Just out of reach.
“Clarity,” Hannah whispers. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Am I sure about digging myself into a deeper hole of lies, about roping another person into the mess that is me figuringout my romantic life? Not at all. But I’m sure that Hannah is worth it, that I can at least try.
“Hannah,” I say, finding her eyes again. The yellow hue of the streetlight outside her windshield casts a golden glow on her face. The anticipation dancing in her eyes is the same excitement she’d have when we were deciding what to do or where to go at camp. Every night had the potential to be better than the last, a new path to hike, a new conversation where we could peel back the endless layers of each other and get to know more, get closer.
And here we are again, under a blanket of stars, choosing what to do next.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” I ask, sucking in a breath and holding it.
“Yes,” she says, unwavering.
And for the first time since the Incident, I feel like myself.
Chapter Fifteen
“You have your Bible?”
“Yes,” I mumble, pushing my damp but conditioned curls out of my face.
“And a notebook?” Dad asks, his voice too chipper for six thirty in the morning.
“Yeah,” I say, though it comes out in a deep and deliciously satisfying yawn… the kind of yawn that would perfectly compliment lying back down on my pillow where I belong.
On the far side of the church’s campus, the sun is just starting to come up. The sky is streaked in gentle orange hues and the dewdrops on the campus grounds’ rolling hills glitter. If I wasn’t on my way to face Mrs. Patricia alone for the first time since camp, I might appreciate the serenity.
“A pen?” Thankfully, Dad’s checklist keeps me from descending into a full spiral.
“I’m not the one who’s supposed to be learning,” I remind him. “I’mthe oneteaching. The kids are taking notes.”
“And what if one needs a pen?” Dad asks, smiling.
“Doyouhave a pen?” I ask, regretting that I didn’t get up fifteen minutes earlier to make coffee.
Dad pulls his trusty Paper Mate pen out of his chest pocket. He wags it in my face, and I quickly snatch it, smiling back at him before pushing the passenger door open.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Ha ha, you’re soooo funny,” he says, his voice monotone. “See you here at eight.”
“See you,” I say, backing away from the car.
I stall, watching from the stone steps of the youth ministry building as Dad’s car lazes up the rest of the gravel driveway past the main church to the parking lot.
I’ve been in this building a million times, starting from when I was a Sunshine Saint. This is where I met Jameson and Yasmin, where I learned about God and forgiveness and the idea of unrequited, unending love. I was eight when I walked up to Mrs. Patricia and told her I was ready to be baptized.
I knock on the door and admire the fresh coat of paint on the frame. I used to peel the chipping paint with my fingernails while waiting for Mrs. Patricia to let me in whenever I was dropped off early—which was almost always, since Dad’s definition of on time is between ten and fifteen minutes ahead. This place used to be so familiar to me that it fell somewhere between home and school.
Now, however, the dryness in my throat and twisting in my stomach tell me that I don’t belong here. The Bible says I don’t belong here. As a counselor, and certainly as a Sunday schoolteaching assistant, I’m supposed to set an example, and everyone at camp made sure I knew that my behavior wasnotexemplary. So, why am I here?
Maybe instead of letting the Incident die, Mrs. Patricia requested that I be here so that she can teach me, along with all the kids, what’s right and wrong. Maybe she decided that I need to be reminded of the lessons that were supposed to shape me and my relationship with God, since God clearly wasn’t the one I was getting close to this summer.
What’s worse is that even though Hannah and I were both outed at camp this summer, I’m the only one who had a reckoning. The counselors weren’t as friendly with her, but they didn’t push her away. They didn’t try to strip her of her recreational duties, not like they did with me. And I know it’s different. She hasn’t been going to this church since she was five, and Hannah was very forthcoming about Camp Refuge being a summer job for her. For me, though, I’m supposed to be a black Baptist girl. I know God. God knows me. But I didn’t realize everyone had their own idea of what my relationship with God is supposed to look like, that Black Baptist Girl includesstraightsomewhere in the title, just written in invisible ink.
And I have no idea what to do with that now.
The inner door whines open, then the latch on the one in front of me grates as it scrapes to release. Dread wraps around my throat as I wonder if the intervention I was so afraid of is what’s on the other side.