by RJ Martin
“Spare everybody the humiliation of knowing the future pope was a crazed Christ addict.”
“I hope you like babysitting.” With me gone, it was all hers. I didn’t mind the endless booger wiping, game playing, and multiple rewatching of cartoon movies. I loved the little snot machines. The times I liked them less or had better things to do, I just offered it up to JC. Angie pressed the pillow against my head, and I didn’t resist. The pillowcase was cool to the touch and actually felt kind of good with the foam rubber inside it molded to my face.
“Are you dead?”
“No.”
Angie tossed away the pillow and stared down at me.
“I was trying to protect them.” I finally got the blanket untucked on one side of my flannel sheet trap. “I should’ve stopped. I know I’m too old for it.”
“You’re habitual? Is this to fund your habit? Did another altar boy get you strung out?” She made a face like an actress in a slasher movie when she learns the call is coming from inside the house. “You’re a Jesus junkie, aren’t you?”
“Done?”
Angie shook her head wildly from side to side. “Not even close.”
“Stop it.” This was serious. If she blabbed, I was finished. To Angie it was the funniest thing since getting me anally probed last night. I had to shut her up and make her see the light both at once. “Was I supposed to let them die?” I didn’t really believe this anymore, but to my thirteen-year-old brain Communion was kind of a super vitamin that would protect you against anything. Angie let out a teary sigh and then sat back with her head against my wall.
“How long?” She sobered up from her laugh bender. “Do we need to get the exorcist?” Off the wagon she went again, practically falling off the bed.
“It started the last time they were in the hospital.” Angie probably wasn’t listening, but I told her anyway. “When they had pneumonia.” It was almost three years ago now. I’d found my mom sobbing against Mémé’s shoulder. Grandpa Hank was still really alive then, no sign of anything wrong, and everyone got along like in normal families. “Luke was not doing good, remember? He had those tubes in his nose and Father Dom came and saw him in the hospital.”
“I remember.” Angie started to tear up at the memory.
“I just took a few. I wanted to help.”
Angie set the baggie on the blanket between us, signaling the comedy hour was over for now.
“A few days later he magicked up again. So, I slipped one to Mark too, and he didn’t tragic for a change.” I wanted to take the baggie, but I knew better; Angie was in charge here. She would decide when and if to return it.
“And since then?”
“Not all the time. Just when one of them starts to tragic again. I wanted to stop, but I just couldn’t help thinking if I did, something bad might happen.” Out the window, there was still no sign of spring and flurries danced around the sky.
“You know the two wouldn’t be connected.”
“I do and I don’t.”
“Man, has all that church crap messed you up.” That was the thing about faith; it could be made to sound really dumb by nonbelievers or skeptics like my sister Angie was becoming.
“They haven’t been in the hospital since then.”
“I can’t believe they haven’t told yet.” She let it go. My sister knew how much my devotion meant to me, and Angie was never mean on purpose. She tossed me the bag. “One thing those two do well together is tell.”
“They think I’m the reason Mémé drives them to the ball house once in a while.”
“No one makes Mémé do anything.”
“Well, I tell them I get her to do it whenever she just decides to.”
“So you steal and then lie to give Communion, something you are not allowed to do, to two kids who are also not old enough to receive it?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“How many sins is that?”
“Four if you count them both together.”
“They are twins.” We both nodded and fell silent for an angel passing. Angie handed over the JC wafers. “Return these.”
“Why are you even here?” I snatched the baggie from her talons and changed the subject, something I’d gotten good at.
“I got suspended, remember?” She shook her head. “Missing school as punishment for missing school, I don’t get it either. Are you hungry?” Angie strode back down the hall to the kitchen. “If you are, you better hurry before Mémé comes back.” My grandmother believed a broth that smelled like low tide, and tasted worse, was the best cure for everything. I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen.
“Where is she anyway?”
“It’s Thursday.” That meant confession. My sister opened the fridge. “PB and J okay?” I nodded but suddenly felt not as hungry. She slathered on more peanut butter and less jelly; the way she liked it. “Some snack, huh?” She put the sandwich on a paper towel. We rarely used plates, my sister and me. Angie poured me a glass of milk then refused to give it to me. Like we were in one of those commercials but with a demon as the star. “No more playing priest, okay?”
While trying not to gag on the too much peanut butter in my sandwich I mumbled, “Yawr nah Maum.” That was the wrong thing to say, but whenever Angie pulled the older-and-wiser bit, it was like an involuntary response. I swung for the glass, but she eluded me. I had no choice but to give in. “Ah-kay,” I said. It was that or choke.
Satisfied, Angie released the milk glass, and I chugged.
“So, you won’t say anything, right?” I asked after swallowing.
“No.” She licked peanut butter off her finger. “I promise.”
“I need more.” A game we played since we were kids was now about to go to the next level. The only way to really trust a secret would be kept was to offer one up in reply. Nobody said it, but we both knew that if either of us ever told, we’d never play again.
“What am I going to tell you?” It was up to her to choose a secret worthy of mine. Considering how blasphemous and weird my Dad would find what I did, I was asking for a real biggie in return. She tore off the crust of my sandwich with her fingers. “Because I know you won’t say anything.” Angie had my silence. It was understood, just as now I would have hers. I guessed she’d tell me she wasn’t a virgin anymore. I already figured she wasn’t, but I’d have to act shocked and amazed. I needed my sister on my side and any condescending or holier-than-thou smirks could ruin me. “We’re going to New York.”
“You and Rusty?” This was huge. No need to fake it, I was shocked.
“For how long?”
“Rusty models there.” She tore off another little piece and put it on her tongue. My sister never actually bit anything. She just shredded her food like a raccoon and left crumbs wherever she ate. “He thinks I can do it too.” She grinned and bared her perfect teeth. I always felt hers were whiter than mine, but now they had peanut butter smeared in them. “Can you imagine? Your sister, a supermodel?”
“Will you be here for my birthday?” I was going to be sixteen in less than a month. Maybe if I could get her to agree to stay that long, she’d forget about leaving. She and Rusty would stay here. “Angie?”
Her answer was to sip her milk and make a mustache. It was like our handshake, sealing the deal of silence. We’d been doing it since we were the twins’ age. There were many little wars between us, so truces were often necessary, especially if someone got stitches. Milk ‘staches were the peace signal. I think even Mom might have known because she never scolded us for doing it.
I tipped the glass and milked my upper lip too. Deal. I took the last of my sandwich and dropped in front of the TV. My parents would not let her go without a fight. There would be big D drama. I was sure of it. And what if she ratted me out just to get the heat off her? My life was turning into one of those cop shows Dad watched at night after we went to bed. I worried about Angie too, in spite of myself. Grandpa Hank had said cities were sewers, especially New
York. Places they sent all the freaks.
All I could find on the TV was a show I used to watch and the twins still did sometimes when Mémé wasn’t busy with her Franglais soaps from Canada. The hosts were two chunky women who sang songs with little puppet people. I think when we were, like, ten, Chad said he thought they were lesbians. I did a web search on the strange new word and that led me to another one: gay. So, I now could identify myself as more than American, Catholic, and a boy; I was also gay. I deleted the browser history, emptied the cache, and almost wanted to bash the hard drive with a hammer. I didn’t because then we’d have no computer. There was no money for a new one.
I was too distracted by Angie’s news to pay much attention to the cheery ladies in jeans today. Angie was going away and Rusty too. That bothered me and because it did, bothered me more. It was just because he was new and rich and cool, I told myself. That’s all. I slid down on the floor to the same spot where I’d been last night. Rusty’s head was upside down beside me.
The doorbell rang me wide awake just as I started to nod off. “Who’s that?” I practically sprang off the floor like I’d been caught doing something.
“Rusty.”
“I don’t see a car,” I said as I peeked out the front window.
“He hitchhiked. Isn’t that awesome?” Angie shooed me. “Go to your room.” She’d changed into some Capri slacks that were for summer, and her purple school sweater. I didn’t look too close because she was my sister after all, but I was pretty sure she’d forgotten on purpose to put on her bra.
“You can’t tell me what to do.” The doorbell rang again. Its four-part chime was probably the classiest thing about our house.
“Please.” Peanut butter was still smashed in her teeth. Ha!
I let out a weighted sigh and ambled down the hallway. I needed to be really cool, but I wasn’t too sure why. If I got too into his being here, Angie might not like it. She’d once split my lip in the sandbox with a plastic shovel. We’d fought over a pail someone who must’ve not had any kids thought we could share.
“Hey, baby,” Rusty greeted Angie.
I started to slam my door but instantly got how stupid that would look. I caught it with my hand. The pain radiated through my whole body as my fingers acted as a stopper, and I swallowed a howl.
“How long have we got?” Rusty sounded out of breath like he was pulling a heist and needed to know when the cops would arrive.
“Mémé is back at three.” Angie puffed through her lips in her official sexy voice. I thought it came partly from the French in our Canadian heritage as well as watching too many supermodel reality shows.
“How’s your brother?”
“He’s fine.”
Fine? I’m sitting in my room like a prisoner! I leaned my forehead against the back of the door. This was either a penance or salvation. My lingering illness sapped the strength I needed to try and figure out which one.
“Hmm, peanut butter.” Rusty smacked his lips. “My favorite.”
I retreated to my bed and fell forward across my pillow.
CHAPTER TEN
THE SUN burned a hole in the dank and gushed through the opening between my shade and windowsill. I woke up wincing against the glare. I’d fallen asleep on top of the covers and curled up under one of the afghan blankets Mémé endlessly crocheted. They were everywhere in our drafty house. A Gregory at any time could be found beneath one while watching TV, eating soup, playing solitaire—slowly—on the computer, and if Angie, on the phone. Mémé was not a real whiz at making these things, and the squares often separated and needed mending. My grandmother fixed them with different color yarns so each one had an accidental hipness.
My hand ached, and I could see a slight purplish yellow across the knuckles. My finger hurt but I could wiggle it. I took that as a good sign I would not need to go to the emergency room. My parents went with the twins so much, they should’ve had their own parking space. An ice pack would be nice but that meant being able to see into the family room on my way to the kitchen. Wait, was Rusty even still here? I did a quick scan of my old-school alarm clock that had numbers that turned over like dominoes. It was the size of a shoebox and came from Mémé’s house after she moved in. A little tile flipped to reveal 3:14 p.m. Mémé must’ve gone shopping after Mass. Mom didn’t buy her things she considered unhealthy. That was basically everything Mémé cooked, so my dad’s mother marketed solo, and he would pay her back. Sometimes Mom got so angry about the Mémé situation she’d squeeze a second glass from her wine box, and Dad would go camping alone for a night or two.
As I shuffled across my room, a floorboard creaked and froze me in my tracks. I cocked an ear close to the back of my door without touching it. A hushed moan wafted down the hall followed by the sound of old sofa springs. It was not the boing, boing of the after-dark movies in Chad’s basement. This sound made me think more of tossing and turning when I couldn’t fall asleep. I tried not to pleasure myself, and sometimes it made it hard—LOL—to nod off.
I thought about just getting back into bed, but I really needed the ice. A bruise would raise suspicions, cause questions. Maybe not, but I went with that excuse rather than admit I wanted to see what was happening. I eased open my door, careful to not make a sound. As I gingerly tiptoed down the hall, the old plywood beneath the once beige shag carpeting groaned and creaked. The back of the couch acted as a kind of room divider. On the TV was a courtroom where weird people from California sued each other over stuff normal people would just talk out at home. Maybe they acted so angry because they wanted to be on the “idiot box,” as Grandpa Hank called it. Or maybe the producers looked for nutcases. Which came first, the crazies or the show? Anyway, there were no celebrities, so Angie hated this one. I might have wondered why she had it on except I knew they weren’t paying attention anyway.
I got to the end of the hall. The kitchen was on my right. There was no need to stay there, but I did. Rusty rolled up like a spooked cat and his sculpted back rippled beneath his skintight tank top. He slid down and disappeared behind the couch again. Go to the kitchen, but I didn’t. He rolled up more slowly this time and his head seemed to be caught. Then I saw Angie was biting his tongue. I’d never been to second base before, heck other than one time with Darcy, I’d never set a foot on the field.
“It itches,” my sister said as she scratched Rusty’s scruffy cheeks.
“You want me to shave?”
My hand throbbed; I really needed the ice but my feet refused to listen.
“We should stop,” Angie groaned like she knew she was supposed to say it but didn’t want him to agree.
“Is that what you want?” He spoke like her now. Every syllable sounded like it was dipped in syrup. I couldn’t believe people really talked that way when making out. Then again how would I know? How would I ever know? Maybe I needed to become a voyeur temporarily just to be sure. A voyeur, that’s what I was right now. Move! Nope.
Rusty rolled up again and this time he turned just a tiny bit my way. His hair was still tied up and he had a stunned look on his face. Angie, on her back, couldn’t see me. My fate was in his hands. Before I could apologize or run for my life, Rusty flashed a half grin my way. I didn’t react, no facial expression at all, blank. Before Angie pulled him back down, Rusty winked at me, and I knew he wasn’t going to tell.
A BLUE-AND-YELLOW afghan, repaired in hot pink, was draped over my head like I was the Virgin on the donkey. I sat on the end of my bed and had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to be in my room but there was no way I could come out until after he left or Mémé got home. I couldn’t do homework because I had left my books at school to keep my bag light for the walk. The one I was on yesterday when I met Rusty. Since then I’d ridden in a sweet ride, puked at his famous mother, been caught by Angie with stolen hosts, and was now at her mercy. I added one more sin to the list as the tote board pinged: Peeping Tom!
St. Dominick Savio was one of the youngest saints ever, and he did
n’t live way back in toga and sandal days but only just in the 1800s. St. DS was known for being a super holy kid, and once some of his horny classmates tried to show him what I guess passed for a dirty magazine in nineteenth-century Italy. He said he wasn’t interested, and they should stop sinning and put it away. Maybe he really was that virtuous, or lately I started thinking maybe he was just gay like me. Either way, St. DS was just fourteen when he died, but he wasn’t all that bummed because he saw heaven or something just as awesome when it happened.
In my zeal to be like him, I tried to achieve a monastic cell vibe with my room. I didn’t have my own computer and didn’t push for one. They were expensive and, even with glacial Internet speeds, too much temptation. I’d also sworn off gaming devices, music players, or any of the other typical distractions for a teenage male. I didn’t have any posters on my walls, just my glow-in-the-dark JC. I wanted to take the shade off my window so I wouldn’t be able to sleep late, but Mom said no way. She also put her foot down when I tried to put rocks under my mattress to make it lumpy like St. DS did. I was kind of glad she canned that idea.
My old toy chest was in the bottom of my closet. It was only still there because Mom never arranged the long-discussed garage sale, and I wasn’t supposed to throw anything away until she did. I had a bookcase but no books to read other than the Bible and Lives of the Saints. I tried that one for a few pages hoping their tribulations would inspire me. I especially liked the illustrations that showed an angel standing guard over the saint-in-the-making as they pondered whether or not to follow JC and do his dad’s will. These heavenly guardians had silver-tipped wings and armor or satin gowns depending on the gender. Angels were actually sexless but maybe artists didn’t know back then. Male, female, or neither, the angels all had flowing hair and perfect skin. They could be supermodels if God let them.
In the fading light, it was getting hard to see, and I didn’t want to turn on the lamp. Also, maybe I just wasn’t too down with the martyrs’ suffering at the moment because I had my own to contend with. Being trapped in my room, with Rusty out there, triggered this weird squirmy feeling kind of like the stomach bug I still had. Except rather than needing to puke, it felt like I wanted a hug inside me. I dropped to my knees to ask my glowing JC for guidance and strength. St. DS stayed away from the other boys, and the dirty stuff they did, and he got to be a saint. That had to mean getting a one-on-one with JC too, right? I just had to stay pure. “In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy—”