Read the First Chapter of Contemporary Queer YA Novel Say a Little Prayer
It’s surprisingly difficult to tell a story about topics that tend to be culturally divisive, and that goes double when the subjects in question involve religion. Faith is a complex subject that means many different things to different people, who must often renegotiate their relationship with it at various points in their lives. Author Jenna Voris’s latest YA novel, Say a Little Prayer, is based on her own teenage experiences, a story of queer teen’s journey of self-discovery in a conservative Christian church, and a necessary exploration of the challenges faced by those seeking to both believe and be true to who they are.
Forced to attend church camp after getting in a fight at school and having been publicly shamed by the pastor for her sexual orientation, Riley’s determined to get revenge by penning an essay taking down his terrible views. But over the course of her sentence, she realizes that a lot of things—God, her friendships, her own feelings about everything—-are more complicated than she thought.
Here’s how the publisher describes the story.
Riley quietly left church a year ago when she realized there was no place for a bi girl in her congregation. But it wasn’t until the pastor shunned her older sister for getting an abortion that she really wanted to burn it all down.
It’s just her luck, then, that she’s sent to the principal’s office for slapping a girl talking smack about her sister—and in order to avoid suspension, she has to spend spring break at church camp. The only saving grace is that she’ll be there with her best friend, Julia. Even if Julia’s dad is the pastor. And he’s in charge of camp. But Riley won’t let a technicality like “repenting” get in the way of her true mission. Instead of spending the week embracing the seven heavenly virtues, she decides to commit all seven deadly sins. If she can show the other campers that sometimes being a little bad is for the greater good, she could start a righteous revolution! What could possibly go wrong? Aside from falling for the pastor’s daughter….
Say a Little Prayer won’t hit shelves until March 4, but we’ve got an exclusive preview of the book’s first chapter for you right now.
1
Everything That Happens Next Is Because of Shrek the Musical
I’ve been sent to Principal Rider’s office exactly twice in my life—once last year, when he’d personally handed me a trophy for winning the state geography bowl, and again today, for slapping Amanda Clarke across the face.
I don’t think there’s a prize for this one, unfortunately.
Instead, I’m sitting empty-handed in front of his desk, Mom and Dad looming stiffly behind me as Mr. Rider surveys us over the tops of his steepled fingers. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, but for once, I don’t mind the scrutiny. I have absolutely nothing to hide.
Despite the cramped room and low ceiling, Mr. Rider has managed to stuff an impressive amount of decor into his windowless office. Over his shoulder, an oversized piece of Hobby Lobby wall art tells me to choose kindness in bright red script. A wilting fern sits on top of a filing cabinet covered in children’s finger paintings, and the bookshelf along the opposite wall looks dangerously close to collapsing. My gaze skims over a collection of dusty Civil War memoirs and three different copies of the Bible before stopping on a faded photo of Mr. Rider wearing an Ohio State football uniform.
That’s not surprising now that I think about it. The Madison High School football players hardly ever get sent to the office, and when they do, Mr. Rider always lets them off with a warning. Maybe if he tries to give me detention, I can pretend to be their new kicker or something.
“Okay, you two.” Mr. Rider’s voice drags my attention back to the center of the room. He’s still reclining in his chair, one ankle resting casually across the opposite knee as his gaze slides from me to Amanda. “Would either of you care to explain what happened?”
Before either of us can answer, Mrs. Clarke lets out a dismissive snort. “What happened?” she asks, both hands planted firmly on her hips. “That girl slapped my daughter. What else is there to talk about?”
It takes every ounce of my rapidly waning self-control not to point out that her daughter totally deserved it.
Mrs. Clarke was Miss Teen Ohio 1998. I know this because the first time I met her back in sixth grade, she’d introduced herself with the title, and also because the custom Chanel purse swinging from her arm now has miss teen ohio 1998 stitched across the front in gold letters. She and Amanda have the same blond hair and pale, heart-shaped faces, but I’ve always thought Mrs. Clarke’s blue eyeshadow and glittery body spray make her look more like a poorly animated cartoon villain than a beauty queen.
I’m suddenly very grateful for my own parents, who, despite their unflinching ability to insert themselves into every aspect of my life, have never once monogrammed a decades-old accomplishment on a purse.
To his credit, Mr. Rider doesn’t acknowledge Mrs. Clarke’s outburst. He just tilts his head in Amanda’s direction and asks, with surprising gentleness, “Is that true?”
Amanda’s gaze drops to her lap. She’s clutching a comically large ice pack to her cheek, but it doesn’t fully hide the blush creeping up the side of her throat. Good, I think. She should feel bad. She should feel embarrassed at the thought of telling everyone what happened.
“I was just standing in the hall,” Amanda says, eyes fixed stubbornly on the cuffed ends of her designer jeans. “We were all about to head into econ when Riley walked over and hit me.”
Mrs. Clarke throws up her hands like See? and I whip around in my seat. “Really?” I snap. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Amanda’s shoulders bob, a tiny, infuriating shrug. “It’s what happened.”
“No, it’s not! Don’t you want to tell everyone what you said? You seemed really proud of it before—”
“Enough!” Mr. Rider pushes himself to his feet, both hands braced flat against the desk. “I don’t care what was said, Riley. Violence is never the answer. You know better.”
Mom’s hand closes over my shoulder, but I barely feel it over the anger burning its way up my throat. For a second, I wonder if she already knows exactly what Amanda said to make me snap. I wonder if she would have done the same thing.
Mrs. Clarke lifts her chin. “He’s right, you know,” she says. “You’re lucky we aren’t pressing charges.”
“Okay.” Dad holds up a hand. “They’re seventeen, Mallory; let’s take a breath. You’re right—no matter what, Riley shouldn’t have hit her. It was completely out of line, and we’re sorry you had to come all the way down here because of it.”
He nudges the back of my chair with a foot, and it takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to apologize, too. Everyone is. Honestly, my only regret is not hitting Amanda harder, but I don’t think I can leave this office until I say something acceptably remorseful. I close my eyes, think about the dress rehearsal I’m going to miss if this isn’t resolved by the end of the day, and exhale through clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry, Amanda. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was wrong, and I regret my actions.”
The words burn on the way out, each more difficult than the last, but at least it sounds genuine. This is where three years of drama club and community theater pay off, I guess—acting my way through an apology I decidedly do not mean.
The choose kindness sign over Mr. Rider’s shoulder is starting to feel a little personal.
Amanda slides down in her seat, gaze still fixed on the graying carpet, but Mrs. Clarke shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Not good enough. Where’s the punishment? Where’s the accountability? How is anyone supposed to feel safe with her wandering the halls?”
“Funny,” I mutter. “That’s what everyone says about Amanda.”
“Quiet, Riley.” Mr. Rider shoots me a pointed glare before extending a placating hand in Mrs. Clarke’s direction. “Believe me, we take allegations of physical violence very seriously here, and I assure you, this will be dealt with. But if it’s all right, I’d like to get Amanda back to class. No need for her to miss any more instructional time while we handle the situation.”
He stands, motioning for Amanda and Mrs. Clarke to follow him into the hall, and I realize too late that the “situation” he’s referring to is me. My punishment. My consequences. The phrase “allegations of physical violence” sounds so much worse when he says it out loud, and my hands curl into fists as I run through the list of possibilities.
Surely I’m not getting expelled. Surely he wouldn’t do that right before spring break, so close to the end of the year. We’re opening a musical in two weeks. I have finals to study for and a driver’s test to pass and summer jobs to apply for. I’ve never, in my three years at Madison High School, gotten so much as a warning, so surely I didn’t mess up that badly.
But when Mr. Rider settles himself back into his creaky leather chair, gaze fixed on me across the expanse of his desk, I realize I have absolutely no idea what he would or wouldn’t do. This is unfamiliar territory. He takes his time fiddling with the papers on his desk, letting the space between us tighten with each passing second. I wonder if it’s supposed to be intimidating, if he’s imagining himself as some grizzled FBI detective instead of a fortysomething high school principal with a receding hairline. Eventually he looks up, clasped hands resting on his desk.
“I’m disappointed in you, Riley.” He says my name like we’re friends, like he’s not about to dole out a punishment that could impact the rest of my high school career and probably my life. “You’re smart. You’re an excellent student, and you have more potential than half the kids who walk through my doors. I understand it’s been a difficult semester for you, but this kind of behavior is unacceptable.”
“It’s been a great semester, thanks.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Mom’s fingernails dig into my collarbone in silent warning, but I ignore her. Mr. Rider can punish me for hitting Amanda, sure, but he doesn’t get to pretend to know me.
“Fine,” he concedes, flipping over a new form in the center of his desk. “Here’s what we’ll do, then. Since this is a first-time infraction and since you’re such an active member of our community, I’m not going to expel you.”
The relief is instant, a giddy, dizzying wave. “You’re not?”
“No. I don’t think it would be particularly helpful given the circumstances, but I also can’t let you off with a warning. So I’m assigning you a week of in-school suspension instead. You’ll sit back here, complete all your assignments, and perform office aide duties as needed. And, of course, you’ll be banned from all school-sponsored sports and activities. We’re out for spring break tomorrow, so the suspension would happen the week we get back. Sound good?”
“The week—?” I shoot forward in my seat, a fresh bolt of panic searing through me. “No, Mr. Rider. The week after spring break is tech rehearsal for Shrek.”
Mr. Rider pinches the bridge of his nose. “No offense, Riley, but I don’t think the school musical should be your biggest concern right now. You started a fight in the middle of the school day. You’re lucky Amanda wasn’t seriously hurt, and you’re lucky the Clarkes aren’t pursuing legal action. I have sympathy for your situation, of course, but my hands are tied.”
“That’s not fair!”
I hear how I sound, how backward my priorities seem, but this can’t be the solution. The Madison High School theater department has been my one constant all year, my haven in a sea of uncertainty. I don’t hear the whispered rumors when I’m laughing my way through our preshow handshake rituals or slurping down Steak ‘n Shake after tech. I don’t see the raised eyebrows or pointed looks when I’m running lines in the rafters with Leena or Kev. Realistically, I know people like Amanda and Mrs. Clarke are talking about me no matter what, but when I’m onstage, sweating beneath the lights and the costumes and the pounds of makeup, I don’t think I care.
We’ve been working on Shrek for months. I finally have my first lead role after two years of playing Townswoman Number Four, and I won’t let Amanda’s inability to face her own consequences derail it now.
“Taking me out of tech would hurt the entire department,” I blurt, searching wildly for an excuse Mr. Rider might buy. “The rest of the cast did nothing wrong. Please, we’ve been working on that show since November.”
I meet his eye across the desk and try to channel my inner football player, anything to help me understand how they always seem to walk away from these confrontations unscathed. I try to remember how Amanda acted earlier, how she’d bowed her head and played the victim, but nothing helps. I’ve never gotten detention before. I’ve never even seen a tardy slip, but here we are.
Because Amanda Clarke couldn’t keep her mouth shut for five seconds.
Mr. Rider shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I understand where you’re coming from, but I already told you—I can’t just give you a warning.”
“You gave Jake Pullman a warning for smoking weed in the bathroom,” I point out.
“That was a very different situation.”
“Why? Because he had a playoff game that night?”
Behind me, Dad clears his throat. I barely register the sound, too focused on the way Mr. Rider’s face is slowly turning the same crimson as his decorative wall art.
“Jake Pullman got a warning,” he says, carefully, “because he signed up for a volunteer program instead. That was his choice.”
“I’ll do a volunteer program!”
I hate how desperate I sound, but it’s true. If Mr. Rider looked me in the eye right now and told me to mow his lawn, or retake geometry, or run laps around the track in our school’s moth-eaten Corny the Corncob mascot uniform, I would.
I brace myself for another rejection, but to my surprise, Mr. Rider looks genuinely thoughtful. “You would?
I nod vigorously. “Of course.”
I’d do anything, really.
He hesitates a second longer before leaning over and tugging a blue pamphlet from the bottom drawer of his desk. I lean forward, hands deliberately tucked under my thighs. No matter what it is, no matter what program Mr. Rider is considering, I will act like it’s the most wonderful opportunity in the world. Because it will be. But when he flips it over to reveal the words Pleasant Hills Spring Youth Camp stamped across the front, my resolve vanishes.
Because if a suspension during tech week is the absolute worst thing that could happen to me, then attending Pleasant Hills Baptist Church youth camp is a pretty close second.
“As you know, Pleasant Hills is a real cornerstone of our community,” Mr. Rider says, seemingly oblivious to the way I’m sinking back in my seat. “The congregation has always worked closely with our student volunteers, and I know you’re already familiar with their programming. Were you planning to attend camp next week?”
My chair creaks as I dig my nails into the soft leather. I feel Mom shift behind me, arms crossing over her chest, even as Dad remains uncomfortably still. “No,” I say. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
I haven’t been to church in over a year. Mr. Rider knows this, of course. Everyone in town knows it, because apparently the fact that I don’t want to sit in a musty chapel and listen to Pastor Young talk about all the different ways I’m going to hell is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened around here.
Mr. Rider’s mouth turns down in the corners. “That’s a shame. I can’t tell you how to live your life, Riley, but I can offer you guidance. If you’re serious about doing a volunteer program, I’ll allow it. You could join the Pleasant Hills youth congregation next week, spend time reflecting on your actions, and when you return, write me an essay about what you’ve learned. Hand it in the Monday after spring break, and I’ll consider your slate clean.”
It says a lot about how much I hate Pleasant Hills that this is even a remotely difficult decision. It shouldn’t be. I’d practically begged Mr. Rider for an alternative and here it is. He’s handing me a way out, but I’ve never been good at letting things go. Mom says it’s because I think too much. My sister, Hannah, says it’s because I’m a Scorpio. Either way, I don’t think I have much of a choice now.
“Why does it have to be camp?” I ask, arms crossed tightly over my chest. “Can’t I, like, volunteer at the nursing home or something?”
I don’t miss the way Mr. Rider’s gaze flicks toward Mom and Dad. He must know they also haven’t attended a service since Christmas, and I wonder if this is some weird ploy to save all of our collective souls. Maybe Pastor Young put him up to this.
“Shifts like that require more preparation, more paperwork.” Mr. Rider slides the pamphlet toward me. “Long story short, I’m your principal, Riley. I want you to succeed. I want your time at Madison to be an exciting learning experience, both in and out of the classroom, and studies show that students are happier when they’re involved in their communities. I can’t make you go anywhere, but if you truly don’t want a suspension, I think this would be a great opportunity for you.”
He’s watching me with a mixture of pity and wary concern, like he’s afraid I’m going to burst into flames at the mere mention of the Lord. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll set myself on fire to prove a point.
I glance over my shoulder to where Mom and Dad are silently watching our exchange. Dad’s expression is stubbornly neutral, but I can tell Mom is angry by the way her left eyebrow arches slightly higher than her right. It’s a small comfort, but I take it. She might lecture me later tonight. She might ground me for the rest of the year, but right now, within the confines of this office, she is stubbornly and unshakably on my side.
“It’s your choice,” she says, and I know she means it.
In the end, it’s not much of a choice at all. I can’t lose this show. I can’t disappoint my cast. I might feel messy and tangled and wrong most days, but onstage, I’m untouchable. And that’s not something I’m willing to give away.
“Fine.” I reach across the desk and slide the pamphlet toward me a fraction of an inch. “I’ll go. I’ll write your essay.”
Mr. Rider’s face splits into a wide grin. “Excellent! That’s wonderful, Riley.”
He turns to say something to Mom and Dad, but I’m no longer listening. I grab my backpack, and when I stand to leave, pamphlet crumpled between my fingers, I think it’s almost a pity I don’t believe in God anymore.
I think this would probably be a good time to pray.
Say a Little Prayer will be released on March 4, but you can pre-order it right now.
Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB