It was normal to wear camisoles beneath our t-shirts, our jeans baggy. We had North Face zip-ups, an extra layer of modesty we pulled over ourselves like fur. Occasionally, one of the boys would remark if our necklines scooped. I remember their faces jeering, gleefully pointing out that they were taller than us and could see down our shirts. I fancied myself artistic and adopted turtlenecks and cardigans when my breasts came in. I challenged someone who cited biological determinism as a real argument, but this was mostly for attention. The truth is that I believed it, along with everything else. 

~

Crosspoint was a non-denominational church on the border of a wealthy suburb. Almost every parishioner was white. The men worked in engineering or sales, the women in nursing or teaching. The youth group was growing and cult-like. All teenagers gathered Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons; we’d take occasional weekend retreats to strengthen our faith. These expeditions were the highlight of our season. We seethed with the sexual tension of virgins, as if trapped at an Austen ball. 

I was part of the girls’ in-group, led by Meg Nelson, the Pastor’s daughter. Our relationship was one of convenience: my mother ran the band for Crosspoint, so Meg and I were always at church at the same time. There was me, Kelsey, who played soccer and could braid anything, and Amber, who was already studying for med school. 

At church, we sat in the first row, our bibles across our laps and our heads bowed in prayer. Afterwards we would cast sideways glances at girls we considered ‘immodest’ or ‘unfaithful’. We were pious, we were feared, we were exalted. We reigned supreme and everyone knew it. Until we met Sadie. 

~

The Sandalwoods were hired as associate pastors, additional staff to help Crosspoint grow. Mr. Sandalwood would supplement Pastor Nelson’s sermons and Mrs. Sandalwood would run all-women small groups, focused on the feminine call to holiness. My mother frowned at this for some reason, but I didn’t care. The only things I cared about were Billy and Sadie, the Sandalwood’s twins. 

They were tall, athletic, muscles taut beneath their t-shirts. They had blond hair streaked with brown, and they wore it at the same length: Billy’s long and floppy for a boy, Sadie’s chopped and daring for a girl. From behind they looked nearly identical, except that Billy stood with his shoulders straight, a perfect line from spine to neck, whereas Sadie always seemed contorted somehow. More animated, almost rhythmic.

The trouble with Sadie began her first Sunday. She declined Meg’s invitation for coffee and instead tagged along with Billy and the boys. She easily joined their basketball game as her long limbs blended with their own. Once Sadie threw the ball our way, a friendly invitation, but Meg passed it back without saying anything. 

~

Quickly we learned that Sadie and Billy were inseparable. Sadie didn’t mind sitting with the girls, nor Billy with the boys. But without fail at one point they would look away from the group, their nostrils flared, their eyes alert. Then they would leave, like rabbits who sensed danger and needed to get home. 

Meg hated how the twins disrupted Crosspoint’s gendered boundaries. She forgave Billy because he was a boy, attractive and quiet. With Sadie, she was less merciful. Soon whispers flew around the youth group: Sadie was a flirt, Sadie didn’t really pray, Sadie failed a class, Sadie kissed three boys. 

Sadie leaned into this criticism. Once she came to church in a blue t-shirt, so tight we could see the cups of her bra. Another time she wore liquid eyeliner, pronounced cat tails framing her hazel eyes. Sometimes I wondered if she was provoking us. When we threw her a dirty look, she’d smiled back, a conspiratorial grin, as if we were playing poker and she already knew our hand. 

~

One rumor turned out to be true. Sadie was older than us, eighteen and still a sophomore. I uncovered this one Thursday evening at Crosspoint. My mother was tearing down equipment after band practice; I was reading in the back. I knew Pastor Nelson disapproved of reading anything but scripture in church, but he wasn’t around, so Jane Eyre was spread across my lap, one of our summer projects. 

“Ah, the great bigamist,” said Sadie plopping down beside me. I jumped at her voice—she had come from nowhere—and she laughed. “Sorry, did I scare you?” 

I said something about how the church was normally empty. She laughed again, but this time more like a snort. 

“It won’t be anymore. My mother’s small groups are scheduled for Thursdays now. Her all-girl pow-wow.” 

I stared, unsure of what to say. I’d never seen Sadie without Meg around; I’d never been this close to her before. Tonight her cropped hair was tussled, too uncontrolled to be pretty, and her sweatpants matched her sweatshirt. She smelled of almonds and clean laundry. 

“Do you like it?” she asked, pushing past my silence. “Jane Eyre?” 

I gave something between a shrug and a nod. The truth was I loved it. I hadn’t known language, such a commonplace thing, could be woven in this way, could create something that pulsed with this much life. But instead of saying this to Sadie, I asked, “What’s a bigamist?” 

Her face broke into a wide grin. “Oh, you’ll find out. I loved Jane Eyre when I first read it. Thought nothing was better, but then I read Wuthering Heights.” 

After that she told me her age. How she’d sat through four high school English classes, two with a tutor when she lived in Kenya. Her parents had done missionary work there. When they returned to North America, no school would take the credits, so she and Billy reenrolled as sophomores, even though they were eighteen. 

“It’s not so bad,” she said. “Less homework because I’ve done it all before.” 

“I would hate repeating even a single year of high school,” I said. Meg’s face loomed before me, ubiquitous and inevitable. “That’s so unfair.” 

Sadie studied me before answering. I felt her eyes sweep my body, pausing over my ill-fit jeans, my dirty converse. I blushed. 

“Yeah,” she nodded after a minute. “If I had to repeat a year here, I’d be upset. But don’t worry,” she said, slouching back in her seat. “We’ll be gone in no time.” 

On the way home my mother asked what Sadie and I talked about. I shrugged and turned up the radio. I felt that externalizing the conversation would lessen it. Dampen my memory, make me forget the way Sadie’s hair curled over her ear, the way she said ‘we’ at the end of her sentence, as if she wanted us to be together. 

~

We met Thursday nights. At first, I’d take out my book so it didn’t seem like I was waiting. But Sadie always came and soon I dropped all pretense, impatient for her arrival. 

We talked about everything. She told me about Kenya, about twinhood, what she thought of Crosspoint. She laughed when I said Meg didn’t like her, then told me that Meg should either join a convent or get laid. I explained that I also didn’t like Meg or the Nelsons, but I was stuck. Defying Meg was asking for war. I couldn’t do that. 

“I get it.” Sadie was leaning toward me, eyes shining with concern. “I mean, it wouldn’t be war, it would be fine, but you’re too in the middle to see that. In two years it will fade on its own.” 

My mother always said the same thing. Usually I told her she didn’t understand. But for some reason, the same words coming from Sadie’s mouth filled me with hope. Life outside of Crosspoint, outside of Meg, suddenly seemed possible to me. 

Thanks for talking, I texted Sadie one night. I appreciate it.  

Two minutes later my phone lit up. Np. With u it’s fun.

~

For the end-of-summer retreat, the youth group went to the Adirondacks. Pastor Nelson rented a chapel along with rows of cabins on a lake. Normally we swam, but that summer was unusually cold, so none of us packed our swimsuits. 

On Saturday morning, Kelsey, Amber, and I gathered in the church parking lot. Usually Meg would already be there, but today she was missing. We walked through different groups of bleary-eyed teenagers and couldn’t find her. 

“There she is,” said Kelsey finally. “She’s with the Sandalwoods and her mom.” 

They were clustered behind the church doorway. Mrs. Sandalwood was whispering rapidly and Mrs. Nelson was nodding. Meg was staring at Sadie with undisguised delight, her mouth slightly ajar and smiling. And Sadie—she stared at the ground, tracing circles with her toes, just like a child. I’d never seen her so bashful, so ashamed. 

“What were you talking to Mrs. Sandalwood about?” I asked Meg as we climbed into the car. 

Meg shook her head. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never find out.” 

I remember the triumphant smirk on her face. All at once I hated her and wanted to be her. Silently, I took my place in the car. 

~

Our days were filled with preplanned activities: hikes, sermons, kayaking, prayer. At night we roasted marshmallows and listened to a guest youth pastor preach, then stayed up talking or went to bed. 

I tried to get Sadie alone to ask her what Meg wouldn’t tell me. But someone was always there, hovering around Sadie like bodyguards or vultures. Mrs. Sandalwood would partner with Sadie for everything and walk with her everywhere. Mrs. Nelson joined them often. She and Mrs. Sandalwood had long, intense conversations, during which Sadie looked bored, but was unable to leave. 

Sadie’s other shadow was Meg. She normally came to Sadie after dark, escorted her to and from the bathroom, dropped her off at night and waited for her before breakfast. I didn’t understand—I knew they didn’t like each other—but suddenly they were inseparable. I tried to make eye contact with Sadie when she was with Meg; once I even dared to walk to the bathroom with them. But when Meg was there, Sadie never looked at me. It was as if I did not exist. 

~

By our last night, I’d given up; I simply watched Sadie from across the fire. She was unhappy, I could tell, but I found I liked the way she looked—the flames framing her face, their flickering reflected in her hair, her eyes. I knew she could feel me staring, but she never looked back. 

In the after-dinner lull, I saw her stand and whisper something to her mother. Mrs. Sandalwood nodded. She was too distracted to notice when Sadie stepped away from the campfire and began walking toward the cabins. Just before she disappeared onto the path, she turned to look at me. Immediately I stood and followed. 

“You know I didn’t want to come on this retreat at all,” she said as I fell into step beside her. “But when my mom said she was chaperoning, I knew I’d have to. I didn’t even bother fighting.” 

“You’ve been with her all week,” I said quietly. “Her and Meg.” 

Sadie didn’t respond, and we walked until we reached the cabins. She picked up a pinecone from the forest floor and began playing hacky-sack, bouncing it from her knees to her feet then back again. I watched in fascination of her coordination and the graceful movements of her body. 

“It hasn’t been so bad,” she continued. “It’s almost relieving, my mom monitoring me like this. I don’t have to worry if she’s coming, if she’s watching. She’s always there. But don’t get me wrong, this is better,” she added, grinning. “I like it best when she’s too busy for me. Makes me feel free.”  

It’s very clear in my memory: Sadie uttering those words, the bald truth of them, her sandy blond hair oddly bright under the mountain stars. She wore a white hoodie with blue sweatpants and soccer cleats, her entire body folded in fabric, only the smooth skin of her neck visible. I soaked everything in greedily and wondered why this woman had chosen me as a confidant. I felt special, older, frightened. I did not know what to say.

Sadie missed the pinecone with her knee; she lunged, snatching it, then tossed it into the forest. We stood for a moment, unsure, and then she turned to me and asked, “Want to go swimming?” 

“What?” 

“Swimming. It’s our last night, who’s gonna stop us?”

“Sadie it’s too cold, I don’t—” 

But she was already off, dragging me to the beach. The water was black and very calm; above us there were thousands of stars and a half moon. A slight breeze came from the horizon, raising the hair on my arms. 

“You’re right, it is cold. Okay, we’ll only wade in.” And suddenly she was unlacing her shoes, cuffing her sweatpants, letting the cold sand sift between her toes. 

“Wait Sadie, I don’t want to,” I whined. “We’ll get all wet, and then the sand will stick to us…” 

“Don’t be such a baby,” she laughed. “C’mon, think about it. When’s the next time you’re going to swim in an Adirondack lake in the moonlight?” 

The answer was next summer, probably, when the youth group came back. But Sadie didn’t know that, and besides, that wasn’t what she meant. Or it wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that I would never again have this: Sadie, to myself, goosebumps peppering her bare calves, hair mussed by the lake breeze, eyes shining with excitement, as if everything about her completely relaxed and her attention was indivisibly mine. I felt I would do anything for her, if she only asked. 

“Sadie!” 

Mrs. Sandalwood’s voice cut through the soft sounds of the lake. She hurried toward us, Meg at her heels. Meg’s eyes were wide with delight, but Mrs. Sandalwood seemed angry—even afraid. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed, grabbing Sadie’s wrist. “What’s going on?” 

She bent down to yank Sadie’s sweatpants into place. Meg stood beside me, asked if I was okay. I ignored her, irrationally resenting how close our bodies were. 

“Mom, calm down,” said Sadie, yanking away her wrist. “We were—” 

“We’ve talked about this.  You are not to be alone in these situations.” The word hissed from her teeth. “You know that Sadie.” 

I murmured an apology, and Meg hushed me, saying it wasn’t my fault. “You don’t know what’s going on,” she whispered. “But don’t worry you’re fine now. Oh no, look—” She turned toward Mrs. Sandalwood. “She’s so scared, she’s shaking.” 

I was shaking, but only from the cold. I did not understand why Meg was treating me like this, like I had been punched or drowned. She put her arms around me, and I let her, I was becoming afraid, panicky. I looked at Sadie for some kind of reassurance, but she was staring at the lake, her lips pursed, her nostrils flared. Then Mrs. Sandalwood leaned toward me and asked, “Sweetie, did anything happen? You can tell us. This is a safe space.” 

I shook my head, then explained that Sadie wanted to go swimming, but I thought it was too cold. 

As soon as I said it, I knew it was wrong. Meg exhaled in shock, and Mrs. Sandalwood’s face hardened. She asked Meg to take me to the cabin, she needed to speak to Sadie alone. I was escorted off the beach like a criminal. Once I glanced back for a last look at Sadie. I was surprised that she was crying. 

~

The next morning Mrs. Sandalwood’s car left before sunrise, taking Billy, Sadie, and a few boys. I tried asking Meg what had happened, but she only shook her head and said, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

I rode back with Mrs. Nelson. By the time we arrived at Crosspoint, the Sandalwoods were already gone. 

~

Eventually Meg explained everything. Perhaps this is why I’ve never forgotten Meg. The reason I always believed she was the most powerful—because she was the one who understood Sadie. And I, who had loved Sadie, did not.  

I caught Meg the Sunday after the retreat, just before service started. She looked very pretty, I remember, a dark blue headband sweeping back her hair. I pulled her aside, asked her what she knew about Sadie.  

“I’m sorry you thought she was your friend,” she said, smiling sadly. “But you really should know: Sadie’s gay. That’s why she wanted to be alone with you. That’s the only reason she liked you.” 

Meg glanced behind her, then pulled me into a corner and continued. 

“Listen, Mrs. Sandalwood came over a few nights before the retreat and cried to my mom about it. I guess in their last parish, they caught Sadie with another girl. Mrs. Sandalwood thought it was a one-time thing, a ‘phase,’ but she asked us to help monitor Sadie on the retreat to make sure nothing happened. We were so good about it until the last night, and that’s when Sadie invited you swimming…” She said this last word in disgust, then shook her head. “I’m so sorry that we failed you. If we had just been a little more careful, none of this would have happened.” 

I asked where Sadie was now, if she was okay. 

“They sent her to some private school upstate. Apparently it’s run by nuns who specialize in these situations.” 

That word again. It felt so adult coming from Meg’s mouth, so illicit and wrong. 

“It wasn’t anything like that,” I said after a moment. “We were friends.” 

Meg squeezed my arm. “For you it was friendship,” she corrected. “For Sadie, it was something else.”  

~

School started the next week. Amber and I were in advanced classes. We spent our time studying and looked at colleges our parents could afford. Quickly, Sadie faded to the past as if she was a secret no one knew about and therefore did not matter. 

Once I left school early for a dentist appointment. As I was walking across the parking lot, I saw Billy in his car on the phone. When our eyes met he gave a curt nod. I blushed, suddenly sure the person on the other line was Sadie. I paused for a moment, seized by the desire to tap his window, ask him to tell Sadie that I said hello, I miss you, I hope you’re all right. But he looked away before I made up my mind, and then the urge passed as suddenly as it had come. 

~

Later, when I am a PhD student in English Literature who has long abandoned circles like Crosspoint, my mother calls to say she ran into Sadie in the church parking lot. She was only visiting, in town to meet Billy, but she recognized my mother immediately and asked about me. 

“That’s great she’s still in school,” Sadie said. “I’m really happy she got out and is doing well.” 

When I ask what she looks like, my mother describes the woman I have remembered all these years. Tall, lithe, cropped hair, bleached blond now. Pointed features and every inch of her obscured in black leather. She rides a motorcycle, wears steel-toed boots. Smiles easily. I see her riding away from Crosspoint, the bike roaring beneath her, the fresh air cold on her skin. I imagine that she is going swimming, but I stop myself from imagining anything further. I feel I do not deserve it.