At Mass, Ayanna sat between her mom and Olivia. She was more aware of them than the actual service. They sang the songs, did the hand motions, nodded along to the priest even though Ayanna could barely follow his sermon. He kept talking about wildernesses and deserts of the soul, and the sound of his voice was dry and reedy and made her feel tired. Olivia kept glancing at her, putting a hand on Ayanna’s arm to make sure she stood or knelt with them. Both squeezed Ayanna’s hands when the entire congregation held hands and recited a prayer.

The church itself was beautiful. It was like being inside an elaborate music box. Purples, gold crosses, dark brown wood, stained glass that seemed extra vivid because of how sunny the day outside was. The windows alternated between being representations of different saints and crosses and abstract patterns in white, green, and yellow. It was like a museum to their god. The music, too, made it feel like an event. An organ high above everyone that Ayanna was not allowed to turn around and look at. A man leading the song whose voice was so loud and rich.

The rules here seemed so simple. You believed in a family—the father, the son, the Holy Spirit—each of whom took turns being in charge. You listened to long speeches, and while there were parts that went completely over Ayanna’s head, she felt like most of the time they were saying you have to treat others like you want to be treated. The part she liked best was when an older white woman read out things like “We wish for an end to the suffering of all people experiencing pain, anguish, and poverty,” and everyone responded in one great thunderous voice, “We pray for them.”