Say a Little Prayer(58)
I step deliberately out of his grip. “And what if I don’t want a relationship with the Lord?”
That gets his attention. Pastor Young steps back, brow pinched, and when he looks down at me again, I see the exact moment his perfect, white-toothed veneer cracks. “If that’s the case,” he says gravely, “then we’d be having a very different conversation. I would hate to think I’ve failed you somehow, that I missed your cries for help. I don’t want that, Riley, and I definitely don’t want to have to tell your principal that this week didn’t work out the way we hoped.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To repent for the way you acted? To move forward with the grace of salvation? I want that for you, believe me. I was ready to give you a glowing report when we got home, but now—”
“Now what?” I ask. It comes out bitter and harsh, but I don’t care. If he’s done pretending, I am, too. “I’ve done everything you asked.”
“Careful.” Pastor Young holds up a placating hand. “There’s no need to get angry. I’m not upset with you, Riley. I’m just being honest. All I’ve ever wanted is to set you on the right path and help your family out of the dark.”
The worst part is, I think he really means it. He truly believes he’s doing this for my own good, to help me, and something about that feels worse than if he was being actively malicious.
“No offense,” I say, offense implied in every syllable, “but my family is fine. I came here because Mr. Rider gave me a choice, not because I want a place in your congregation. I’m writing the essay he assigned. That’s the deal. You don’t get to change the rules because you don’t like me.”
It’s not until the words leave my mouth that I think I might have gone too far. Pastor Young is used to me pretending, to my forced smiles and agreeable nods. It’s how we’ve communicated all year. It’s how I’d planned to survive this week, too, but when Pastor Young sighs and shakes his head, the disappointment couldn’t be clearer.
“No,” he says. “I can’t. At this point, it looks like all I can do is keep you in my prayers and hope that, one day, you’ll see that everything I’m doing is for your own good. All of it. I care about you, Riley. I still think you can be Saved.”
I let out a dismissive snort and tug the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “And I still think you’re full of it.”
He doesn’t try to stop me when I leave. Instead, he remains in the doorway, head bowed like he’s already starting to pray for my soul.
Clouds gather overhead as I stalk toward the chapel. The sky is thick with them, storm finally brewing on the horizon, and I think that’s how I feel, too. Dark and tempestuous and ready to burst. It’s not until I reach the door that the first drops of regret start to prick against my skin. What did I do?
I’m already on thin ice. I’d spent all week looking over my shoulder, hiding my thrift store finds and outrunning the counselor night patrol so Pastor Young wouldn’t have an excuse to shut me out. But he doesn’t need one now, I think bitterly. I’ve just confirmed every suspicion he’s had and handed him a perfect, infallible reason to keep his children far, far away from me.
I bite back a strangled curse and push my way into the chapel. When I look up to find a PowerPoint titled Chastity: Save Your Soul by Saving “It” already loaded onto the mainstage projector, I momentarily consider flinging myself off the bleachers.
I drop into the first empty seat I find as Cindy jogs onto the stage. “Hey, ladies!” she calls directly into the mic. “How’s everyone feeling this morning?”
She doesn’t sell it the way Pastor Young does. The enthusiasm in her voice doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I glance over my shoulder and realize, with a jolt, that the chapel is only half full. There’s no sign of Gabe or Ben or the other boys from my group, and after a hurried scan of the bleachers, I realize it’s because none of the boys are here at all. No, today it’s just us, Cindy, and Cindy’s informational sex PowerPoint.
She clicks over to a new slide titled Lust and Found. I wonder if it’s possible to physically sink through the core of the earth.
“As you can see, it’s just us girls today,” Cindy says, flashing us a conspiratorial grin. “And even though we’re talking about something that might feel a little embarrassing, I want you to know that this is a safe space. Sound good?”
A few heads bob unenthusiastically as I slide down in my seat and fish my prayer book from my bag. Cindy’s still talking her way through the slides, but I’ve stopped listening. I know how this goes. She’ll preach about abstinence and “just saying no” like we’ll always have a choice. She’ll talk about how Jesus will keep us safe without giving any real advice or mentioning that condoms can expire, so maybe you shouldn’t use the one your boyfriend has been carrying in his wallet for six months because it might break, you might get pregnant, and then if you decide not to be, multiple grown adults will still try to burn you for it.
It’s so much. That’s what Amanda had said yesterday, head in her hands, blue paint streaked down both cheeks. It’s so much all the time. The last thing I want is for her to be right, but that’s exactly what it feels like now, watching Cindy talk. Like it’s too much. Like the things I’ve brushed aside all year are finally coming to a head.