by Erica Sage
“And the gold chains and gangsta rap? Seems kind of racist,” I continued.
“Last year, it was cowboy boots and country,” Payton said.
Matthew smirked. “You sure had a lot to add to our MLK speech.”
It was about boobs, not race, I almost said. Oh, gawd, was I just as bad? I looked down at my clay, formless and impotent.
“Make a handprint for your mom, Pampers,” Matthew said. “It’ll soothe the hypocrisy blues.”
“You’re just placated by bikinis.” I decided on a candleholder, and stewed in my idiocy as I rolled my clay out f lat, following the directions.
“So many bikinis, I’m easy to please,” Matthew singsonged.
“Save your rhyming for the poetry session,” I quipped.
My table laughed.
“Proverbs Slam is tonight,” Matthew said.
“No effing way,” I said.
“You’re right,” Matthew laughed. “No effing way.”
Natalie beamed. “Oh my gosh, please can we start that?” I couldn’t tell if she was even joking. She concentrated on her clay and massaged something to life.
That moment felt like an in with the table. Like maybe we could broach the subject and solution of our secrets. Surely they wanted to get to the bottom of this instead of twerking to rap-turned-gospel and kindergarten throwback time. “So, last night—” I started.
“Like Demi Moore, right?” Kim interrupted. She had wrapped her arms around Payton to help him sculpt despite the cast on his arm. “In Ghost. Have you seen that old movie?” Her lips were right by his neck.
At this point, nobody cared what I had to say. Even I barely cared. All eyes turned to watch the amateur porn going on across the table.
“I never saw that movie, but you make it sound good,” Payton said, their hands working the clay. He caught me watching them and smirked. Then he looked around the crafting area, no doubt searching for Holly. He spotted her at the same time I did. She stood at the edge of the covered area, hands on her hips, watching it all.
Payton got up from his stool, but Holly marched over to our table.
“Oh, hey, Holly,” Kim said sweetly. “Did you come to play?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “I don’t even have my guitar.”
Kim laughed. “That’s not the kind of”—air quotes—“playing I was talking about.”
Holly’s mouth dropped open. Before she could say anything, Payton took her by the arm and led her away. As they got farther away, I could see her hands whipping through the air while she talked. I didn’t know if she was crying or yelling.
“I can’t believe she still even comes here,” Kim said, sitting back in her stool. “Whatever. Jesus loved the whores too.”
Matthew laughed. “Are you talking about you or Ho-Lo?”
Kim glared. “Duh, who do you think?”
I squinted at her. She was the one who’d just made a (sex) scene at the crafting station, and she was making a crack about Holly?
Natalie sat watching the scene, then looked down at her clay project.
I wasn’t about to step in. I didn’t know these people, and I definitely didn’t want to be a part of this. So I changed the subject. “Did your cabin get hit last night?” I asked, careful that I didn’t look guilty. “You know, with the pranks?”
Natalie shook her head extra hard, like she was clearing it of the Kim ugliness at the same time she was answering my question. “No. We’re on the second f loor. Only the first f loor got it.”
“Oh,” I said, and my voice cracked. I am no better a liar than I am a detective.
“This looks like a pile of shit,” Matthew said, staring at his project, and thankfully changing the subject yet again.
Charles gasped from the neighboring table.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Natalie said.
“‘Pile of Shit’ is not on the list of options,” Matthew said, holding out the menu of craft choices.
“Everything we touch turns to shit,” Natalie said.
She had no idea.
“I think that’s the point,” she added. “Of this whole Creation Station business. Like, God can create the real stuff. You and me, if we try to do it alone, it’s going to turn out like … well, like your pile of shit.”
“You people and your overthinking things,” Matthew said. “ I’m just bad at crafts.”
We worked our clay a little longer.
“I’m out,” Matthew dropped his clay on the table. “I’m going to weave some socks out of grass.” He walked over to a station where, in fact, grass-weaving was taking place.
“I don’t think you can really make socks there,” Natalie said to me. “Place mats, yes, but socks seems a bit far-fetched.”
After a while, Payton returned to our table, shoulders slumped. Kim watched him, but he didn’t look up. He mumbled something and took his clay over to Charles’s table.
“I do like your outfit,” I said to Natalie, trying to cover up the earlier awkwardness, the public announcement about her hotness. “How you look like you stepped right out of that World War II ‘We Want You’ poster.”
“Wait. I look like the old guy with the pointy beard and accusing finger?” Natalie asked.
“No, you know. The one with the lady f lexing her biceps.” I f lexed my biceps. “‘Yes, We Can!’ That poster.”
“‘Yes, We Can’? That’s Obama, Nick.”
Kim laughed.
“I thought he said I was hot earlier,” Natalie said to Kim. Then, to me, “I look like a black man with a pointy white beard? An Obama/Uncle Sam mash-up.”
“Obama’s kind of hot,” Kim said.
“Not with f luffy white hair, he wouldn’t be,” Natalie chastised.
I shook my head. “No, you know who I’m talking about. The one with the full red lips and dark hair all pulled up.” I gestured toward Natalie’s face. “And she has those cheekbones and bright eyes. And she’s strong, but not masculine. Even though she’s f lexing, she’s feminine. And she looks out at everyone all strong and dares you to do the thing …” I trailed off, noticing Kim and Payton watching me. “Whatever the thing is,” I mumbled. “You want to do the thing.”
Even drop your worst secret in a box, lest you disappoint the courageous girl hailing Jesus.
Silence as Natalie and Kim stared at the f lush eating up my face.
Natalie smiled. “Her name’s Rosie the Riveter.”
I nodded. “Yeah. That one.”
Natalie held up a clay piece. “I’m done.” I recognized a frowning face molded there. “I made the drama faces.” She held up another molded face, this time smiling.
“Are you in drama?” I asked.
She smiled. “Aren’t we all?”
She kept looking at me, so I pretended to fix something in my candleholder-to-be. “I meant at school.”
“No,” she said, standing up. “No, I’m not.” She picked up the two drama faces, one in each hand.
She and Kim stood up and walked away. Payton walked behind them. Kim called something over to him, but he just waved it away. Maybe she apologized. Or maybe she said another mean thing. Matthew sat down next to me again.
“We can put your candleholder on this.” He held out a small square of unevenly woven straw.
“What happened to the sock idea?”
“This is it. It’s a two-dimensional, sock-like mini place mat.”
“It’s not even shaped like a sock.”
“Don’t be so critical. Your candleholder looks more like the model of a vagina one might find in an anatomy classroom.”
“They have models of vaginas at Valley Christian?”
“Or, look”—Matthew f lipped the vagina-shaped candleholder upside down—“a penis.”
“It’s like a mood ring,” Matthew said, f lipping the clay back and forth, “but it’s only got two moods. Penis …” Matthew f lipped it over. “Vagina.”
We headed over to the basketball courts.
&nbs
p; “Kim and Natalie. Titillating and asstastic, respectively,” he said, grabbing a ball.
I took the ball out of his hands and got lucky on a shot. Matthew watched the girls round the corner till they were out of sight. He wasn’t Pastor-Kyle perfect, but he was tall, broad shouldered, and funny. I was sure he had no trouble with the “fine ladies.”
I, on the other hand, couldn’t say anything normal, as evidenced by the Crafting Station debacle. And I couldn’t even get Leah to talk to me again—even though I wasn’t interested in her the way I was interested in Natalie. I just wanted to apologize. Or something. I wanted to know she was still there.
“Kim’s obviously into Payton, though.” Matthew continued. “Fool’s errand, that one. He’ll never give up what Holly’s puttin’ out.”
“I thought they broke up.”
He scoffed.
“What about Natalie?”
“Natalie is not a slut.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Oh … I see. Yeah. She’s hot. Like, in a cool way.” Matthew grabbed a basketball. “And smart.” He laughed. “Yeah, I could see how you’d be into that. She’s no doubt Ivy League-bound. Parents have tons of money, is what I heard. I think her brother’s on a row team at the University of Washington or something.”
I didn’t correct him about the Ivy League thing, or tell him that she planned to attend RISD, the number two art school in the nation. “She doesn’t act like a snob.”
“Oh, no, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying. She’s smart and rich and perhaps”—Matthew took a shot and it swished into the net—“out of your league.”
Pretty much every girl was out of my league.
“I think I saw her walking up on the hill yesterday. It was weird.” I didn’t tell him it was right after the box was stolen.
“Yeah, dude. She’s kinda weird. Does her own thing. Just kinda a closed book.”
The ten-minute whistle sounded.
“A closed book with a hot cover,” Matthew added and tossed the basketball over to the bin.
PRAYERS AND CONFESSIONS
Dan: My dad’s not going to AA anymore. Yeah, so. I’m thinking of hiring some singing strippers to come bang on his door dressed up as those princess fairy girls from Frozen. They could sing some “Let it Go” carols. It’s like the theme song for AA. Like that slogan, “Let Go and Let God.” Maybe that would get his attention and he’d go back to AA. And then maybe my mom will move back home (if I promised there’d be no stripper encore).
Payton: I didn’t break up with Holly for the stuff she’s done. I broke up with her for what everyone says she’s done. I guess that makes me a jerk, but I don’t want to deal with all the rumors.
Pastor Kyle: Thank you for the Sampson & Delilah salon idea. What camper doesn’t love a good pedicure, where your feet are oiled and dried with hair, just like Mary of Bethany did for Jesus. And Sampson and Delilah? Come on, that’s clever! Even if Delilah was a bad guy.
Matthew: Please forgive me for how I’ve blamed my parents in all that stuff. Please forgive me for how I treated Sarah. And maybe also for the MLK porn speech. That probably wasn’t cool. But it made Nick laugh, and I like that guy.
“The Disciplettes,” Matthew explained, nodding toward a large group of girls that had gathered at the outdoor amphitheater. They shouted something, got into a formation, ran out of it. Shouted. They were all dressed in matching skirts. It was a cheer squad. Each sweater had a capital J for Jesus on the front.
“BE SO RIGHTEOUS!
“B-E SO RIGHTOUS!
“B-E-S-O-R-I-G-H-T-E-O-U-S
“BE RIGHTEOUS!”
The Disciplettes leapt and danced and cartwheeled for Christ. Charles f litted among the girls now, talking very intently to the bounciest, likely condemning them to an eternity in hell for their tight sweaters.
The bass pumped from the speakers in the amphitheater, calling us over to our cabin groups. The rappers came to the stage and made a disaster of Young MC’s “Bust A Move”:
This is a camp for all you followers
Tryin’ to do what the Lord does tell us.
Avoid lukewarm and get super zealous,
Leave nonbelievers feeling jealous.
The rappers had done their part, and the whole camp started singing:
So open your Bibles because the Word does prove,
Jesus is here to bust a move.
I did not sing with them. But I spotted Natalie, singing and hip wiggling with Kim and a couple other girls. After a few verses, she suddenly bent over with laughter.
That’s how Diana and I used to laugh. Till it hurt. Till our sides cramped, and the hilarity rendered us silent and shaking. Till our parents would yell at us to keep it down in there. Cease and desist. Enough of that racket.
Natalie caught me watching her, and I looked away just as Pastor Poseidon came up to the stage. He joined the rap, his bright teeth a lantern of truth. Counselor-servants wove among us with cups of what looked like wine. But it was just grape juice. Because laws.
“Fellas!” Douchey Dan called us over to him.
“With an F,” I said, more into my Dixie cup than to anyone.
The rap ended, and Pastor Liam Hemsworth instructed us to sit in the grass. As we did so, Payton kept his eyes on Holly, who seemed to be looking around for someone. She caught my eye and waved.
I felt a stir of disgust and pity. I hadn’t for one second thought Holly’s extra prayers and attentions the night before had meant she was actually into me. I knew she’d f lirted with me to get to Payton. This was her game, and Holly was that girl. The punch line of promiscuity jokes, Matthew’s and Kim’s and probably the whole camp’s.
But she also played the guitar and wrote music, this girl that everyone gossiped about. She sat alone in her bedroom strumming songs she made up in her head. I couldn’t figure out how both the sweet artist and the slutty girl could be a part of this one person. Could she keep both? Could she be both? At the same time? Maybe some parts of us have to move out to make room for the new parts.
Look what Charlotte had pushed out to make room for God.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pastor said. “Jesus does INDEED bust a move! Jesus was so fun (such a party animal!) that he turned a hundred twenty gallons of water into wine at his mom’s request.” He was careful to add an emphatic, “Not that we condone underage drinking,” yada yada. “But in this doggy dog world, we need someone on our side!”
I was pretty sure he didn’t mean Snoop Doggy Dogg, though the camp’s dedication to nineties rap did make me wonder. “‘Dog eat dog world,’” I said aloud to no one in particular, reminding myself to add that to my list under MUTE—MOOT.
He talked about Jesus, and Hillbilly Jesus came to the stage and mimed a Bible story. The pastor concluded with an update: they had no leads on the location of the PC Box, and they were still debating whether or not to create a new one.
A new one? WTF?!
I looked around. Head nods. A couple amens.
Hell no.
I started to head toward Natalie, but just then a hand landed on my shoulder. When I spun, Jason stood there with Pastor Abercrombie & Fitch. Dan walked over.
“Where’s your stuff?” Jason asked in a tone that said no happiness was happening here.
“What stuff?”
“You don’t have anything with you?”
“My candleholder,” I said, pulling it out of my pocket.
Dan cough-laughed. “Is that a candle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” he said.
Jason glared him into silence.
Suddenly, I heard a scraping behind me and turned around to see an older man dragging a large piece of wood across the concrete. “First one of the camp,” the man said.
Jason nudged me over to the man. “Turn around,” he said.
I did what I was told and saw that the piece of wood was actually a large cross. Before I could even process that, they were situating the crossbea
m against my back and across my shoulders.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
Nobody said anything.
The men just nodded at each other and let go, sure I could hold the thing. It wasn’t too heavy, not like the one I supposed the actual Jesus had carried. But then, I hadn’t been whipped to near-death like the actual Jesus.
Plus, they probably wanted to avoid a lawsuit for spine injuries.
“What’s this for?” I argued. Was this really happening?
“Transgression,” Jason said.
“What’d I do?”
“Walk it on over there,” Jason said, pointing to the sanctuary.
The campers close to me watched, nudged their neighbors. Heads turned like a wave of falling dominoes to get a look at the spectacle. I didn’t want to make out the faces of anyone I knew, but I saw Natalie, her smile fading. Goth was right there too. Holly was so close, she started to reach out to touch my shoulder, but then seemed to think better of it. Culpability was contagious.
I walked, my cheeks burning with humiliation, which I supposed was the point. But I thought the crown of thorns had been for that. The cross had a more practical purpose: execution.
I didn’t dare look again at the campers, who were no doubt fist-pumping for Christ at my exit.
When I reached the grassy lawn, soft with fresh water and hidden divots, the cross got harder to drag. But I didn’t fall down. Not once. Not thrice, like the holy man himself.
After I crossed the lawn, the four men led me down the sidewalk to the side of the sanctuary. They lifted the cross off of me. Jason and the older man carried it through the door to the backstage area.
Pastor Prince Charming led me a bit farther. Dan followed us into a room with two desks and a bank of computers and phones. There was a sign above it that read BABYL ON.
I stared at all the phones. I hadn’t seen mine since the day before. None of the campers would know if anyone had texted or called or emailed or tagged them in a post for nearly a week. I wondered for a beat if Leah had answered the text I had sent from the bus.
Dan cleared his throat. He and the pastor waited expectantly.
“What’d I do?” I asked.
“I think you know,” Dan said. He’d been with me all morning, basically, so I doubted he actually knew. But he was enjoying his authority. As he delivered that line with his arms crossed over his chest, it looked like he’d been practicing in the mirror.