Say a Little Prayer(73)

I suck in a breath and before I can think better of it, I drop Amanda’s hand and shoot to my feet. “It’s mine,” I say. “I wrote it.”

If I thought the chapel was quiet before, it’s nothing compared to what happens now. It’s like my words hang in the air, suspended between the panes of stained glass. It’s mine. I wrote it. Amanda slides down in her seat, gaze averted like she’s trying to put as much space between us as possible. At the altar, Pastor Young’s face softens into a slow satisfied smile.

“Riley Ackerman,” he says. Straight into the microphone so everyone can hear my name. “I should have known. We gave you a second chance, and you returned to poison the flock.”

His voice is too prepared, too collected, and I wonder, briefly, if this was his plan all along. Maybe he always thought the book was mine. Maybe he was only hosting a camp party to ensure my return, and maybe this is a punishment for all the things I’d said last week. For every part of me he couldn’t control.

That’s fine, I think, hands curling into fists at my sides. I’ll gladly be his scapegoat if it means Julia walks out of this unscathed.

I can feel her watching me, open-mouthed from the next pew. Slowly, she shakes her head in the smallest back-and-forth motion, but I don’t back down. I don’t want to. In this moment, I think I finally understand the strange, elusive truth I’ve been chasing since the day I left Pleasant Hills.

Pastor Young only has the power people decide to give him, and right now, I’m not afraid.

“Well?” Pastor Young holds up the book, and I realize he’s expecting me to speak. “Is there something you’d like to say to your congregation?”

There absolutely isn’t. I’m not repenting for a single thing, but before I can tell him, No, actually, I’d rather drown myself in your vat of holy water, there’s a shuffle of movement behind me.

“She didn’t do it. That’s my prayer book, actually.”

I whip around so fast I nearly lose my balance, and when I see Greer Wilson standing a few rows behind me, there’s a moment where I seriously wonder if I’m hallucinating. Maybe I fainted a while ago, and this is just a product of my panicked imagination. Because there’s Greer with her shiny brown hair and silk ribbons, polished cross necklace gleaming against the front of her designer dress. There’s Greer with her chin lifted and the beginnings of an “I’ve Won Two High School Debate State Championships, You Will Lose This Fight” smile etched across her face. Her father gapes up at her from the pew, but Greer keeps both hands planted on her hips. She shoots me a fleeting glare, and I hear her voice as clearly as if she’d shouted.

See? I’m not a coward.

Pastor Young looks back and forth between us. His brow furrows, mouth falling open, but Julia flies out of her seat before he can speak.

“Don’t,” she says. “They had nothing to do with it. It’s mine.”

I clamp a hand over her shoulder, trying in vain to push her back down. “It’s not. It’s mine, she’s—”

“Enough!” Pastor Young slams the prayer book against the podium. “Sit down, Julia.”

She shakes her head. She’s trembling under my grip, but her jaw locks in steely determination. “No.”

For a second, I think something like fear flashes across Pastor Young’s face, right behind his careful mask of calm. “Sit down,” he repeats, and as the words leave his mouth, I wonder if anyone has ever had the audacity to tell him no.

“This is so weird.” Somewhere in the back, another pew creaks. Delaney rises to her feet, arms casually stretched over her head. “I specifically remember having a bunch of gay thoughts last week and writing them down in my prayer book. I kind of thought it was between me and God, though, as in private,” she adds pointedly. “But anyway, that book is mine.”

She flashes me a wink, and I hate that she’s too far away to push down. This isn’t supposed to be a statement. I’m supposed to take the blame, move on, and keep everyone safe. But when I watch Pastor Young’s fingers curl around the edge of his podium, I think it might be too late.

“I admire your loyalty, girls,” he says, voice silky with exaggerated patience. “But this is clearly Riley’s book. It was found in her cabin, under her bed.”

“It was our cabin, too,” Greer points out. “That evidence would never hold up in court.”

“But this isn’t a courtroom, Miss Wilson. This is a community. All I want is for Riley to humble herself in the eyes of the Lord. She can be punished accordingly, and we can all move on. Her sins don’t have to affect you.”

Delaney folds her arms. “Wait, I’m confused. Do you want to punish whoever wrote that book, or do you want them to lay their sins before our Creator? I feel like you can’t have it both ways.”

I glance over my shoulder, silently willing Delaney to sit down and leave it alone. The people around her keep shifting in their seats. They’re exchanging strained, uncomfortable glances, but the longer I try to catch her eye, the more I don’t think they’re aimed at us. In fact, as I listen to whispers swell around me, jumping from one side of the chapel to the other, I think their judgment might actually be aimed at Pastor Young.

“Hold on!”

I hadn’t seen Torres before, but there’s no mistaking her voice now. She jumps to her feet, then clambers on top of the pew so she can glare at Pastor Young over the crowd. “That’s mine. I remember writing it.”