Heretics Anonymous

by Katie Henry

I have three classes before lunch, which means I have three hours to forcibly insert myself into someone’s friend group. That’s all you need—one person to eat lunch with on the first day. Understanding any complex social hierarchies can come later.

“I’m Sister Joseph Marie. You can call me Sister.” Sister. Father. It’s like getting a whole other family I don’t want to spend time with.

I decide Avi and I are going to get along, even if I have to knock him down and beat the friendship out of him.

He looks instantly tired when I start walking next to him. I have that effect on people.

Her shoulder brushes mine as she adjusts her book bag, and I wish humans could tell each other things through touch the way we can through words.

The only thing more dangerous than someone who doesn’t care about the rules is someone who does—and wants to break them anyway.”

“At some point, you’ll have to learn to follow the rules, whether or not you like them.” “Why?” I ask, and I’m instantly embarrassed at how childish I sound. “Because, trust me,” he says, looking at me with what might be pity or might be understanding, “your life will be so much harder if you don’t.”

For J.J., God is something warm and innocent, Christmas presents and stories from his big sister. Lucy’s God is one of revolution and justice, someone who can set a damaged, difficult world right. But they’re the same God, from the same book—the same unbending, authoritarian God that Theresa believes in. Can one God be all those things to all those people?

I think if parents had to do all the time-wasting busywork their kids have to get through, they’d riot. At least they get paid to do their stupid, time-wasting busywork.

“Can I eat it in the living room? By the tree?” Mom, putting away groceries, hesitates. Food outside the kitchen is her third-greatest fear, after bees and members of her family being harmed.

I hadn’t even considered Lucy might be drinking. It seemed like one of those things she wouldn’t do, though I know Catholic Jesus can’t have much problem with alcohol, since his blood’s made out of it.

Lucy’s got so much to complain about, so much to be angry about, but she keeps it somewhere out of sight, like a box in the basement. I can’t do that. I spread all my problems out on the lawn, like a yard sale.

“But while we’re still mad,” Max continues, “we probably shouldn’t make any big plans. Like, angry dancing is fun, but angry baking isn’t, because you burn yourself on the stove and forget the baking soda and then your cookies are all flat. And I think planning’s a lot like baking.”

God has to be more than a family heirloom.

“The Gospel of John says, ‘Whoever does not love does not know God; for God is love.’” She picks at the threads in my bedspread. “And I love. So I know God. And even before I did know God, He knew me and loved me. He knit me in my mother’s womb and gave me life, and no matter how hard or chaotic that life becomes, He will never, ever leave me.”

“But we are going to talk about this calmly and rationally like adults, okay?” He couldn’t drag an adult over an ocean. He doesn’t want me to act like an adult. He wants me to act like a doormat.

“There will always be people you have to listen to,” Dad says. “There will always be rules you think are wrong or unfair, and you know what? Too bad. You’ll have to learn to make better choices.”

“When you hurt people,” he says, “even if you didn’t mean to, you don’t get to choose where they go from there. When you hurt someone, it stops being about you, or what you want.”

As I move through the other Gospels, I find myself liking Jesus, in spite of myself. He’s a good guy, healing the sick, raging against hypocrites, and giving solid life lessons. Be kind, be generous, be forgiving. I like this one, too: Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of people in order to be noticed by them. (Matthew 6:1)