Her unabashed admiration for Representative Bettencourt was miles away from her measured introduction of Sister Bernadette. Bettencourt stood up from the folding chair where he’d been sitting at the far end of the basketball court, watching everyone else speak. From the way he smiled at Sister Catherine on his way to the microphone, I knew she didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. The smile was a bit fishlike, a little smug, and utterly devastating. My stomach lurched with the sense that everything would be going down the toilet in the next five minutes.
Bettencourt walked to the center of the front row of the homecoming court. He wasn’t but eight feet away from me. Arms crossed, he paused dramatically in front of each girl, searching her face for any sign of wrongdoing. It was as if he was silently questioning, Is she the one? I felt lucky that, unlike the eight seniors, I was in the second row. We only got a diluted version of his stare. But even in our row, he paused a bit longer once or twice, like when his eyes fell on Melissa, and when he nodded sympathetically toward Leah and Angelle.
“We all try to do good,” he said, arms outstretched, more like a preacher than a politician. Though, to be fair, in Louisiana it was sometimes hard to tell the difference. “But sometimes what we think of as good is the wrong thing. When we’re very small, we’re told not to be tattletales or crybabies. We’re told not to get others in trouble for minor offenses. But when we grow up, we learn that there are more important things, and we must listen to our hearts.”
He paused for effect, and I wondered uneasily where he was going with this. “Over the summer,” Bettencourt continued, “I received a call from the sheriff’s department, when a man of uniform followed his conscience instead of an unjust law. He let me know what preparations the sheriff’s department was making to hamper our protests—Operation Rescue’s protests. He wasn’t ‘telling’ on his boss. He was working for the greater good. At that time, I knew what had to be done. We had to be prepared for what came. To be prepared to sacrifice for the unborn.” He stopped in front of Jamie... Or was it Melissa he was looking at? She sat behind Jamie, and the indignant scowl on her face was a magnet for his attention.
“Yes, we often think we are doing good when we protect others. But sometimes, for the greater good, we need to make sacrifices. It is hard, indeed, to turn in a friend, but we must remember that we are helping them embrace the pro-life cause.”
He stopped his pacing again, this time in front of me. His pale blue eyes peered into mine. This time, there was no doubt his scrutiny was intentional. “Sometimes, we must help those closest to us. Even if it means being called a tattletale. Because you are not children anymore.”
With the end of that sentence, he paused and locked eyes with me again for a few seconds—deliberate enough that everyone could see—and then looked up at the bleachers, as if to reinforce to them that I was the one who needed to rat on Helen. I could feel my skin turning red, but not from the embarrassment of being singled out. No, I was angry. Angrier than when Mrs. Turner made the same veiled accusation. I wondered if Helen had seen how he’d looked at me—of course, she knew I’d never turn her in for something she hadn’t done, but this guy was someone she had once admired, and he was singling her out through me. It was way worse than finding out that Bill Clinton had cheated on Hillary Clinton with Gennifer Flowers, in terms of political disappointments.
“It is truly unfortunate that you young people are forced to make such hard decisions.” He scanned the crowd, his eyes occasionally landing on someone. “What has happened at this school is a tragedy. If it is in fact the case that a girl has committed such an unspeakable act, it is up to her to ask forgiveness. But those who support her are doubly at fault, for they undermine her faith in that forgiveness.” He paused meaningfully. “We must all be on guard for such misguided actions. And that is why I have invited some of my friends from Operation Rescue and Louisiana Right to Life to attend your football game on Friday. I wish to show my support for your pro-life policy and let those who would violate it know that justice will be served.”
I stared, horrified, as Representative Bettencourt backed away from the microphone, holding his hands outward in a gesture that seemed entirely overblown. This whole thing was a joke, an unfair way for Mrs. Turner to get what she wanted. I looked at the others behind her and Bettencourt. Principal Richard looked shell-shocked and uncertain about what had happened, and confused as to how rumors about a freshman had solidified into a certain violation of the pro-life policy in the mind of a politician—and school donor. Meanwhile, Sister Bernadette and Sister Catherine exchanged another look in their obscure silent nun language.
“Thank you, Representative Bettencourt, for that interesting speech,” Sister Catherine said after she took the microphone back. Her face was unreadable, a solid wall of nun obfuscation as she clapped for him, an indication that we were all supposed to do the same. I might have been imagining it, but it seemed quieter than for usual speakers, even the boring ones. Everyone had to be wondering who would turn them in for wearing buttons and patches and voting for a sympathetic homecoming queen.
“I believe it’s time for everyone to get to class,” Sister Catherine continued after the applause ended. The other nun and the politician and the principal all glad-handed students as they exited, seemingly unaware of, or possibly ignoring, the weird vibe from the student body. I moved to follow my row of the homecoming court out, but Sister Catherine signaled for me to walk with her.
I braced myself for another lecture on how I should turn Helen in as we walked in silence toward her office, where she signaled for me to sit down.
“I know that this has been a difficult time for you and your sister,” she said. “But I want to praise you for how much courage you’ve both shown.”
I wasn’t courageous. I always dragged my feet on everything—it was just what I did, and I’d made things worse by ignoring Helen’s problems while cavorting with Kyle. So much so that I could only think of the word cavort, which sounded like something my grandma would say. I waited for Sister Catherine’s compliment to turn into an insult or a threat, like the rest of the adults.
“I know that you’re protecting your sister,” she began. Aha. Here we go. I braced myself for her to tell me I needed to turn her in. “As you should, since there’s every indication that she’s done nothing wrong. She’s a sweet girl.”
While my feelings toward Helen might have improved over the past few months, I wouldn’t quite go that far. But I felt a little less on edge hearing it from someone else.
Then Sister Catherine surprised me further by adding, “And you should keep helping her, because you have a good sense of what’s right and wrong.” Her eyebrows were slightly raised in a knowing look. “Unlike some people. But we’re entering dangerous times, and further acts of protest will be...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Further acts might be read with different intentions. So while I don’t ask that you stop protecting Helen, I do suggest that you tread carefully. And I implore you to watch out for your friend with the purple hair. That one has the potential to get herself in a lot of trouble.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. Sister Catherine was on our side, at least as much as any authority figure was at our school. But she was giving us a warning, too—which meant that our homecoming protest was going to be viewed in a whole different light if we went forward.
34
Our homecoming plans were on hold, for real, and the homecoming game was on, also for real. After Representative Bettencourt’s speech, he held true to his word about bringing in Operation Rescue to “observe.” The local representative from Operation Rescue—our old friend Miss Laurel Anne from the fake abortion clinic, it turned out—was eager to turn our school’s “controversy” into a means to get more attention for Operation Rescue now that the national organization had left town.
She told a reporter for the Baton Rouge Advocate that they would recr
uit a “small group” of “experienced pro-life protesters” to show up at the game, but simply as observers. Louis Bettencourt’s appearance, she said, meant the school was serious about supporting pro-life endeavors—but they were going to check on us anyway, probably with some fetus posters in hand.
And so Thursday morning, the Baton Rouge Advocate printed an article in its religion section, complete with a sidebar interview with Bettencourt himself, all about how he was so sure he could turn this “controversy” into “a means to provide the children with much-needed guidance.” The only person from our school quoted in the article was Mrs. Turner, and the first thing I saw on Thursday morning at school was an apoplectic Principal Richard rushing into the main administrative office with the newspaper in his hand.
Then the So What? buttons and patches began to disappear. In first period—English—I saw Rochelle Dugas cramming her “So what if she didn’t?” patch into the front pouch of her JanSport backpack. I looked around to see what everyone else was doing. It wasn’t like everyone in my class had been an avid supporter of our campaign, but a sinking feeling came over me when I saw that I was the only one with anything still on my bag. And as the day progressed, more patches and buttons disappeared from people I thought were solid. If the rest of the student body folded this easily, this quickly, would the other girls on the homecoming court stick with us?
Friday arrived, and with it, the homecoming game. Sister Catherine had sent the homecoming court home with instructions for how we were to dress at the game, specifying that “khakis or knee-length skirts and polos or button-down shirts are highly encouraged.” The dress code was meant to make us look as uniformly bland and noncontroversial as possible, to the point that we all looked like we had after-school jobs at Blockbuster. On the list of forbidden items were jeans, tight-fitting bodysuits, tank tops, and camisoles, and skirts that exposed more than an inch above the knee.
I ended up wearing a boring but tasteful black skirt and floral button-down blouse from Helen’s closet. At least it wasn’t a polo shirt—or, for that matter, a pair of accursed khakis. I wanted to be subversive and wear my Docs, but Melissa vetoed me. She said it would waste our potential to do something truly radical at the dance if I violated the dress code at the game. I told her it was unlikely that Sister Catherine or Mrs. Turner or Principal Richard or even the protesters would care if I wore sixteen-hole boots and not a pair of sensible flats or pumps. Actually, they probably wouldn’t even notice, since we were being paraded around the field on the backs of very slow-moving convertible cars on loan from a local car dealership, our feet barely visible. But I acquiesced anyway and wore some boring black flats.
Finally, it was time to head out to the football field and get into the cars that would present us to our adoring crowds. I took my place in line next to Cady, who had pulled her slick, auburn hair back into a thick French braid. She’d nailed the age-appropriate business casual look, with her tidy corduroy skirt and boatneck top, and sensible but visible enough makeup that made her look stunning. She should have been the only sophomore representative on the court, and I felt like I was intruding on her moment to shine. It wasn’t my fault—at all—but the Catholic guilt crept in anyway.
“Hey, Cady,” I said. “I, uh...just wanted to let you know that I voted for you. Not that it matters now, of course.”
Cady turned to me and rolled her eyes, a reaction I didn’t expect.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Athena, I voted for you. I hate this crap. And I loved your campaign pictures. You looked gorgeous. And this whole thing with Helen is so unfair. She’s the one who gets punished for the crap that Leah says about her?”
I wanted to say something nice in return, but I felt a shove from Melissa behind me. Our march from under the bleachers to the football field began, and as we entered the stadium, my stomach lurched with nerves. There were so many people out there. The “small group of observing protesters” was about fifty strong, crowded in a group on the visiting team’s side of the stadium. They held up signs ranging from the fairly reasonable “protect the sanctity of life” to the “now familiar to the point of desensitizing” fetus posters that had lined Helen’s locker. There was a gap between them and the rest of the visiting crowd, as though the upper crusts of St. Christopher’s and St. Ursula’s couldn’t bear the tacky proximity to abortion politics. Or maybe the visiting fans just wanted to be closer to the fifty-yard line.
The ride around the football stadium passed in a blur. Cady and I shared a car—all the girls were doubled up because of the vote scandal—and we probably would have talked if I hadn’t had to concentrate so hard on maintaining my princess wave. Helen had drilled me on it last night: wave from the wrist, no jazz hands. Plaster smile on face. Try not to squint under the bright field lights. Try not to look too much in the direction of the protesters. Try not to think about how they were judging our every movement.
Instead, I looked out to the bleachers, trying to find Helen and Jennifer in the sea of red and black. They said they would sit close to the football team and Sean so that I could see them. Mrs. Estelle and Dad were here, too, somewhere, but the glare of the field lights made it hard to recognize faces. I wondered how Sean could stand this every week without sunglasses.
“Is that your sister sitting with Sean Mitchell? Man, Leah’s gonna be pissed,” Cady said, subtly shaking her head, but still managing to maintain her delicate beauty-pageant wave.
“I’m pretty sure Leah’s already pissed at Helen,” I said, forgetting all about my wave. “And probably Sean, too.”
“True enough,” Cady said, through smiling teeth. “But now Miss Psychotic America has a reason.”
She motioned toward the bleachers with raised, wiggled eyebrows. I followed her gaze to the suited-up football players. Sean was sitting with the rest of the offense. Helen sat next to him, a delicate, reedy creature in a sea of sweaty, beefy boys. After a few seconds, one of the linebackers lumbered off the bench, leaving a gap right in front of Helen and Sean.
And then I saw it—they were holding hands.
Leah was definitely going to be pissed.
Suddenly, I didn’t need to force a pageant-worthy smile onto my face anymore. I doubted Leah would see the same sort of irony in the situation that I did. We’d all suspected that her reason for sabotaging Helen was because she was afraid this would happen, and now, thanks to her malfunctioning, perpetual-motion gossip machine, it had.
But more important, it looked like my suspicions about them had been right on the money all along. The way Sean had acted at Helen’s fashion show, their new, almost-flirting dynamic—Melissa and I had both known that something had changed between the two of them, and their holding hands out here, in plain sight of the entire school, was the proof.
I shivered with glee. Helen liked Sean, Sean liked Helen. I was going to tease them mercilessly.
Or maybe not. They’d both taken enough crap lately.
I couldn’t focus much during the first half of the game. I alternated between dying to tell Melissa what Cady and I saw and worrying that the protesters would do something to ruin everything. Sean and Helen holding hands was major, major news. But Melissa was busy talking conspiratorially with the senior girls sitting in front of her, and I was currently sandwiched between Cady and Missy Bordelon. Plus, if I tried to tell Melissa about Sean and Helen now, Leah would definitely hear, since she sat on Melissa’s right. She deserved every element of hurt that a loud comment from me would undoubtedly deliver, but I knew it wouldn’t help Helen and Sean one bit.
At halftime, we filed back onto the field, freshmen first, then sophomores, then juniors, and finally the seniors. Because such a massive number of girls were on the homecoming court, everything seemed to take forever. Sister Catherine, directing our traffic, shook her head several times, like her decision to expand the court was giving her a headache. It genuinely might have been, since every secon
d we were on the field gave the protesters another possibility to spot our imperfections.
We fanned out in a giant semicircle. Cady stood to my left, Missy to my right. By now, we were superfluous, a backdrop for the big announcement of the homecoming queen. In a way, the revote idea was really terrible. With four girls from the senior class nominated, someone would inevitably come out on top. But with eight? Talk about a fractured vote.
Principal Richard made the announcement from the booth at the top of the bleachers, an invisible voice of authority booming down from above.
“The 1992 St. Ann’s homecoming queen is Jamie Taylor! Miss Taylor, please come forward and receive your crown!”
Jamie, laughing and crying, ran to the podium like she’d won the Miss America Pageant and not our probably rigged homecoming contest. The other senior girls were crying, too, running up to the podium also and hugging Jamie in a tight circle. They all seemed happy for her, in a uniform way that seemed impossible from my perspective as a sophomore. Maybe by the time girls reached their senior year, the nice gene switched on, since there was no point in carrying out sadistic plots to ruin each other when everyone was graduating. Or maybe Jamie was a special breed of awesome girl who everyone loved. Either way, the outpouring reached monumental proportions.
Before Jamie’s many fans could run onto the field, Sister Catherine returned the senior girls to the lineup. Our school’s cheesy alma mater, composed and recorded in 1985, played in synthesized tones over the stadium loudspeakers, and we all filed back toward the bleachers.
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