint. “Told you.” He glances up at my hat. “You’re on the red team?”
He says red like it’s an insult, like even though we used to hide under the bleachers to avoid middle school track meets together, he’s seriously contemplating breaking my legs. I tug on the brim of the Phillies baseball cap Delaney lent me and grin. “Nervous?”
“Please.” Ben snorts. “I’ve seen you run.”
I resist the urge to tell him that I’d actually managed to run pretty fast last night. My knees still ache from the effort, which, now that I’m thinking about it, might be a problem today. I have no idea how the counselors divided us into teams, but this morning, my cabin had jolted awake to another ear-shattering verse of “Flexin’ on That Gram” to find a sheet of paper already slipped under our door. Amanda, Greer, and Delaney ended up on the blue team while Julia, Torres, and I were assigned red. Everyone had immediately started digging for color-coded outfits as I sat in bed, wondering if calling this morning’s game intense was a bit of an understatement.
Now, for example, Amanda sits a few rows ahead of us, dabbing lines of blue paint on Greer’s cheeks with the kind of precision usually reserved for complex brain surgery. Her blond curls are held back with a blue headband, and they’re both wearing matching pairs of knee-high socks, blue laces woven through their sneakers. Even Julia is fully decked out in head-to-toe red. When she slides into the seat next to me, she spares Ben the briefest glance before leaning in and whispering, “If his team wins, he’s going to hold it over our heads for the rest of our lives.”
Yes, I think as I watch her loop scarlet ribbon around the end of her braid. Intense was definitely an understatement.
I don’t know if it’s the anticipation or the fact that we actually got a real breakfast this morning, but the mood is noticeably lighter as the worship band finishes their set. Even the sight of Pastor Young jogging onstage in a black-and-white-striped jersey with the words Time-Out for Prayer printed across the back doesn’t fill me with the usual sense of dread. In fact, I think it’s one of the better Jesus-themed shirts he’s tried this week.
“Good morning!” he says. “How’s everyone feeling?”
The cheer that follows is significantly more enthusiastic than yesterday’s. It takes a full minute for Pastor Young to regain some semblance of control.
“That’s what I like to hear! I’m not going to keep you long, but I do feel called to share a few words before we head out. Capture the flag is simple, right? It’s a fun game, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a lesson here or that it can’t also embody today’s heavenly virtue of patience. How many of you play sports?” Most people’s hands shoot up. “Great. Now, how many of you have ever let your emotions get the better of you during a game? Have you ever gotten caught up in the moment or made an impulsive decision you later regret?”
Fewer hands, more hesitant this time, but Pastor Young just nods. “I thought so. A casual game at camp might not seem like a big deal, but those emotions can still have serious consequences.”
He launches into a sermon about the deadly sin of wrath, and it takes everything in my power not to groan. I’ve seen Pastor Young watch football. Catch him after the Browns lose, and there’s not an ounce of heavenly patience to be found. But if wrath is my sin of the day, if all I have to do is be angry, he might as well have handed me a free pass. Even now, I feel the perpetual ache in my chest, the pressure of keeping my own personal collection of wrath locked where no one can see.
“You good?” Ben nudges my arm, voice soft enough for just us to hear. “You look like you’re planning a church arson or something.”
Now, there’s an idea. I shake my head and force the line between my brows to smooth. “Just thinking about the game.”
“Right.” Ben smirks. “Riley Ackerman is playing a sport. Who’d have thought?”
I drive my elbow into his ribs.
Twenty-four minutes of preaching later, Pastor Young leads us through a quick prayer and dismisses us from the chapel. Everyone automatically filters into teams as we go. A few counselors motion for the blue group to follow them, but Gabe keeps the rest of us moving straight ahead. I stifle a yawn. Part of me is still on edge, waiting for one of the counselors to give me a double take or start waving a flashlight in my face, but breakfast had passed without a hitch. No one was whispering about half-eaten containers of potato salad or the mystery girls from the woods, and the longer everything stays quiet, the more I think we might have actually gotten away with it.