Say a Little Prayer(61)

XVI


    What If We Kissed in the Church Camp Chapel? Haha, Just Kidding. Unless…?


I find Julia sitting on the corner of the stage, back propped against the gilded pulpit. It’s dark without the spotlights, but I’d recognize the shadowy outline of her profile anywhere. She has one leg folded beneath her, the other swinging off the stage as she flips another page in her prayer book. It’s not until I clear my throat that she notices me standing between the bleachers.

“Oh!” She closes the book and sets it aside. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were waiting.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I didn’t know you were busy.”

“I’m not, really. I just needed a minute to think. Lessons like that are always…frustrating.”

I nod, some of the tension rolling off my shoulders as I approach. It’s like last night, like I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear her say that until she does. “Do they talk like that every year?” I ask, lowering myself to the stage beside her. “I know we used to get a version of it in Sunday school, but I don’t remember it being that…harsh.”

Julia runs a finger down the spine of her prayer book, tracing the outline of the butterfly sticker across the back. “Sometimes. You get used to it after a while, though. One year, we all got flowers and Cindy made us pick the petals off one by one.”

“Why?”

“To show how undesirable our future husbands would find us if we sullied ourselves before marriage or something.”

She waves a hand, clearly trying to make a joke, but I don’t find the image particularly funny. I try to picture Julia sitting through these presentations year after year, rolling her eyes at terrible PowerPoint puns, but never voicing her opinion out loud. I rub a hand over my forehead.

“How do you do it? How are you okay with something like that?”

I really don’t mean for this to be, like, a moment, but the question slips out before I realize what I’m asking. Behind us, the screen goes dark, shadows pushing further across the stage. Julia tips her chin toward the vaulted ceiling. She’s quiet for so long that I’m not entirely sure she’s going to answer until she shakes her head.

“I don’t always think he’s right, you know.”

My hands go still in my lap. I wait, suddenly afraid to breathe as she continues.

“I think when you get down to it, this whole…thing is just about being kind and having faith in something bigger than yourself. That’s it. That’s what I want to believe, anyway. So when they give us lessons like this or when Dad gets a little too preachy, I have to remind myself that it’s not important and it’s not why we’re here.”

Her voice is steady, like she’s been forming this particular thought for years and finally found the right words. Like we’re having a regular conversation and not potentially dismantling the structure of our entire lives.

“I’m glad you can do that,” I say. “Really, but what about everyone else? What about the girls who just sat through that presentation for the first time? How are they supposed to know it’s not important when everyone’s telling them differently?”

Julia’s hands tighten on the edge of the stage. “I don’t know. I try to guide them when I can.”

“And when you can’t?”

“Then I have to hope they find their own way.”

“Those can’t be the only options,” I say. “What if you said something? What if you or Ben actually talked to your father? You’re the only people he might actually listen to.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.” There’s an edge to Julia’s voice now, something that feels suspiciously like panic. “You get to go home this weekend, Riley. You don’t have to think about this place again, but I live with it.”

“I live with it, too!” I cry. “We all do!”

I’ve been out of this world for a year, and still, Pleasant Hills has its claws in me. I don’t think I’ll ever get them out. I’m going to feel the effects of this week long after I get home, and I’m willing to bet the others will, too. Maybe the fear of Pastor Young’s wrath will linger in the back of their minds and make them second-guess every choice. Maybe it’ll rot them from the inside out, turn them against anyone who feels a little bit different.

I lean forward, forcing Julia to meet my gaze. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s stopping you?”

There’s a sad little smile playing across her face now, half reluctant, half resigned. When she speaks again, her voice sounds far away. “When you were little, did your parents tell you that they’d always love you no matter what? That you might fight or make mistakes, but at the end of the day, you were family?”

I let out a soft, unexpected laugh. Of course my parents said that. They’re sentimental and overbearing and involved, and the thing is, they really, truly mean it. They hugged me when I came out, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They drove Hannah across the state for better medical care without question, and I know, without a doubt, that if I said I needed them now, they’d get in the car and drive straight to Kentucky.

“Yeah,” I say, voice sticking in my throat. “They said that.”