Say a Little Prayer(65)

I groan and drag a hand down my face. “What’s going on?”

Amanda releases me. “We’re leaving,” she whispers. “They want us to pack.”

Maybe I’m still dreaming. The sky outside the windows is a heavy shade of gray, like the clouds are physically pressing against the trees. But maybe that’s a dream, too. Maybe everything that happened yesterday was a product of my guilty, overworked imagination. Maybe Julia and I are still speaking.

Then Cindy flips a switch and floods our cabin with cold, unforgiving light. “I’m not kidding,” she says. “There’s a huge storm system heading our way, and Pastor Young wants to make sure we all get home safe. I know it’s a bummer, but there’s a light breakfast in the cafeteria. You can grab your phones on the way out, but we really need to be on the road in an hour, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for confirmation before hopping off the porch and making a beeline for the next cabin. The screen door slams behind her, and it’s like the sound finally breaks through our collective fog. Everyone moves at once, scrambling out of bed to gather toiletries and fish lone socks from the corners of the room. I do a quick sweep of my surroundings, tugging my sheets off the bed as I go, but it’s not until I stuff them in my suitcase that the reality of the situation hits me.

We’re leaving.

We’re leaving with my essay incomplete, any chance I might have had to fix things slipping through my fingers.

I’d eaten dinner alone last night, tucked in the back corner of the chapel where no one could see. I had looked down at the spot where Julia kissed me just a few hours earlier, and for the first time in over a year, I tried to pray. Where did it go wrong? I was supposed to fix things. I was supposed to help, but all I’d done was hurt the people I care about. I’d sat with my hands clasped and my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for some omnipotent, disembodied voice to break through the walls, but nothing came. There was only quiet.

Julia doesn’t look at me as she finishes packing her suitcase. Torres trails her onto the porch, backpack hanging off one shoulder, but Delaney pauses in the doorway. For a second, I almost think she’s waiting for me. Then she sighs and leans over to rest her chin against Greer’s shoulder.

“I hate that I’m going to miss this place,” she murmurs.

Greer rolls her eyes. “I know. It’s embarrassing.”

She slings an arm around Amanda’s shoulders as the three of them take in the cabin one final time. My gaze drops to the floor. It’s like I’m interrupting, like I’m once again lingering at the edge of a group no one asked me to join. By the time I wrestle my suitcase closed, they’re gone. I sigh and push myself to my feet. I’ve just turned toward the door when our alarm blares to life. I jump, heart pounding as the familiar chorus bounces off the walls, and for a second, I genuinely consider smashing the entire thing against the floor. A destructively fitting end to the week.

Instead, I grit my teeth and seize the handle of my suitcase. The last thing I hear before the door slams shut behind me is the second earsplitting verse of “Flexin’ on That Gram.”



* * *



? ? ?

I think the lowest point of my life was the time I got food poisoning at Scheana Mayville’s tenth birthday and threw up on top of her cake. But when I board the bus home and find that the only open seat is next to Patrick “Guitar Guy” Davies, I think this might just be up there. Especially when he nudges my shoulder and says, “Bummer about the storm, right, Renée?” as if he hasn’t sat in front of me in homeroom every day for the last three years.

“Yeah, Patrick,” I say, sliding down in my seat. “It’s a real bummer.”

I text Mom the update as soon as we pull onto the road. Her response comes less than a minute later. Got it—can the Youngs give you a ride home? I’m finishing up some reports for work.

My chest aches at the casual question. They probably could, but there’s no way I’m asking. I bite my lip and type, no, they’re all staying to help unpack.

It’s probably not a lie. I’m sure there are church things to do when we get back, and I’m sure they don’t want to do them with me. In fact, I think Pastor Young would be perfectly happy to never see me around his children ever again.

By the time we pull into the parking lot, Patrick is on his second consecutive listen of a playlist titled “Songs I’ve Crashed My Car To,” and I’m two seconds away from tossing his enormous pair of definitely not soundproof headphones out the window. Mom is already waiting for me, standing outside the car despite the drizzling rain. I drag my suitcase across the parking lot, and she immediately scoops me into her arms.

“Rough luck with the storm,” she murmurs into my hair. “Did you have a good week?”

In that moment, it takes everything in my power not to laugh. “It was fine.”

She helps me tug my suitcase into the back, grimacing as cold rain drips down the sleeves of her jacket. When I slam the trunk, I find Pastor Young watching me from across the parking lot. He lifts a hand in our direction, mouth set in a pleasantly friendly smile, and Mom offers him an acknowledging wave in return.

“What an asshole,” she mutters.

Any other time, I might have cracked a smile.

Hannah’s in the kitchen when we arrive, physics textbook open on the counter before her. She jumps up when we enter.