Thinking Straight by Robin Reardon Page A

that pull us into evil and make us do Satan’s bidding. For some it’s Inappropriate Love [my capitals this time], whether for a boy or a girl, a man or a woman, that takes us away from your intended life for us and into a pit devoted only to earthly pleasure. For some it’s the exhilaration of disobedience, of stealing, of flaunting the authority of those you have put in charge over us. There seems to be no end of ways we can find to sin. We are grateful that there is also no end to your forgiveness. And we understand that this forgiveness is granted only to those who truly repent. To those of us who confess our faults, our temptations, our misdeeds, and earnestly vow to take a new path. A path to holiness. A path to you.
    â€œWe pray that you forgive the sins we are about to confess, that your patience and love will hold us up as we strive to be worthy.”
    Long pause.
    â€œAmen.”
    Inappropriate Love, indeed. From inside my head I yelled, My love for Will is not inappropriate! All right, she hadn’t been very specific, but I knew damn well what she meant.
    I couldn’t quite tell whether this sort of all-inclusive prayer was something she spouted off at the start of every Prayer Meeting or whether she was improvising. It sounded practiced, but it also sounded spontaneous. I know this seems conflicting. It is. When I heard her again the next night, I learned that although the themes didn’t vary much, the words did. I give the lady credit; she came up with something fresh—at least relatively fresh—every night I heard her pray.
    Everyone raised their heads up again, although I noticed Charles didn’t. He was still looking at the floor. Mrs. Harnett sat down again and said, “We have three new penitents in our group this week. Let’s welcome them. Taylor Adams, please stand.”
    I wasn’t prepared for this. Should have been, probably. I stood, penitent or not. In unison, everyone around me chanted, “Welcome, Taylor. We love you.” I said my own tiny prayer of gratitude that I was in SafeZone and so could not be expected to reply to that. It would have gotten me into trouble. Maybe that’s what SafeZone is all about?
    â€œSheldon Wainwright, please stand.”
    Sheldon, way in the back, shuffled to his feet and then stared fixedly down at them.
    â€œWelcome, Sheldon. We love you.”
    â€œMonica Moon, please stand.”
    Monica Moon? With a name like that, no wonder she’d ended up in here. A girl about fifty pounds overweight, long dark hair kind of stringing around her face, heaved out of her chair and looked anything but penitent. I thought I remembered seeing her in the laundry room earlier, but I wasn’t working near where the girls were. Maybe she couldn’t speak, but her expression said plenty. I felt a certain kinship with her immediately. What had I looked like when I’d stood? I kind of hoped it was a lot like her—impenitent. Minus the extra weight.
    â€œWelcome, Monica. We love you.”
    I expected another introduction, with three kids besides me wearing yellow stickers. But no one else was asked to stand. I looked around for the fourth kid, a guy, looking comatose. Or autistic. He was actually rocking back and forth in his chair, staring at the floor. At first I had no clue who he was, but then I remembered something Charles had said at breakfast, something about Leland being in SafeZone. “Again.” Could this be the famous Leland? What had he done?
    Mrs. Harnett smiled at everyone in the room, one at a time. It took nearly a minute. And she must have noticed that Charles was still looking at his hands, clasped in his lap. She said, “Brother Charles, you seem troubled. Tell us what’s in your heart tonight.”
    Charles didn’t start, he didn’t snap to attention, he didn’t budge. He must have expected this. In fact, I wondered if he’d deliberately planted himself at