Nonfiction, Addisyn Clapp
In large red letters “PRAYER MILE BEGINS” is printed on a sign on the side of the road. The sign is moving in the wind like how my peers swayed to the worship music at the many churches scattered in my college mountain town. I’m not sure how long the sign has sat at this spot, but long enough for dandelions to sprout and change from yellow to white. I shouldn’t be surprised that my little town of Bethlehem would come with signs asking drivers to pray.
The sun beats down on me and my friends from high school as we sit on the front porch stairs. I can feel the sweat on my back and forming at the top of my hairline. The heat in Winder is different from the heat in Young Harris. In Winder, there are no mountains to distract from sweat pooling in my shoes.
Thank God for this frozen margarita. I swirl the Styrofoam cup in my hand and the strawberry margarita sloshes against the sides of the cup. I glance at my friends next to me—equally sweaty—and I remember when we weren’t old enough to drive or buy alcohol. Thank God for this margarita and decade-long friendships.
Next to me, my friend takes a hit from their blunt. He coughs as smoke surrounds him. His girlfriend laughs at him and then takes a sip from her own margarita. She grimaces at the overwhelming taste of cheap tequila.
“Needs more strawberries,” she remarks. She then downs the rest of the drink in one gulp. Her hand reaches down for her boyfriend’s blunt. Behind me, Sam is double-fisting their own joint and margarita. I can’t tell what part of the cul-de-sac they’re staring at.
I learned how to park in the Latter Day Saints church parking lot.
Recess just let out. Sixth graders run down the hill, scattering like ants across the grassy field. The girls, who I used to believe were my best friends, huddle in a tight circle a little farther down the hill from me. I turn away from them and try to figure out where to go. A girl calls my name from behind me, and I remember the redhead. We used to go to the same elementary school. We aren’t close, but at least she wants to talk to me. I wave to her, and we walk down the hill to a small group of sixth graders leaning against a chain link fence.
I prefer driving along the back roads of Bethlehem to the crowded roads of Sugar Hill. I can’t really argue with dad when he tells me that it’s good practice. I would have had a panic attack on the roads in Atlanta if I hadn’t practiced in Sugar Hill.
The car clings to the right lanes when I speed down the interstate. I can’t tell what’s faster: my heart or my car.
My friends and I are sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor of Sam’s bedroom. In front of Eli is his new deck of tarot cards. We’re 15 and have never used tarot cards before. According to the cards, we are destined for greatness and a life of happiness. One of my friends, Janet, stares at the deck but refuses to touch them. We try to get her to ask one question, but her father’s Catholic indoctrination keeps her mouth clamped shut.
In Winder, there are streetlights almost everywhere, but not in Appalachia. Once the sun goes down, it’s like driving through black ink. The dark crowds my car and anything could jump out from the wooded mountain beside me. The dark has worsened since my left headlight went out.
My hands shake as I turn into an empty parking space in an equally empty parking lot. My old church looms in front of me. Driving makes me nervous, but I’m not sure if the parking hell that I find myself in is what causes my hands to shake.
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I know those short-sleeved white button-ups because they always come in pairs. I don’t expect the Mormon missionaries to be on Young Harris’ campus, but they’re here anyway. Something stabs my chest, and I can’t tell if I’m angry they’re in my space or angry that I don’t have faith like them.
I begin to stop dreading the ten minutes we had for recess because I know I have a spot against the chain link fence. I stop worrying about what my old friends think about me and become more concerned with coming up with excuses why I can’t read the Warrior Cat series.
“It’s so good,” Eli tells me, “How could you not like a story about cats?”
“I’m a dog person,” is my response.
The cicadas are a reminder that our Winder summer is coming to an end. I’ll be going back to college, and my friend’s work and school lives will become busier. Until my Thanksgiving break, our time together will be spent over Facetimes and texts.
A comfortable silence settles over us as we bake in the sun. I glance down at my bare arms and wonder if they’ll turn pink.
“Did any of you think we would get this far?” I break the silence.
We’re in our sophomore year of high school, and we’re having yet another sleepover at Sam’s house. We sit in their room and send memes back and forth over Instagram.
“In a couple of years, we’ll all be in college and probably drinking,” I say as I look up from my phone at my friends in front of me.
“What do you think we’ll be drinking?” Sam asks.
I shrug. I don’t know much about alcohol, and I’ve only recently seen my parents drink it. I feel guilty after every sip I’m offered. From the sips that I’ve had, I know I don’t like beer and only like the sweet white wine my mom drinks.
“My mom thinks that I’ll prefer wine over beer,” I answer, “She’s probably right. I didn’t like the beer my dad let me have a sip of.” My friends nod.
I almost hit a deer as I’m driving back from a college formal. I’m driving sixty down a mountain road when a deer materializes in front of my car. I almost scream, but instead, I gasp. My arms jerk the wheel, so I don’t hit the deer. The car swerves, but I don’t think I lost control of my car. Hazel is in the passenger seat, but she doesn’t see the deer. My hands shake as I pull over to the shoulder. I almost hit a deer.
My mom’s eyes widen when I tell her that I passed my driver’s test.
“That’s great!” she exclaims, “I was a little worried you weren’t going to pass.” My smile falters a little as I near her.
“You didn’t think I was going to pass?” I ask.
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal, “You just didn’t have a lot of practice before you decided to take your test.”
Sam hands me an invitation as we lean against the chain link fence. It has an ice skate on it and reads, “Sam’s 12th Birthday Party! Please join us on April 2nd for ice skating and a sleepover!” I smile down at the paper. I didn’t think I would get invited to their birthday party since we haven’t known each other for that long. I can’t remember the last birthday party I went to, let alone been invited to. My smile grows wider as I realize that Sam has given an invitation to all our friends.
“I’ve never been ice skating before,” I admit. Sam shrugs.
“I’ll teach you,” they smile.
I was complete shit at parking at 17, and I still am.
My hands clutch the steering wheel in front of me. My knuckles turn white. The man who is proctoring my driver’s test is leaning against the center console. Every now and then he checks his watch. Thankfully, I’m the only person driving on this stretch of road. The isolation makes my heart rate slow slightly, and I find myself loosening my grip on the steering wheel. As I’m about to sigh, I notice movement coming from the tree line to my left. A deer jumps out into the road and my heart lurches out to meet it. I place my foot on the break. Am I supposed to stop all the way? Is he going to dock my points because I didn’t stop for a deer correctly? The man next to me looks unfazed. The deer crosses the street, and I continue my driver’s test.
On the Monday after our first experiment with tarot cards, Janet stops talking to us. We gather around our usual lunch table in the morning before the first bell rings for classes, and she’s nowhere to be seen.
My legs are wobbly on the ice. I’m certain that I look like a fawn trying to stand for the first time moments after its birth. My fingers clutch to the wall of the ice rink. Behind me are Helen, Eli, and Janet, their legs also seem to have a mind of their own on the ice. Sam floats beside us. How is he so good at this? The tip of my nose is pink from the freezing temperatures of the ice rink, and it feels like someone tied bricks to my feet instead of ice skates.
I open the car door and see that the parking lines are way too close to my car. I close the door and sigh. Putting the car in reverse, I straighten it out like my dad taught me. When I check again, the parking is passable at best. I glance around me and see an empty parking lot. As I turn the car off, I’m glad that no one had to witness me park.
It’s ironic that the Mormons came to campus more my senior year of college than any other year or maybe I’m just hearing about it more my senior year. Do they know that Mormonism has become a theme in my writing? If God is real, is he playing some sick joke on me? Do I have to confront the self-proclaimed holy spirits of my past? I always assumed that confrontation would happen in a notebook or Word Doc not physically on my college campus.
I see them sitting on the blue couches in the Rollins Campus Center, and they are talking to a group of students. Someone laughs at a joke I’m not in on. I decide I will not talk to them.
I only drank two of Ava’s strawberry margaritas because I am driving home later. We’ve since moved back inside Eli’s house to get out of the sun. Sam and Eli make dinner that night which consists of boiling water for noodles, grocery store sushi, and some kind of premade frozen chicken entre from Sam’s Club. How many more of these dinners will we have before I go back to Young Harris? How often will I be able to see them once I move to another state for grad school? I push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on the food and my friend’s laughter.
When I drive by the old Russell Middle School in Winder, I remember fiddling with the skirt of my dress or a button on a cardigan as my family and I drove to church. I think I still remember how to drive to my old church.
My family and I left the Mormon church when I was about 14 years old. I didn’t tell anyone that I stopped going to church. I should have told Sam or Eli or Helen or Ava, but I didn’t. My friends wouldn’t have judged me for leaving, but I froze like a deer in headlights anytime I attempted to tell them. I don’t know if I was embarrassed about leaving Mormonism or about having a faith crisis, but I do know I was hurt.
My reverse parking has gotten much better in the two weeks that I’ve been practicing. Having a backup camera at my disposal helps me pick up it faster. I place the car in the park and take a breather.
In front of me is the LDS church and the setting sun. The sky has changed from blue to a muddled pink and orange. The doors are locked as no one uses the church in the middle of the week during the summer. My chest tightens as I think about how many times I have walked in and out of that church and of my church friends that don’t talk to me as friend, but as someone who needs to be convinced to come back. Their budding missionary skills are coming into clutch as they tried to convince me with construction paper hearts to come back.
Last summer, Janet reached out to me, Sam, Eli, and Helen. She asked if we wanted to meet up and talk about what happened in high school. Sam and I agreed to meet up, Eli wasn’t ready to talk, and Helen was busy.
Sam and I entered the coffee shop, and we immediately spotted Janet. She was still the same blonde that we remembered, but her hair was shorter. She already had an orange mug in front of her. After Sage and I had gotten our iced coffees, we all sat outside for a little more privacy.
“I’m sorry that I ghosted you guys in high school,” She admitted after she took a sip from her drink.
“It’s okay,” I said, and I meant it. I fiddled with my straw wrapper. I used to be angry with her for ghosting us, but as the years passed I found myself not wanting to hold onto that anger anymore. She shook her head.
“No, it’s not. My dad filled my head with nonsense about tarot cards and scared me into not talking to y’all anymore,” she told us.
This time Sam shook their head, “I knew—although I think most of us knew—that your dad didn’t want you talking to us after that. There’re no hard feelings anymore.” I nodded my head in agreement.
I decide to go down memory lane with my writing. I open a poem from freshman year—maybe sophomore year—about Mormons. God, I was angry. I reread the lines in front of me. Who am I angry at? Not the missionaries on campus, probably my parents, and definitely myself. God? I don’t know.
A mile has passed, and on the right side of the road is the companion to the first prayer sign. In matching red letters “AMEN!” is plastered on the sign.
Addisyn Clapp graduated Young Harris College with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative
Writing and minors in English and Women, Gender, & Sexuality Studies. She currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and works as a barista at a local coffee shop. As of right now, her favorite drink is an iced chai with lavender and oat milk. When it is slow at work, she sits at the counter either reading a novel or a collection of poetry. In the fall, Addisyn plans to attend graduate school at the University of Massachusetts Amherst where she will pursue her MFA in Poetry.
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