Say a Little Prayer(71)
We stay standing as he leads us through the call to worship, and I hate that I still know every word to every prayer. I hate that I can recite them now, lips barely moving along with the people around me. There’s something hot working its way up the back of my throat, and when I try to swallow it down, I think it feels suspiciously like envy. I don’t want to come back to Pleasant Hills, but I hate how easy it is for everyone else to believe in something I don’t think exists anymore. I didn’t realize how much I missed that comfort until now.
Ironic, I think, that I’m still checking deadly sins off my list even now. If I was still at camp, I’m sure I could figure out how to spin this one, too.
Amanda leans back against the pew, arms folded, but I stay perched on the edge of my seat as we creep toward the sermon. Pastor Young can’t seem to relax either. He hasn’t opened with his usual bad joke or corny pun, and when he looks up from the pulpit, I swear there’s a second where his gaze slides deliberately over me. Like he’s seeking me out. Like he wants to make sure I’m here for what happens next.
He opens his mouth, and something twists in the pit of my stomach, the anticipation of a coming storm.
“Beloved congregation,” he says. “Today, my heart is heavy. It’s weary with disappointment, but I want you to know that I stand before you not as an accuser but as a shepherd who deeply loves his flock.”
The chapel goes unnervingly silent as people stiffen in their seats, brows furrowed in silent question. I risk a glance at Amanda and find her looking just as confused as me. What the hell is happening?
“As most of you know, we had our spring youth retreat down in Rhyville, Kentucky, last week,” Pastor Young says, bracing both hands on the podium. “Our time was unfortunately cut short, but it was still immensely rewarding. It’s one of my favorite parts of this calling—guiding young minds as they learn to walk with the Lord. Watching them spread God’s word within their own communities. This year, however, it appears some of our youth have chosen to walk a different path, one that leads away from his grace.”
My pulse quickens. It’s too loud in my ears, but I think he’s talking about me. He has to be. I’d given Mr. Rider a perfectly innocent, well-written essay on Monday, but maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe Pastor Young had somehow learned about my original plan or read the things scribbled in my prayer book.
Julia could have told him.
The thought is chilling, slicing right down to my bones, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Julia was the only one who’d known the specifics of my plan. She knew I wanted her father gone, and she must have sold me out to protect her own secrets.
“My disappointment doesn’t come from a place of self-righteousness,” Pastor Young continues. “Truly. Instead, it comes from a deep concern for this congregation. It hurts me when people purposefully squander God’s love, and I hope it hurts you, too. We’re all sinners, of course, but those ways don’t have to define us. In fact, the Lord calls upon us every day to repent, and that’s what I encourage you all to do now.”
He turns away from the podium, digging for something within the folds of his robes. I tense, muscles quivering as I wait on the edge of my seat. What could he possibly have on me? The contents of my prayer book are scattered across the floor of my room back home, hidden from his prying eyes, so I should be safe.
I should be safe, right?
I’m still running through the events of last week, trying to pinpoint where I could have gone wrong, when Pastor Young finally straightens and holds the mysterious item up to the light. In that instant, it’s like my brain disconnects from my body, unable to process what I’m seeing.
Because he’s holding a prayer book all right, but it’s not mine. The familiar blue cover reflects the flickering candlelight as he waves it around, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it could belong to anyone. It looks exactly the same as the one in my trash can back home except for one thing. The single butterfly sticker pressed onto the back.
Julia’s sticker. Julia’s book, now clutched firmly in her father’s hands.
XIX
I Accidentally Unionize a Midwest Baptist Church
I’m not lost for words often. In fact, every teacher I’ve ever had has described me as “precocious,” which everyone knows is code for “can’t shut up to save her life.” But when Pastor Young holds Julia’s prayer book up for everyone to see, it’s like my brain is physically unable to process words.
“A counselor found this in one of the girls’ cabins after everyone left,” Pastor Young says. “Every camper was given a prayer book like this at the start of the week. It was supposed to be a place for reflection, somewhere to communicate with God, but I’d like to share what this one says instead.”
I don’t think Julia is breathing. What little I can see of her face has gone bone white, hands gripping the edge of her pew. I remember how secretive she’d been with her writing, how she always made sure to shield it from prying eyes. She hadn’t even shown me, and I doubt she wants it read aloud now, in front of the entire congregation.
I swallow and try to force my scrambled brain to think, to do something. But Pastor Young flips open the book before I can. He stops at a page near the middle and leans toward the mic.