Say a Little Prayer(72)
“?‘I feel like I’m standing at a crossroad of who I am and who I’ve been taught to be,’?” he recites. “?‘There’s this thing that happens when she takes my hand. I don’t even know if she realizes she’s doing it, but every so often, she’ll run her thumb down the underside of my wrist, like she’s just reminding herself I’m there. I know it’s supposed to feel wrong. I’ve heard that my entire life, but there are days where I think I’d give this up completely if it means she’ll keep touching me like that.’?”
My next inhale slices me open, a knife lodged somewhere around my sternum. I feel Amanda shift forward in her seat, and I know she recognizes the book, too. We both saw Julia writing in it. Everyone in our cabin did. If Pastor Young wants to know who wrote it, it won’t be hard to get someone to spill. I clutch for Amanda’s hand, desperate for something to hold on to, and before I fully realize what I’ve done, she squeezes mine in return.
Pastor Young continues, derision dripping from every stolen word. “?‘How could something be wrong when it feels like that? How am I supposed to believe it’s a sin? I don’t know if I believe in a God who enforces that, but I do know I want to kiss her. It might be the only thing I’ve ever wanted, really.’?”
When he looks up again, something like triumph blazing behind his eyes, I don’t think I’ve ever hated him more. I want to storm the stage. I want to tear that book from his hands and tuck it away where no one can see because I know what those realizations feel like. I remember how alone I’d felt when I came out last year, how absolutely petrified I’d been to say the words out loud, and here’s Pastor Young, reading someone’s private journal like they’re on trial. Like he’s already decided the writer is guilty.
My muscles tense, and Amanda’s hand locks around mine. She can probably feel how much I want to launch myself over the pews, but I think I could make it. I’m only three rows from the front.
Slowly, Pastor Young closes the book and sets it back on the podium. “I’m sure I don’t have to lay out the problem here,” he says. “We just spent a week learning about the dangers of sin, and I still failed to keep one of our youths from falling off the path. I accept responsibility for that. I seek forgiveness, too, but we need to move forward together.” His gaze sweeps over the congregation and again, I have the strangest feeling he’s looking directly at me. “Girls—if this book is yours, or if you have any idea who wrote it, please come forward. Lay your sins before our Creator. Acknowledge your faults and ask for forgiveness.”
No. Terror fists itself over my heart. He can’t do this. He can’t out Julia in front of everyone. She’d full-on panicked after we kissed. She hadn’t been able to explain why she’d done it or say the word “gay” out loud, and she shouldn’t have to if she’s not ready. She’s still sitting right in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. Her shoulders are too stiff, gaze fixed purposefully ahead like every cell in her body has gone rigid, and she’s squeezing Ben’s hand like it’s her last remaining lifeline.
He shoots a glance toward her white-knuckled grip, and when he looks up again, something like realization dawns across his face.
If Mrs. Young is at all aware of the emotional crisis happening next to her, she doesn’t show it. Her posture is still casually relaxed, hands folded in her lap, but she’s staring firmly at the hymnal in front of her. Like if she doesn’t acknowledge her husband’s request, it won’t affect her. All around us, people are shifting uncomfortably in their seats, shooting quick, nervous glances at the pews around them before averting their gazes, too.
I wonder, briefly, if this is what happened the day Pastor Young kicked Hannah out, too. If everyone just looked away and pretended like she didn’t exist.
Pastor Young sighs, drumming his fingers on the podium as the silence stretches before him. “This isn’t a punishment,” he says. “Remember the words of Psalm 51:10. ‘Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.’ That should be a reassurance, not a warning. Seek forgiveness. Humble yourself in the name of the Lord.”
I have the strangest feeling that Amanda’s grip on my hand is the only thing keeping me seated. Strange, I think. Who would have thought?
When Pastor Young speaks again, his frustration is clear in every word. “There is no sin that can’t be forgiven. We know this to be true, but lying? Covering up the sins of others? That’s wrong, my friends. Let’s support the sinners in our midst today. Let’s walk with them together into the light.” He picks up the book again, shaking it toward the crowd. “Who wrote this?”
For all Pastor Young’s talk about learning and growing in the spirit of the Lord, there never seems to be any grace to do so. It’s perfection or nothing, faith based on fear, and I don’t think he has any intention of stopping now.
I watch Julia’s shoulders sag, like she’s exhaling a breath, and in that instant I know she’s going to confess. She’ll admit the book is hers and face whatever consequence comes her way because she’s physically incapable of letting someone else take the blame. It’s her fatal flaw, one of the things I love about her, and it’s going to ruin her life.
But I don’t think it would ruin mine.