Say a Little Prayer(74)

Next to me, Amanda lets out a muffled groan. She drags a hand down her face and whispers something that sounds strangely like What the hell? before pushing herself to her feet.

“It’s not hers,” she says. “I wrote it.”

Mrs. Clarke looks like her daughter just admitted to kicking orphaned puppies for fun. She flashes a brilliant Miss Teen Ohio 1998 smile at the congregation before wrapping a hand around Amanda’s wrist and hissing, “Sit down,” through clenched teeth.

Amanda shakes her off. “What? If he wants me to repent, I’ll do it. They shouldn’t get in trouble for something I did.”

“Yeah!” Ben leaps to his feet. “Same. I wrote it, too.”

“Sit down, Benjamin.”

Pastor Young’s voice cuts through the growing whispers and just like that, the crowd goes still. Ben drops back in his seat, but Pastor Young is still glaring at me. “I’m going to ask you again,” he says, voice trembling with silent fury. “Did you write this?”

“Yes,” I say, but the word seems to echo around the chapel. I realize too late it’s because the others answered, too, still speaking in unison.

In front of me, Mrs. Young finally meets her husband’s gaze. I watch her throat bob as she gives her head a single shake, like she’s silently urging him to let it go. I know he won’t. We’re alike in that way, I think. We’ll hang on until resentment rots us from the inside out, until we don’t recognize the person we used to be. Pastor Young takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his words are finally directed at someone else.

“Amanda,” he says, and I feel her flinch beside me. “You’ve always been a faithful servant of the Lord. You come from a good family with good values. I know this wasn’t you. Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

For a second, I think she might. Her shoulders tense, folding in on themselves as I watch, and I take her hand again. I hold her in place like she’d done for me, and slowly, I feel her fingers close around mine.

“I told you,” she says, lifting her chin ever so slightly. “It’s mine.”

Last week, there was a chapter in our camp workbook about the virtue of humility in opposition with the deadly sin of pride. It made it seem like pride was a bad thing, something to fear, but as I stand here now, I think Pastor Young was just afraid of what we could do with it. Of what would happen to the church if everyone looked up and thought, No, I like who I am.

I don’t think I ever needed an essay to take him down. I don’t think it would have worked. It’s one thing to write about what needs to change, but it’s another to stand up for it here, in front of everyone, and show them there might be another way. Maybe Pastor Young will do this again next week. Maybe by then, everyone will have forgotten about us, but I know one thing for sure. He won’t get away with it today.

I take a deep breath and meet his eye over the podium. “Exactly,” I say. “It’s mine.”

Then I reach over the pew and grab Julia’s hand, tugging her and Amanda into the aisle. Vaguely, I’m aware of the new rush of whispers, of the others following us out of their seats, but I don’t look back. I don’t give Pastor Young the chance to send us away. Instead, I lift my chin, flash him one final grin, and walk out.





XX


    Our Lord and Savior Tom Hanks


T here’s this painting in the Pleasant Hills women’s bathroom everyone hates. It shows a sobbing acrylic Eve clutching a half-eaten apple to her chest as the depiction of God, who looks strangely like Tom Hanks for some reason, throws her from the Garden of Eden. It’s not the subject of the painting that freaks people out; that’s standard practice around here. It’s just that the entire thing, from the way God Tom Hanks’s nails dig into Eve’s bloody arm to the expression of pure, unadulterated terror on her face, is so eerily lifelike that I always wonder how the artist put it together in the first place.

But that’s why it’s here, I guess. Another chilling reminder of what happens to women who disobey.

It’s the first thing I see when I yank Julia into the bathroom, and even though a year away has dulled the memory, the sight of it reflected in the mirror still makes me jump.

“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, clutching a hand to my chest. “That thing gets me every time.”

Julia doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look up as I sag against the wall, directly under the painting in question. She just braces her hands on the edge of the sink and bows her head. Her ponytail falls over one shoulder, temporarily hiding her face, and for a second, I think she looks like the girl in the painting—broken and miserable and utterly alone.

Then the door flies open. I whip around, ready to fight, but it’s just the others piling into the bathroom behind me. Amanda with her cheeks still tinged the same shade of pink as her ridiculous cupcake shirt. Greer in her perfectly pressed church clothes. Delaney, who looks seconds away from putting her fist through a wall, and Torres, who has both hands resting on her knees like she needs to catch her breath.

The bathroom is too small for all of us, but as I look from face to incredulous face, I realize I’d been wrong before. Julia’s not alone. None of us are.

“Holy shit,” Torres whispers to no one in particular. “That was so fucked.”