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“No,” I say. Father Peter raises an eyebrow. “No, what?” My left leg is cramping. “No, I won’t struggle to catch up?” Father Peter shakes his head. “No, Father,” he supplies. My throat goes dry. I am not going to call this man with bitten-down nails and dandruff flakes on his sweater Father. I already have a father, even if I’m this close to filing for emancipation. Father Peter drums his fingers on his desk in a way that tells me I’m not getting out of this office with my dignity intact. “No, Father,” I say, with more breath than words.
Jenny holds her pink notecards in a death grip. “Diane Nash,” she forces out, “was only twenty-two years old when she led the first successful campaign to integrate lunch counters in Nashville, Tennessee. She was arrested dozens of times during her decades of activism, which only goes to show that well-behaved women rarely make history.” Sister Joseph Marie rises from her desk, holding up her hand for Jenny to stop. “I would like to make a brief historical correction here. Well-behaved women often make history. They’re called saints.” Before Jenny can faint, die of embarrassment, or both, a
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“Hey, Lucy,” says the boy ahead of her in line, who I recognize from history. He has his arm wrapped all the way around a pretty girl’s waist, looking like a possessive toddler with a teddy bear. “Are we ever going to have a class where you don’t go off on some feminist rant?” The girl beside him giggles. “I don’t know, Connor,” Lucy says, examining a bottle of salad dressing. “Are we ever going to have an assembly where you don’t try to fingerbang your girlfriend in the back of the auditorium?”
The last time I was in a church was for Sophia’s orchestra concert last year, and that was painful enough. Adding Jesus to the experience can’t possibly improve things.
AFTER ALL THAT secrecy, I half expect the rest of the meeting to revolve around plots to infiltrate the Vatican or bloodlessly depose Father Peter, but everyone just goes around sharing their greatest grievances with St. Clare’s. Lucy’s worried about the sex ed seminar coming up in December, doubting the accuracy of the information we’ll be given. Eden and Max both take issue with the rigid dress code, and Avi wants to know why Latin has to have so many goddamn declensions.
am Catholic,” she says. “But I also think what it means to be Catholic should be able to change. That it should change.” That’s it? “Nobody believes in it all. Except maybe priests. And who would actually want to be a priest?” “I would,” Lucy says, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “You can’t,” I tell her, shrugging. “You’re a girl.” She stares at me. “I know that,” she says with a hint of hurt. “Obviously, I know that.” I feel myself shrink, embarrassed for throwing that in her face so offhandedly. “You could do other things, though,” I say, trying to recover. “You could be a nun,
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“Heretics are usually true believers,” she says. “Martin Luther was a priest. Galileo was very devout. The only thing more dangerous than someone who doesn’t care about the rules is someone who does—and wants to break them anyway.”
Sister Helen’s lecture in theology is about the Annunciation, where the Angel Gabriel appeared to the teenage, engaged Virgin Mary and was basically like, “Hey, little girl. You’re going to get pregnant with a god-baby, and everyone’s going to think you’re a cheating slut and your fiancé will try to divorce you, and then you’ll go into labor in a stable and flee to Egypt later that week because everyone in power wants to murder you and your god-baby. But don’t worry, you’ll get some sweet frankincense and myrrh out of it.”
Avi shakes his head. “I could become a Buddhist or a Mormon or a Republican and I’d still be a Jew, too. My mom’s Jewish. And her mom is. I didn’t get a choice in that.” “You don’t want to be Jewish?” Max asks. “You get to ride around on chairs and stomp on glasses.” “No, I do,” Avi says. “But not because of chairs or glasses. It’s a community, we take care of each other. Even if you don’t keep kosher or even believe in God, you’re still Jewish and you still belong to this huge line of people who fought to survive, over and over, so you could exist. I like being Jewish, but it’s not something
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“All we do is talk. Talk about how much St. Clare’s sucks, and how it’s so unfair, but we don’t try to make it better. I think we can make it better. And not just for us.”
Thanksgiving is all about firsts. The first night Native Americans ate dinner with genocidal dicks who would later steal their land, and also the first time I have to listen to a Dad lecture while high. Not that I’m actually listening. The itch in my throat has evolved into whatever comes after an itch. A worse itch. It feels like poison ivy and mosquito bites and scratchy sweaters all rolled into one, but I can’t cough. I won’t cough. I think he’s figured out something’s up with Alex, but Alex isn’t his kid.
I should have sat alone my first day at St. Clare’s. I should have been alone, but I didn’t make it that far. Lucy made sure I didn’t.
I desire mercy, not sacrifice. I remember this line, and I remember Lucy wrote that for mercy, you could also read loyalty or love. I desire mercy, not sacrifice. What I gave to Lucy was a sacrifice, not burnt and bloodied like a slaughtered cow, but a sacrifice. I said, “Here, take a gift in exchange for the pain I’ve caused you, take a bought thing in exchange for the hurt in your heart.” Lucy, like her God, desires mercy, loyalty, love. She doesn’t want my burnt offering.
