Say a Little Prayer(69)

“Because he deserves to suffer for that!”

Hannah lifts a brow, and I hear how it sounds a second later. “Okay, fine. I get it. But are we just supposed to do this forever? Am I supposed to avoid her until I go off to college or die?”

My phone vibrates against the pillow, cutting off Hannah’s measured response. Ben’s name flashes across the screen, and I scramble to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” he says. “Are you going to church this morning?”

“Um, I think you have the wrong number.”

“No, we have that camp thing, remember? They’re throwing some sort of party since the seniors didn’t get their last day.” He heaves a sigh when I don’t respond. “Do you ever check your email?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I unsubscribed from the Pleasant Hills email list ages ago. “I’m not going to a church party, Ben.”

“It’s not about the party.” He lowers his voice and adds pointedly, “Everyone will be there.”

Only then do I realize what he’s saying. That Julia will be there. That we could finally talk. She might be able to avoid me out here, but the last thing she’s going to do is cause a scene in the Pleasant Hills chapel.

“Fine,” I say. “Be right there.”

Hannah looks up as I push myself off the bed. “What was that about?” she asks.

I grimace. “How would you like to drive me to church?”

Mom and Dad are already sitting around the kitchen table when the two of us walk downstairs. There’s a pot of freshly brewed coffee steaming between them, and when I take a deep breath and announce, “I’m going to church,” Mom nearly knocks it over in surprise.

Her eyebrows lift over the top of her newspaper, gaze darting between me and Hannah like she can’t quite tell if I’m being serious. “Oh,” she says eventually. “Okay.”

And it’s funny because I know if I actually did want to go back, if I told her I found a new appreciation for Jesus Christ in the Kentucky wilderness, she’d still support me. She’d drive me to service herself if I wanted. Last week, Julia asked how I knew my parents loved me. I didn’t have a solid answer then, but I think if someone asked me now, I’d say it’s because of moments like this.

“I’m not actually going to church,” I add when Mom opens her mouth. “They’re just having this camp party, and I want to talk to Julia. I’m not, like, converting or anything.”

“You were already baptized,” Dad says without looking up from his breakfast. “You don’t have to convert.”

“Gross.”

Hannah wrinkles her nose. “Humbling.”

Mom rubs a hand over her forehead. “Julia will be home in an hour, you know. You could talk to her then.”

I hesitate. “It’s…not that simple.”

“So you’d rather corner her at church?”

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds dramatic, but I promise it’s not! I won’t even stay for the service; I just need to see her.”

Mom looks from me to Hannah, like her desire to let us make our own choices is warring with her bone-deep instinct to keep us safe. Eventually, she sighs and sets her newspaper on the table. “Okay. Whatever you need to do. But behave,” she adds, jabbing a finger in my direction. “And text me if you need a ride home.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand on my way out the door. “I will.”

It’s not until Hannah drops me off in the Pleasant Hills parking lot that I realize I’m still wearing last night’s pajama shirt. The jeans I pulled off my floor are technically clean, but the faded Breadstick Slut graphic tee is starting to feel like a poor choice.

“You look fine,” Hannah says, waving me out of the car. “Jesus loves bread. That’s his whole thing.”

I glance over my shoulder as she shifts the car back into drive. “I think his whole thing was being bread, actually.”

“Even better.”

She blows me a kiss through the window and pulls out of the parking lot with ease. I suck in a breath as I watch her go, and then before I can second-guess my own rash decision, I turn and march purposefully toward the front doors.

Someone’s updated the sign so it now reads God Wants You on Your Knees. I don’t think anyone thought about the implications of that particular statement, but when I open the door and step into the lobby, I immediately stop thinking about it, too. It’s been over a year since I’ve been inside Pleasant Hills Baptist Church, but it still smells the same. Flowers and incense and the dull tang of lemon furniture polish. The air outside is cool and fresh, but it’s warm in here, almost stuffy, as everyone files into the lobby. Heads turn as I slink along the back wall, and even though I’d love to think it’s because of my incredible shirt, I know it’s probably because I’m me. Because there’s nothing the Pleasant Hills congregation loves more than a good story.

Did you see Riley Ackerman this morning? Do you think she’s back for good?

I’ll be the topic of every upcoming prayer request just so people can fish for information while simultaneously feeling good about themselves. I try to breathe, but just get more of that cloying, too familiar musk straight up my nose. I’m suffocating between the curious stares, and for the first time since getting in Hannah’s car, I start to wonder if this is a very bad idea.