But Yasmin knew I liked him. Maybe not to the extent that Kristen knew, but—
Jameson and Yasmin both turn and look at me. I lock eyes with Yasmin before I can think to look away. Her surprise immediately melts into a glare, and when I dart my gaze across the room, desperate to look at anythingbuther, I realizeeveryoneis staring… atme.
I shift my gaze to the front and my face heats up when I find Ms. Kiesha staring at me too.
“Your name and what you want to write about,” she says, most likely repeating herself.
“Clarity,” I say, adding, “Jones,” when Ms. Kiesha raises her eyebrows. “And, uh, I want to write about…” I speak slow, happy to embarrass myself by stalling as opposed to admitting what I really want to write about.
Be authentic, honest, and genuine.
“Overcoming rejection,” I say.
Yasmin scoffs.
“Another solid choice, but try to get more specific as you work on your draft.” With that, Ms. Kiesha moves on to the next person.
We’re given the last forty-five minutes to write. Murmurs and the sound of pens scratching paper fill the room, punctuated by the hum of the old central heating. I’m careful about what I write, keeping it vague despite Ms. Kiesha’s advice, in case she or another volunteer decides to glance over my shoulder.
I can’t use this time to get ahead on my essay, but I at least, now more than before, am sure I should write my essay about Camp Refuge. Discovering what it truly meant to connect with Hannah has undoubtedly and unavoidably changed me, and I know that universities won’t reject me because of that.
When Ms. Kiesha calls for a closing prayer to end the workshop, I lower my head with everyone else but don’t close my eyes. I can’t. Just making the motion to pray triggers a meditativefeeling for me, the state of clearheaded calm I’ve mastered entering whenever I’m ready to talk to God. But I can’t go further. I’m not ready.
Before the Incident, I truly didn’t think I was sinning. When I prayed about Hannah and falling in love with her, I was met with love, a familiar warmth and guidance that I used to crave from prayer. Now, the thought of talking to God makes me nervous. I imagine the rejection I experienced at camp multiplied, holy, and intense. A rejection from God would be more absolute, not something I can explain away as close-mindedness. As Christians, Yasmin and Jameson can’t judge my sin. No one can.
Only God can.
So, I keep my eyes open and focus on Ms. Kiesha’s soft, reverent words and welcome their sentiment.
“And Father God, we ask that you continue to guide these young minds as they move forward into the next chapter of their lives, that you bless them with clarity, strength, and courage as they pursue the dreams you’ve laid out before them. Amen.”
“Amen,” we echo back.
Clarity.The word echoes in my mind, sharp and painful.
I hang back to give Yasmin and Jameson a head start before I leave the classroom. I make a beeline for the exit, momentarily savoring the booming harmonies of “Jehovah Jireh” coming from the sanctuary. Choir rehearsal is in full swing, and this is one of my favorite gospel songs—
“Oh!” I gasp.
“Sorry, oop—”
A hand steadies me before I can fully trip over. I didn’t notice anyone tucked inside the alcove before the exit doors. I was so focused on getting out of here.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, finally getting my bearings.
“Me… too,” Jameson says slowly when we lock eyes. We stare at each other, mouths hanging open long enough to officially turn the air awkward.
“I’m just gonna go—” I start to move past him, but he steps in my way.
“Clarity, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m not bruised or broken. I just need to watch where I’m going.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he says, his tone urgent. I clock the way he peers down the hallway behind me, how he taps his fingertips against the side of his leg one at a time, a nervous tic he’s always had. “You said you’re writing about rejection for your essay and Yasmin said that means you’re writing about what happened at camp.”
“So… what are you sorry for, exactly?”
“I’m sorry,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “for what happened. I didn’t—”