Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I sink into my seat, noticing Yasmin shift in hers.
She leans back with her legs crossed, at ease.
She probably doesn’t even need to be here.
I bet she already has a draft of her essay, either in her purse or memorized.
She’s going to write smooth, easy, and engaging sentences about her involvement in the Boys & Girls Club, or about the summer she spent in Ecuador at a young environmentalists’ program saving trees.
“But what’s most important is to remain authentic.
” Ms. Kiesha’s words cut through my thoughts.
That word, “authentic,” is the cousin of “honest” and “genuine.” All the things I’m not, especially right now, sitting here in church.
“Genuine essays stand out because they have a real voice behind them.”
How am I supposed to be genuine when there are people in this room who have already decided they don’t want to know the real me?
“… and it’s not just about the struggle,” Ms. Kiesha continues. “It’s about how you’ve responded to it. Resilience, determination, empathy—these are qualities that admissions committees look for.”
I catch movement underneath Jameson and Yasmin’s table. Their ankles are tangled together, Yasmin stroking his calf in the smallest motion.
My breath hitches. Are they together? Jameson doesn’t react. He doesn’t necessarily reciprocate, but the fact that he’s not surprised means the gesture is normal…
Why do I care? I’m in a relationship. Jameson isn’t mine. He technically was never mine.
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 anything but her, I realize everyone is staring… at me.
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 meditative feeling 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—”
“Jameson?” Yasmin’s voice meets us before she appears around the curve in the hall. She’s coming from the direction of the bathroom. So much for that head start.
Her eyes narrow on us together. “What are you doing?”
Jameson stiffens, his face tightening as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I was just—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Yasmin says, her gaze landing on me. “I mean Clarity. What, are you still trying to drag people down with you? Haven’t you hurt him enough?”
Me hurt him? Jameson is the one who pulled away, who decided he couldn’t be my friend if I continued to “choose sin.” I haven’t done anything to him, not at camp and not now.
But Jameson doesn’t speak up and correct her. He just stands there, silent and uncomfortable.
“I didn’t—”
Yasmin cuts me off, her voice colder now. “I don’t even know why you still come here—”
“I come here because this is my church,” I tell her. Despite my trepidations, those words settle in me with their truth.
“It’s not like you’re a real Christian,” she snaps.
Jameson’s attention bolts to her, and his mouth falls open. She doesn’t notice as she loops her arm through his and says, “Come on, Jameson. Let’s go.”
He hesitates, his eyes flicking to mine with a hint of something—regret, maybe? But then Yasmin tugs on his arm and he lets her lead him to the exit.
I linger in the alcove to watch them get into Yasmin’s car and drive away, and to collect myself. My composure finally buckles when her car disappears. I can’t breathe in the wake of that accusation: not a real Christian.
Good daughter, good student, good Christian. Those have always been my molds, my north stars whenever I needed to come back to myself. And yes, this summer I became more… but I didn’t think I stopped being any of those things.
The thought that I might not be a Christian anymore floods me with doubt.
I’ve attended so many Bible studies and heard a plethora of scripture interpretations: that real Christians don’t sin like this, that loving a girl could mean I’m rejecting God.
But there are also verses that remind us that we all fall short of perfection because we all sin.
What makes us Christian, what makes us faithful and worthy of God’s love and mercy is our choice to repent…
But loving Hannah isn’t something I feel I need to ask forgiveness for. That love is part of who I am, not something I regret or want to erase. So where does that leave me?
What if Yasmin is right? If I don’t see who I am as a sin, and I don’t repent, does that mean I’m not truly following God?