Sasha Tandlich
A Trinity
When we get to Christian camp, they try to separate Ally and me into separate cabins, but we tell them that’s just not how it’s going to be. We are forever tied with an ampersand: Ari & Ally. No one refers to one of us without the other. Between ourselves, we’re A.A. We think that makes us dangerous, like we’ve been through something and come out the other side. Ally steals pamphlets from the church, and we cut out the logo to glue onto the notebook we use to pass notes between classes. Even before Ally starts calling herself straight-edge, we never come close to having a drink. Sparkling grape juice on New Year’s makes us giddy; at a sports bar we get a thrill when my dad asks the bartender for a homemade cherry coke. We hold the soda-soaked fruit in our teeth, the stem caressed between our lips like a candy cigarette.
I’m not Christian, not really. I’m only in it so I can spend the week with Ally. She goes to the kind of church where parents cram into an auditorium, the pastor’s face projected onto screens so that even the latecomers in the back can watch the spit shoot out of his mouth as he implores everyone to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior. The teens, meanwhile, spend their Sunday mornings in a side building, orange juice breath in the air as they sing-shout about how nothing is sexier than waiting until marriage. I don’t know the words, but I’m happy to trade in Father O’Connor’s consistently off-key hymns for a parentless rock concert.
My mom agreed to let me switch churches a month before camp. She’d run late again, forcing us to go to noon Spanish Mass. Standing in the pew, holding the slobbery hand of the kid next to me as the priest mumbled in a language in which I’m selectively fluent, I crafted the argument in my head. My mom’s checkbook was in her purse, but she hadn’t yet written out the deposit for confirmation classes.
“The girls have been taking this really seriously,” says Ally’s mom to the woman squinting up at us from behind the camp check-in sheet. The fold-up table is set up right under the South Florida sun, and I follow a bead of sweat from her hairline down into the collar of her church polo. “I think it would be detrimental to Ariana’s religious journey if you don’t let them see this through together.” That’s how we end up assigned to Amber’s cabin.
What draws us to Amber is her conviction. It’s that, first, and then her pop star hair. It haloes her face, shining bright like a beacon across the dewy lawn. Amber’s mouth is pulled taut in a line of religious concentration, or maybe she’s trying to make room in her mind for an unexpected extra camper. When we’ve all gathered, she leads us to our cabin on the other side of the grounds, inviting us to settle in before our first group activity. Ally drops into a bottom bunk, so I climb over her armed with Scotch tape and a handful of photos I collage onto the wall beside me.
“I have a surprise for you,” says Ally, popping her head out from beneath my bunk. She reaches up and hands me a cut-out image. “My dad gave me one full page on the color printer, so I squeezed this in.”
“Thanks,” I say. It’s a picture of the lead singer of Ally’s favorite Christian rock band, of our favorite Christian rock band. To the untrained eye, he looks like any other pop singer on Y100, but we know the studded crosses aren’t just for show.
“Can I borrow your tape when you’re done?” asks Ally. She holds up a poster of the band’s bass player; in it, he lifts up one side of his shirt, teasing us with the tail end of a Bible verse tattoo. The first time she showed it to me, she determined my too-small reaction was due to my preference for clean-cut guys and assigned me the floppy-haired lead singer.
“Isn’t that a little . . . scandalous?” I whisper.
“He’s Christian,” Ally replies, grabbing the tape from my hands. Amber crosses in front of our bunks, raising a gold, overplucked eyebrow in the direction of the poster.
“Alright, ladies, gather round,” says Amber, dropping to the floor and crossing her legs. I sit first, but instead of taking her place next to me, Ally loops around to Amber’s other side. We’re already vying for her attention, grasping her limply outstretched hands as she leads us in a welcome prayer.
Afterward, Amber prompts us to make our introductions: “Tell us your name and what you hope to get out of our week together.” Ally opens her mouth first, and my mind immediately goes blank. “I know that my purpose is to be a messenger of God’s word,” she says while I search for any word, any word at all. “Like the pamphlet says, I want to build a stronger Christian community together.” The campers continue around the circle, trading laughter and candid confessions, but all I can focus on is the hollowness of the answer rolling around in my head.
“My neighbor slips me her old issues of Cosmo Girl,” says Carly, pausing for effect. Like Ally, she’s clearly a theater kid. “I hide them under my bed so my parents don’t find them. Last month there was that Josh Hartnett spread . . .” Everyone swoons. “So, I want to work on my lustful thoughts.”
Erika blushes when it’s her turn. “I’m embarrassed,” she says, “to admit that I’m embarrassed of my faith in front of my friends. I tone it down to make them comfortable, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to shout it from the rooftops! I love Jesus!” The other campers cheer.
Amber jots down notes in a small book with gold-finished pages that reminds me of the Precious Moments Bible I got for my First Communion. I sway dizzily in place until her hand falls onto my shoulder. “You’re up,” she whispers.
“Um,” I start, “I’m Ari . . . Ariana. Sorry, can you repeat the other question?”
Amber reaches out and squeezes my hand encouragingly. Her palm is slick with lotion, and I catch a waft of Warm Vanilla Sugar. “Why are you here?”
“Right. Well, Ally’s my best friend, so yeah. I’m here with her.” The upward inflection reads like a question. Everyone’s eyes remain fixed and waiting. “And I heard you have kayaking?”
“Ari grew up in an interfaith home,” jumps in Ally. “Her dad’s Jewish.” She stage-whispers the last word, like chisme being passed around. “She’s my BFF, so I just want to help her find some, like, clarity.”
“I love that, thank you Ally,” says Amber. She turns to me. “And Ari, I’m glad you found your way to us. Putting your faith in God is one of the biggest and most exciting decisions you’ll ever make. This is going to be a tough week, but I’m here for you. We’ll get through this together.”
* * *
The first time I pleaded to go to camp, I asked to join my cousins in Maine. Every summer, they came back covered in mosquito bites, their matching tie-dyed shirts bearing the Star of David. Their camp wasn’t a week long, like ours, but stretched through the entirety of summer. My parents tried to tell me I’d get homesick, but we all knew that wasn’t true. If it was funding, I offered, maybe they could think about their daughter for once and skip eating out at the Cheesecake Factory. I shielded my face reflexively, anticipating the spray of spit that accompanied a good scolding. Instead, my dad took a calm breath and sat me down.
“You know, Ariana, there are some people who might not count you as really Jewish,” he said gently.
“What do you mean?” I pressed. “I’m half.”
“Well, yeah, but what half?” he said, laughing to himself a little. “In Judaism, it passes down through the mother. You should like that, right? Girl power.” He raised his fist but not his eyes.
“But you’re Jewish, and I’m your daughter. Grandma and Grandpa are Jewish. The Feldman cousins. I’m a Feldman,” I said, as if arguing with him would change the rules.
“You don’t need to convince me. I think you’re Jewish.” My dad shrugged. “But other people might say you need to convert.”
“But that’s not fair,” I countered. “What about blood?”
“We can start going to schul,” said my dad. “I think it’s great that you want to connect with your roots. You just have to put in a little work.”
In Ally’s church, they welcome me home the first day. Strangers reach out to pull me into sweaty embraces. We have punch cards, like a café rewards program, competing for prizes based on how many souls we save. When I’m ready to be baptized, I just have to raise my hand.
* * *
“How much do we love Amber?” asks Ally. We trail behind the group on our way to the rec building. My shorts are already sticking to my thighs in the humidity.
“So much,” I say, careful to match Ally’s level of enthusiasm.
“She’s, like, so pretty,” gushes Ally, twirling a lock of hair she’s artfully left out of her ponytail.
“So pretty,” I return, hating the girlish register of my voice.
“And it’s super obvious how much she cares. Like what she said to you, about getting through this together.”
“Yeah, totally,” I say, kicking a rock between my feet as we trudge along. “Thanks for saving me earlier.”
“It was nothing,” she says, and tugs playfully on the end of my braid. “I meant it, this week’s going to be so good for us.” She stops in her tracks, suddenly struck by an idea. “We’ll be Triple A,” she exclaims.
“Huh?”
“Amber, Ari—”
“Oh yeah, that’s good,” I say, watching a glint of sunlight beam off Amber’s purity ring in the distance, like something God himself intended. “Triple A, they fix things. It’s like a sign of our Christian charity,” I try, working to keep the words from sounding clunky in my mouth.
“We’re gonna save the world, the three of us!” says Ally, linking our elbows together and pulling me up ahead through the trees, racing towards Amber.
* * *
Ally and I come into camp with plans. We spend the weeks beforehand at each other’s houses, studying the pamphlet until we’ve concocted the perfect schedule. It’s our last chance to choose classes together; next year, we’re off to different high schools. We march to activity sign-ups armed with a cheat sheet, Ally’s bloated block letters alternating with my practiced cursive. At the front of the line, gel pens poised, we find out that Amber is teaching Arts & Crafts.
“I guess I don’t really need kayaking,” I offer. “My dad keeps trying to take me out on the lake, and it’s been months since anyone’s spotted a gator.”
“I was going to say we give up drama,” says Ally. “Mr. Gomez always says the hardest thing is unlearning bad habits. Don’t want to risk it before my new program.” We compromise and drop both classes.
A double block of Arts & Crafts means Ally and I can exchange friendship bracelets and each have one left over for Amber. The other campers shoot us scolding looks as we dunk our hands into the tubs of beads, A’s cascading onto the floor in our wake. Amber puts on a show of sighing when we approach her, taking pains to hide any signs of favoritism, though of course those pains are all the proof we need. "What is it, girls?" she asks, spinning the band on her finger as we offer up our tokens of affection.
The ring is a promise between Amber and her long-distance boyfriend. In our nightly chats, she tells our cabin how difficult the distance is, but not how distance makes the purity easy. He goes to college in Georgia, but they met on a mission trip to Haiti. She shows us the bent photograph she keeps in her wallet, two bright figures in matching t-shirts, arms wrapped around Black children. They’re getting special visas to travel to Cuba next year, and I sink back as Amber entices the other campers with talks of Caribbean beaches and the benefits of service. I’m certain this is one thing my mom will never allow. “No volveremos hasta que Cuba esté libre,” she’s said so many times, I’ve memorized the cadence of syllables blended together like an anthem.
* * *
Every night before dinner, we file cabin-by-cabin into the amphitheater for evening worship. Beneath the sound of the band rocking out onstage, our grumbling bellies are a challenge. Think beyond our physical needs and focus on the word of God, not the meaty scent drifting from the commissary, clinging to the droplets of muggy air.
“When I was a teenager,” says the pastor, stroking his goatee, “now, this is a little embarrassing, but when I was a teenager all I cared about was sleeping in and eating pizza.” Laughter rings out all around me. I peer down the length of the aisle to where Amber stands with the other counselors. I expect her to be taking notes, but she throws back her head a beat too late. When I lean forward to make out the source of her laughter, Ally’s fingers dig into my shoulder, pulling me back.
“No, really, that was all I did: sleep and eat. And here you all are. Wow. You chose to be here. You chose Jesus over carbs.” The pastor sniffs the air. “Sloppy Joe night? Hmm, maybe you chose Jesus and carbs.” He pauses, so I take my cue from the other bodies pressed against mine and clap to fill the silence. Ally looks over at me approvingly, and I slap my hands a little harder.
“You made a choice that not a lot of teenagers make, and you’re going to go back into your communities as role models. Now, you might be thinking you’re too young to be a leader,” continues the pastor, “but as Paul said to Timothy: ‘Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers . . .’ And that’s what you’re doing here. I think you deserve a little applause for that.”
The pastor raises his arms, prompting a roar. I crane my neck to see Amber jumping up and down with the other counselors, clapping in the direction of all of us young leaders. The energy is infectious, and before I realize what I’m doing, my feet are off the ground, stomping the concrete hard on my way down. By the end of the service our bellies have long been drowned out, so it is with lightness that Ally and I make our way to dinner, side by side.
* * *
Before lights out, Amber lets us run our fingers through her long, blonde hair, but only once we’ve earned it. To do that, everyone in the cabin has to memorize the verse of the day. We sit in a circle like we’re about to chant Down by the banks of the hanky panky, but instead of slapping each other’s hands we squeeze them encouragingly. The goal in this game is to eliminate no one. “For God so loved the world,” we begin, easy, reciting together and then one by one.
The first time, Amber appears before us in a t-shirt and rolled-up Soffes, and I lock eyes with Ally. “What does that stand for?” asks Ally, pointing to the three triangles printed across Amber’s chest. It’s Tri Delt, we learn, Amber’s sorority up in college.
“That’s Triple A,” I say, when Amber doesn’t see it. I slash my finger across each triangle to make an A, then pull away, realizing how close I’m standing. Ally and I grow excited from the symbolism, but Amber just shrugs. She brings us a photo from her room in which her chapter poses before their columned brick mansion. Our cabinmates push in around us, jockeying for a view of what Amber has to show.
“You all have the same hair,” says Carly, whose own bright red curls stand out amongst a crowd. It’s true, we all echo, looking from the photo to Amber and back.
“How do you all get it so shiny?” asks Jessie.
“And smooth,” adds Meredith.
We all jump in, speaking over each other, calling dibs on Amber’s attention.
“Settle down, ladies,” scolds Amber. “Tonight, we’re discussing John 3:16, not my hair regimen.”
“Okay, but after?” someone calls. Amber purses her lips, but doesn’t say no, so we take that as a confirmation. We study the verse with enthusiasm.
Ally and I quiz each other through our daily activities, zealous when the prize is time spent with Amber. “Philippians 4:13,” says Ally at lunch when I ask her to please pass the ketchup. She scoots the bottle further from my reach. “I can…” she prompts as the fries grow cold on my tray. “I can,” I repeat, “do all things through Jesus who gives me strength?” She hands me the bottle. “Close enough.”
* * *
On Wednesday, we decide as a cabin to opt into the swim across the campground’s manmade lake. It’s the ultimate teenage sacrifice: a 6 a.m. screech of static from the clock radio in place of a couple more hours of uninterrupted sleep. It’s no coincidence that this is one of the only times outside of worship that our schedules intersect with the boys’.
“What happens if we can’t make it across the lake?” I ask while Ally runs her fingers through my coarse curls, weaving them into two French braids that sprout wiry tendrils of frizz.
“Yell for Conner to save you,” says Ally, who has always been the stronger swimmer. Conner Jacobs, swim team captain, is technically off-limits as one of the boys’ cabin junior counselors, but also technically only a few years older than us. “Actually, that’s such a good idea. I can play a character that has something to prove and then fails spectacularly. And the moral is that you have to ask for help.” She closes her eyes and snaps her fingers. “And scene.”
“Okay, but I might actually drown,” I say. “I kind of only just passed the swim test.” Every second treading water felt like my last, but I don’t want to miss out.
“At least you’ll look cute when Conner pulls your dead body out of the water,” says Ally, turning me around on her bunk so that we’re facing each other. She draws squiggly lines across my lids with a dull eyeliner pencil that’s handed from camper to camper across our cabin. We don’t usually wear makeup, but today we make use of Erika’s mom’s Clinique samples. On our way out of the cabin, I spritz each camper with Cucumber Melon like it’s Holy Water.
We’re a sight, all of us, stampeding onto the dirt beach in our regulation one-piece bathing suits and our extra-smoky eyes. We drop our towels in a heap and huddle together until we spot the mass of shirtless torsos snaking their way to us. The boys approach, too loud for this early in the morning, and as we formulate our first moves, they continue past us and straight into the lake, where some of the other cabins have already set off.
“Come on, campers,” says Amber, rescue buoys tucked under each bare armpit. I don’t dare look at her in her striped navy suit, unprepared to catalogue the differences in our bodies, to note where the fabric fills in and where it barely grazes skin.
We’re supposed to stick with our swim buddies, lest the lake or its rumored reptilian inhabitants swallow one of us unnoticed, but I lose Ally almost immediately. The water laps around my neck, muddy and alive after all our overexuberant splashing. I doggy paddle furiously, and when I pause to catch my breath, I find I’ve pushed my way nowhere. It’s as if I’ve floated backwards, farther and farther away from the group.
“I’ve got you.” The voice is unfamiliar, deeper and more commanding than Amber’s honeyed twang. A figure pulls into focus, and I realize it’s none other than Conner Jacobs. “Hold onto my back,” he says. I loop my free arm under his and across his chest, and he pulls me all the way through the lake to the other side.
* * *
“Tell me everything,” says Ally back at our cabin. “What did he feel like?”
“Wet?”
The room smells like sunscreen and sweat. Ally lays on her bunk and lifts her shirt up to her neck, allowing me to rip off long strips of shedding skin. In the background, we can hear Amber talking to her boyfriend on the cabin phone that’s supposed to be reserved for emergencies.
“Well, duh. But how was his body?”
“I don’t know, kind of like rocks,” I say.
“Like rocks?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You know—super muscled and hard and stuff.”
I find a perfect piece of skin that pulls off in one clean strip, from Ally’s shoulder blades down to the small of her back. It trembles in the breeze from the tiny fan clamped onto the bunk railing.
“I knew it!” screeches Ally. “Didn’t I tell you he looked way buff?”
I nod and hold the long strip of skin up to Ally. She scrunches up her nose. “Ew,” she says, like it wasn’t just a part of her. She turns her head away, toward the collage on her wall. Next to her poster is a sheet of bright green construction paper with a quote copied down in uneven marker lines: Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as you are doing. The words on the right side are scrunched together on the page, a miscalculation of space.
“Amber totally gets me,” Ally says when we return from the showers and find our handpicked verses. I race up my bunk ladder to read mine; it’s was like tabulating the results of a Seventeen quiz. In all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight says Amber’s bubbly writing, complete with fat little hearts above every i. Here I was, hoping that Amber saw me, but instead all she saw was my lack.
“I have to tell you something,” Ally whispers to me at night after lights out. I scramble down into her bed and draw the covers over our heads. “I have a crush on someone.”
I instinctively turn my head toward Amber’s room, but I can’t see beyond the sheets. If I could, all I would find would be the white of her closed door. “Me too,” I whisper back.
Ally clutches my hands. “Ohmygosh. Let’s tell each other on 3.” I nod my head and Ally begins counting. “1 . . . 2 . . . ” The A starts to form on my lips. “Co—”
“Conner!” I rush to finish at the same time as her.
“Ah! I knew it. I mean, the way he carried you across the lake.”
“Like Jesus parting the water.”
“Well, not like—”
“No, no, not like Jesus. Obviously,” I correct myself, still learning this new tongue.
“You have dibs, since you guys had an experience.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, because it’s not Conner I want. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Girl code.” I hold out my pinky finger and Ally wraps hers around it, a promise.
* * *
Between Stacie Orrico dance parties and cabin-wide heart-to-hearts, we cross blocks off our itineraries, crank through to the end of our disposable cameras. It’s like this that the week passes by us. Color Wars are our final hurrah before the cars start lining up in the lot to shuttle us home. On our last full day, Amber drops a tub of leftover Arts & Crafts supplies on the floor and leaves us to it. We cut pieces of ribbon to tie into our hair and slather nontoxic paint across our faces. Green is my favorite color, so Ally and I pull clothes out of my duffel bag, wrapping her in it from head to toe. I’m on Red Team, which we interpret loosely, sneaking in hot pinks and magentas wherever we can get away with it. Amber is Red Team co-captain, and she offers me a hit off her tube of red lipstick. “That’s too bright for you,” says Ally, frowning.
On our way to the field, Ally splits off with Erika and Carly, so I fall in line with Amber. She drops her hand into her tote bag and hands me a red beaded WWJD necklace. I pull it over my head, walking taller, and pretend not to be surprised when she doles out identical necklaces upon our arrival. Across the way, Ally is all smiles in front of green-clad Conner and her newfound friends. I latch onto Amber for the remainder of the day spent scheming and strategizing, but our plans are no match for Green Team’s athleticism. After leading all day, they lock in the win with Capture the Flag. “Take that!” shouts Ally atop Conner’s shoulders where she waves our red flag above her head in victory. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or if the win has really gone to her head. They rush off in a cloud of Conner’s Axe body spray. “Boys,” coughs Amber at my side.
Our cabin has big plans for our last night together, but after showers, we collapse onto the floor and play Uno, the only game our sun-drenched bodies can muster. Ally’s turn is before mine and she’s aggressive with her Skips. She slaps another one down, and I want to reach out and wipe the outline of G-R-E-E-N off her carelessly washed cheeks. I’m contemplating my next move when I feel Amber’s light breath behind my ear. “Ari?” she whispers, motioning for me to come with her. I drop my cards and stand, feeling Ally’s eyes on my back all the way to Amber’s room.
I hover tentatively in the doorway until Amber invites me to sit on her bed. She taps the door and lets it fall halfway shut before taking her place on the mattress. I’ve sat closer to her many times, held her blonde hair between my fingers, but there’s something about sitting side by side like this on her bed that makes my breath catch. Someone yells “Uno!” and I will the door to miraculously slam shut.
“Do you know why I asked you in here?” Amber puts on her counselor voice, the one that says I’m your teacher, not your friend.
“Secret Red Team business? Are we staging a coup?” I try to laugh, but spit gets caught in my throat and I cough into my hands. I wipe them pointlessly on my unicorn pajama shorts, then hate myself for drawing attention to the cartoonish creatures.
Amber looks at me with pity. “Color Wars are over, Ariana. We lost.”
“Just joking,” I mumble. I look down at my arms, covered now in goosebumps. It’s significantly colder in here, with the ceiling fan blasting overhead.
“Ari, I called you in here because I’m worried about you. I’m worried that you’re taking this experience lightly.”
“Oh,” I choke out. “Am I in trouble?” I can’t possibly meet Amber’s eyes, so instead I focus on the Tri-Delt blanket tossed across the edge of her bed, thinking maybe she’ll offer to drape it over my trembling shoulders.
“Trouble? No, I wouldn’t put it like that.” She drums her French manicured nails on the mattress. The movement sends ripples under my thighs. “Well, in a way, yes. Ari, you never speak up in prayer group, and you’re not familiar with the scripture.” I shift my weight and the bed creaks, too loud in the small space between us. The game outside has quieted, and it takes effort to hear the soft thwap of new cards being doled out.
“I learned all the verses of the day,” I whisper, afraid that my voice will carry outside.
“Well, sure, you memorized them,” says Amber without pause. “But everything isn’t a game. Did you ever stop, slow down, and think about what the words actually meant?”
“I—” A commotion sounds in the other room. I pick out Ally’s triumphant laugh amidst high-pitched yelling.
“I don’t believe you’ve made a real commitment here,” continues Amber. She looks at me intently until I finally raise my head to meet her gaze. “Why do you think that is?” she asks.
I snap Ally’s friendship bracelet against my wrist. I’m not sure what she wants me to say.
“You know what I think?” Amber asks.
“That I’m not taking it—”
“I think this has to do with your dad. I don’t think you’ve come to terms with it.” Amber scooches closer to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. I’m overwhelmed by the sweetness of her vanilla scent.
“I don’t think I understand,” I say to Amber’s armpit.
“You love your dad, right?”
“Yeah . . .”
“That’s it. You’re holding back because you’re afraid of leaving him behind.” I open my mouth, but I can’t find words. “I mean, I get it,” Amber continues. “There’s another girl in youth group, Rachel, you should talk to her. Her dad passed away last year before accepting Christ, and she had a really hard time with that. She couldn’t save him, but it’s not too late for you.”
“Okay,” I say. I just want to get out from under Amber’s arm, out of this room.
“You know, Jesus was Jewish. That could be your starting point.”
I nod my head and stand. Amber drops her arm as I walk away.
“I love you, Ari,” she says as I slip out the door. “We all love you. Now all you need to do is open up a little space in your heart and love Jesus back.”
* * *
“So how was it? Life-changing?” asks Ally’s mom from behind the wheel of her minivan. In the seat next to me, Ally works to unwrap the plastic off the commemorative camp VHS. Her mom lowers the volume on the easy listening station and looks up at us through the rearview mirror.
“It was fun,” I say, smiling politely.
“Life-changing,” says Ally, pulling the tape free. She turns in her chair to feed it into the van’s VHS player, then pops open the TV monitor. “That’s what we’re going to do when we get back: change some lives. That’s what Triple A means.” Ally’s mom raises her eyebrows, but Ally doesn’t elaborate. “Can you turn it up?” she asks, pressing play on the remote.
A bad recording of the church band fills the speakers while images bounce across the screen, slideshow photos intercut with grainy video footage. Ally plays a game of pointing out anyone we vaguely know, leaning forward in her seat to poke her finger at figures before they dissolve. After a series of shots from Color Wars, during which Ally can’t help but prattle on about Green Team’s victory, the tape jumps to a recording of evening worship. The camera pans across the amphitheater, bodies jumping and swaying in response to some prompt that has been covered up by the band’s song on repeat. I am transfixed by the faces bobbing in and out of frame, their carefree smiles replaced by some other expression that I struggle to identify.
“Oh my gosh, Ari!” screams Ally. She nearly jumps out of her chair but her seatbelt locks, thrusting her back.
“Are you ok?” I ask.
“It’s you! Did you not see yourself?” Ally rewinds the footage, dismayed, and lets it play until she spots me. She smushes her finger against the edge of the screen and I have to squint to see it but there I am, body in motion.
“I didn’t know that was me,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
“Life. Changing,” she replies.
When the tape ends, Ally hits rewind and lets it play again from the start. She narrates the footage to her mom, setting off on a string of stories that lasts the whole way home. I’m relieved when we pull into my driveway and my parents come outside to meet us. My dad reaches for my bag but I pull him into a hug instead. “Well, that’s nice,” he says, surprised.
The van starts to pull away and Ally sticks her head out of the window. “See you at church on Sunday?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
Ally blows a kiss and ducks her head back inside. I wave alongside my parents, the church band’s song streaming out the windows until the van disappears around the corner, leaving just the three of us.
Sasha Tandlich grew up in South Florida and now lives in Los Angeles, where she works in film production. Her fiction has appeared in The Normal School, Meridian, phoebe, and X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine. She is currently working on her first novel. Find her at sashatandlich.com.