this illness,” or “Ninah’s having trouble learning the state capitals, Lord, and give her little brain the room to retain the knowledge she needs.”
I never liked it, but it was so completely ordinary that I was used to it. Besides, most of the time it wasn’t me they were praying for. They prayed over everybody, so it’d be just as likely to hear them ask for special blessings for Mustard or Joshua Langston.
But that night when they were praying for me and James together, it felt different.
Afterwards, Grandpa Herman told us that we could hold hands in prayer if we felt the need, but we weren’t to hold hands at any other time. James nodded obediently, and since it was an unusual circumstance for the prayer partners to meet together in the first place, since usually the prayer partners met separately, all around the compound, James asked them where the two of us would gather.
“I reckon you can go into a room in one of your houses,” Grandpa Herman said, and Daddy nodded.
“Y’all can have the living room and we’ll take the bedroom,” Mamma said.
“Or we could do the same thing,” Olin offered.
As everyone was leaving, James looked at me and smiled, and my heart fell into my pelvis, like it’d been doing so often.
It had to be the strangest feeling in the world—knowing they were giving us permission to spend time alone together, knowing they were trusting us when I couldn’t even trust myself.
And I surely couldn’t trust James.
I wasn’t sure if what I felt was a thrill or a fear, but it was bigger than anything I’d ever known. I couldn’t stop remembering his hand on my leg, his big man’s hand on my long, long leg. And I couldn’t stop reciting in my head, “Ajita Patel is going to Hell. Ajita Patel is headed for Hell.” But I didn’t believe it.
I wondered if she’d felt a man-sized hand on her thigh yet, slipping beneath her soft green pants. And it excited me to think that probably she hadn’t.
A ll that winter James and I came together as prayer partners, and all that winter he never touched me. He held my hands, of course, and his grip was always sweaty. And we’d sit together and list things to pray for, and then we’d pray, but mostly silently.
Afterwards we’d discuss which of us would go to the gym at the beginning of lunch and wash out our gym suits. The gym teacher, who understood that it wasn’t our fault that we couldn’t wash those clothes at home, kept detergent there for us and a special place to hang them up. Some days he’d wash out my suit, and some days I’d wash out his.
But he didn’t touch me.
Some nights he could have. We prayed in the living room of Mamma and Daddy’s house, and if he’d wanted to, he could have kissed me at the beginning of prayer time, when Mamma and Daddy had just gotten started.
And sometimes, I’d hear Mamma and Daddy crying out and panting, and I’d wonder if they were really praying at all. That secret blushing that goes on inside your skin would fill me up, fill me red and sweet, like exotic fruit from India, and I’d grip James’ hand tighter, hoping he’d feel it too. But he didn’t.
It made me sad—not just because he didn’t put his hand on my leg, not even on my foot. It made me sad because when I saw him, I felt ashamed. We didn’t play anymore or cut up on the school bus. He still sat next to me in Sunday morning services, but he held his head straight up and listened to Grandpa Herman. I still felt like drawing in the Sunday school quarterly—and would have if Nanna had given it to me. Grandpa Herman even started calling on James to pray aloud in church, and he did it like someone seasoned. On Sunday afternoons, he sat with the men and laughed at their stories and paid me no attention at all.
And it made me angry with Nanna for interfering. I remembered how nice it had been when it was sneaky and deliberate, when we were still children and looked at each other out the sides of our
I never liked it, but it was so completely ordinary that I was used to it. Besides, most of the time it wasn’t me they were praying for. They prayed over everybody, so it’d be just as likely to hear them ask for special blessings for Mustard or Joshua Langston.
But that night when they were praying for me and James together, it felt different.
Afterwards, Grandpa Herman told us that we could hold hands in prayer if we felt the need, but we weren’t to hold hands at any other time. James nodded obediently, and since it was an unusual circumstance for the prayer partners to meet together in the first place, since usually the prayer partners met separately, all around the compound, James asked them where the two of us would gather.
“I reckon you can go into a room in one of your houses,” Grandpa Herman said, and Daddy nodded.
“Y’all can have the living room and we’ll take the bedroom,” Mamma said.
“Or we could do the same thing,” Olin offered.
As everyone was leaving, James looked at me and smiled, and my heart fell into my pelvis, like it’d been doing so often.
It had to be the strangest feeling in the world—knowing they were giving us permission to spend time alone together, knowing they were trusting us when I couldn’t even trust myself.
And I surely couldn’t trust James.
I wasn’t sure if what I felt was a thrill or a fear, but it was bigger than anything I’d ever known. I couldn’t stop remembering his hand on my leg, his big man’s hand on my long, long leg. And I couldn’t stop reciting in my head, “Ajita Patel is going to Hell. Ajita Patel is headed for Hell.” But I didn’t believe it.
I wondered if she’d felt a man-sized hand on her thigh yet, slipping beneath her soft green pants. And it excited me to think that probably she hadn’t.
A ll that winter James and I came together as prayer partners, and all that winter he never touched me. He held my hands, of course, and his grip was always sweaty. And we’d sit together and list things to pray for, and then we’d pray, but mostly silently.
Afterwards we’d discuss which of us would go to the gym at the beginning of lunch and wash out our gym suits. The gym teacher, who understood that it wasn’t our fault that we couldn’t wash those clothes at home, kept detergent there for us and a special place to hang them up. Some days he’d wash out my suit, and some days I’d wash out his.
But he didn’t touch me.
Some nights he could have. We prayed in the living room of Mamma and Daddy’s house, and if he’d wanted to, he could have kissed me at the beginning of prayer time, when Mamma and Daddy had just gotten started.
And sometimes, I’d hear Mamma and Daddy crying out and panting, and I’d wonder if they were really praying at all. That secret blushing that goes on inside your skin would fill me up, fill me red and sweet, like exotic fruit from India, and I’d grip James’ hand tighter, hoping he’d feel it too. But he didn’t.
It made me sad—not just because he didn’t put his hand on my leg, not even on my foot. It made me sad because when I saw him, I felt ashamed. We didn’t play anymore or cut up on the school bus. He still sat next to me in Sunday morning services, but he held his head straight up and listened to Grandpa Herman. I still felt like drawing in the Sunday school quarterly—and would have if Nanna had given it to me. Grandpa Herman even started calling on James to pray aloud in church, and he did it like someone seasoned. On Sunday afternoons, he sat with the men and laughed at their stories and paid me no attention at all.
And it made me angry with Nanna for interfering. I remembered how nice it had been when it was sneaky and deliberate, when we were still children and looked at each other out the sides of our
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