Prologue ~ What Happened ~ March 28

Girls like me do not buy pregnancy tests.

Girls like me sing in the church choir. I’m an alto (who secretly wishes she was a soprano). Every spring break, I go on mission trips to Honduras, where we renovate houses for the underprivileged. I do all my homework every night, and before I go to bed, I kiss Daddy’s cheek and tell him I wish he’d go to the doctor about his blood pressure and start getting more exercise than walking Fritz and scooping his poop.

I’ve never even kissed a boy.

Emily called, crying. “Kate,” she said between pants. “You can’t tell anyone. Not even your mom.”

I drove to Wal-Mart two towns away, over in Green Hills, so no one would see me buying the test. I trembled and bit back tears as I carried the box to the self-checkout lane. I scanned, bagged and paid, and tried to ignore the betrayal I felt, that my best friend of fifteen years – since we were three years old, had accidentally gotten pregnant by her long-time boyfriend.

I didn’t even know they had had sex. It’s not something they would tell. If anyone found out that Jacob, son of Father Michael – our preacher at church, got a girl pregnant out of wedlock? Bedlam.

It wouldn’t look good for Emily either. She’s like me. Always wears clean T-shirts and none of her jeans have holes or loose strings. She would never even think about smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t go over the speed limit. She plays the violin and has a scholarship to Belmont University in Nashville.

But she made a mistake.

And then I made an even bigger one: I helped her.

Now ~ Out of my Element ~ Friday, June 3

I haven’t been to Cumberland Creek church camp since I was twelve, since I was a camper. Now I’m eighteen, a high school graduate. Someone who has no business being a camp counselor, that’s for sure. I can’t start fires. I can’t tell poison ivy and poison oak apart. And since I tipped over in the Cumberland River sophomore year, canoes and I have had a serious love-hate relationship. But I’m great at music and my friendship bracelet-making skills are first rate, so Forrest Temple nominated me to be the camp song leader and crafts instructor. I never would’ve agreed if Emily hadn’t been nominated to be a counselor as well.

“It’ll be a great summer!” she’d said. “We’ll meet new people and get to hang out by the lake and make s’mores and go creek-stomping together. Like when we were eight!”

But now I’m here alone.

I need the money and it’s too late to find a job anywhere else in this economy and I figure if I do this for the church, maybe God will think about forgiving me for what I’ve done.

I park my car along the tree line and make my way up the path, past the cedar and oak trees, keeping a watch out for copperheads and black widow spiders. Last time I was here, a deer tick bit me and burrowed into my stomach. Two weeks later, I had a rash the shape of a dartboard stretching across my pale tummy. Everybody wanted to see it. And I mean everybody. Even Will Whitfield! But when you’re twelve, you don’t pull your shirt up for anybody except Mama and the doctor.

Anyway, the whole reason I’m thinking about Will Whitfield is because I see him standing in front of the camp director’s cabin, along with the other counselors. The cabin’s name is Great Oak, because camp is divided into two lands: Birdland and Treeland, and all the cabins are named accordingly. Cardinal, Dogwood, Wren. My favorite cabin is White Oak because it’s nestled up in the hills overlooking the lake and it’s closest to the Woodland Chapel, my favorite place. Emily and I made a lot of good memories there, memories that I hoped would continue this summer. But the regional conference revoked her job offer after they found out about the abortion.

The letter read, “Upon further consideration by our board, we have determined you do not have the skills required to nurture young minds and lead them in this crucial time of development.” That basically meant, You got an abortion. You’re going to hell. You shouldn’t have sinned. The church is most ashamed of you. We’ll pray for your soul.

I hope they’re praying for my soul too.

#

A boy wearing no shoes is staring at me.

Boys don’t usually stare. Except for Bruce Wilson, captain of the math team, and he hardly counts because I never wanted to return his stares.

Shoeless Boy isn’t beautiful, but his tan face is kind and maybe a bit mischievous. A red bandana keeps his dirty blond hair in check. A piece of yellow rope doubles as a belt, holding up his long khaki shorts. Sunglasses hang off the collar of his black tank. He’s carrying a guitar case and has a laundry basket full of clothes under the other arm.

He sets the guitar down and waves. I wave back. He grins, and my knees feel kinda wobbly.

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