Say a Little Prayer(47)
“How are we feeling, team?”
Torres throws one arm around my neck, then reaches for Julia with the other. Despite our identical sleep schedules, she looks remarkably well rested. I bite back another yawn.
“Great,” I say. “Ready to kick some blue ass, for sure.”
Gabe whips around, eyes narrowing on me through the crowd. “Language, Riley. This isn’t a competition.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m pretty sure it is, though.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing!” I call, ignoring the way Julia turns her head into my neck to hide her grin. “I meant I’m ready to engage in some completely chill, low-stakes athletic activity. In the name of the Lord.”
I flash Gabe my sweetest smile. Torres snorts out a laugh, and soon the three of us are struggling to hold it together, arms interlocked as we continue across a narrow stream and deeper into the woods. Eventually, we stop in front of a single wooden tower.
“Here you go,” Gabe says. “You know the rules. Just wait for the whistle.”
Bold of him to assume I know anything about what’s happening here. He leaves us clustered in a circle, and I lift a hand to squint toward the top of the base. The tower looks like it’s been ripped from a children’s playground. There’s still an opening at the top where a slide should go and a rickety-looking staircase winding its way up the side. Someone’s hung an array of little glass ornaments from the balcony—angels and crosses and birds caught midflight—and dangling from the roof is a single red scarf.
Torres takes one look at it and nods. “Okay, team, here’s the plan.”
To my surprise, no one argues. I know Torres plays volleyball back home. I know she’d been good enough to make the varsity team as a first-year, and looking at her now, I can tell why. Her arms are corded with lean muscle, and even though she’s the shortest one here, I have a feeling she could take me to the ground no problem. Even Patrick, who’d spray-painted his hair a concerning shade of red, steps back and lets her lead.
“Patrick, Jace, and Lydia—when Pastor Young blows the whistle, you’ll take our flag and hide it somewhere on our side of the river,” Torres says, pointing at people as she goes. “It has to be visible, but that doesn’t mean it should be easy to get. You’ll be the first line of defense, too, so make sure you’re ready. Liam, Eli, Rosanna, and I will start on border patrol and try to tag anyone who crosses into our territory. April, Sav, and Matty will stay here to guard the base, and the rest of you will fan out to find the other team’s flag. Any questions?”
I raise a tentative hand. “So what are the rules, exactly?”
Torres’s head cocks to one side, like she can’t tell if I’m kidding, but Julia waves her off. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not hard. We want to get the blue flag and bring it back before the other team finds ours. That river we crossed was the dividing line—if you’re on this side, you’re safe. If you’re on the other, the blue team can tag you out.”
I nod in a vain attempt to look interested and not like that summary feels pulled from my darkest gym class nightmares. Wrath, I think. The point of today is wrath, not abject terror. Julia puts a reassuring hand on my arm, but before she can elaborate, three short whistles sound from somewhere in the distance. The clearing falls silent as Torres holds up a hand. Then there’s another whistle, longer this time, and everyone scatters.
Patrick scales the side of the tower, legs pumping beneath his bright red shorts, and tosses our flag down to Jace. His group takes off into the woods, Torres makes a beeline for the river, but I waver in front of the tower, suddenly unsure of what to do. Then Julia’s hand closes around my wrist, as steadying as it had been last night, and she yanks me toward the trees.
“Go!” she cries. “Over here!”
And just like last night, just like always, I take her hand in return.
This morning, the worship band had strummed their way through three different songs about weathering the storm. Most Christian rock songs are like that—a combination of metaphors and annoyingly catchy melodies that usually circle back to God being a lighthouse or something. But as I run after Julia, dodging weeds and fallen branches, I think that’s what she feels like, too. A beacon. A light. Something I’ll always be able to find.
This far into the woods, the ground is damp under our feet, but I can already feel the afternoon heat pressing through the branches. Yesterday’s cool spell was short-lived, and even though the sky is clear, I still feel a storm hovering on the horizon. I hop over another patch of mud and ask, “Is this usually an all-day thing?”
Julia arches a brow. “Why? Have somewhere to be?”
“Somewhere with air-conditioning, preferably.”
“Oh, come on, Riley.” She turns and plants both hands on my shoulders, face tipping up to the sky. “Don’t you feel it?”
“I…” Honestly, the only thing I feel right now is the press of her thumbs against my collarbones. I swallow and try again. “Feel what?”
“That.” Julia waves a hand in the general direction of the forest. “The sun. The air. The trees. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The thing about having a Big Gay Crush is that it makes you do very silly things. One year, I’d braided Rebecca Delgado’s hair every night for our production of Mamma Mia! just so I could know what it felt like between my fingers. Last summer, I spent my entire allowance on iced caramel lattes so I’d have an excuse to talk to the new barista, and now, when Julia closes her eyes and tips her face toward the sky, there’s a part of me that genuinely thinks, Yes, there is something beautiful about being in the middle of the woods with no amenities. Why didn’t I think of that?