Carla finishes her sermon and then asks for new members to identify themselves. I sit peacefully in my red devil chair knowing “new member” does not apply to me as I only came for the cookies and Bryce. Before I can get away, Bryce draws Carla’s attention to me. The thirst in Carla’s face erupts. All thirty-two of her pearly white teeth are visible through her Moses-parted lips. Her eyes soften and she leans toward me while speaking into the microphone. She looks like a cult leader preparing to slather me in Christian snake oil. I want to lower my head in silent shame, but everyone is looking at me now—for real this time. Beads of sweat start gathering on the periphery of my forehead. The sweat doesn’t roll. It holds, right on the line, like soldiers waiting for an order from their commander.

“Now, Echo,” she pours her voice demandingly in my direction. “I’m not a gambling woman, but I’m gonna bet that there must be something in your heart that brought you here.” Yea, the cookies. Carla lifts her hand to the sky and says, “The Almighty must have called you to us.” Everyone in the congregation raises their hands in my direction.

“Oh dear God,” I say out loud.

“That’s right,” Carla responds. “Our dear God. Come on up here and answer the call.”

I don’t move. Carla’s eyes grow dark like thunderstorms. “Bring her up here,” she speaks out into the crowd. Suddenly, I feel myself and the red this-can’t-be-a-good-sign chair beneath me being lifted up off the ground, my worn-out shoes visible for all to see. Embarrassment swallows me whole. I claw the arms of the chair for dear life while they march me up to the stage. They set me down in the front, facing the audience, with Carla standing next to me. The commander gives the order, and the sweat starts to roll. I am too shocked to wipe it, so my Black face drips, displayed for this sea of white faces.

I plead to the three other people of color in the crowd to please come save me, but they turn away in shame. They know this debacle will reflect poorly on them too. We are all representatives of each other here, a pressure white people don’t have or understand. When a white person does something wrong, it’s just one individual’s perpetration, but when one of us does something wrong, it reflects negatively on all of us. I can handle my own shame at being singled out like this, but I can’t handle the pressure of having it projected onto the other Black and brown bodies in the room.