“So Mom told everyone about Brent. Figures.”
“We’re your family, and we’re not judging you.”
I look out the window, so I don’t have to see her, and say, “You’d judge if you knew the truth.”
“Do you want to tell me the truth?”
I don’t.
But I need to. I’ve been keeping it inside for months and months, and for the first time, I’m more afraid of collapsing under the weight of the secret than what people will think when they know the truth.
I tell her everything I told Nick—how Brent had been picking on me because I’d accidentally hit him during kickball, how he held me under water at the apple-bobbing game, how I smashed his nose with the apple, how we picked on each other for months, how I slugged him in the hall by my locker.
“I want you to guess why I hit Brent,” I say.
She thinks for a moment. “I’m guessing you were defending yourself because he threatened you or maybe pushed you or said something truly horrible.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. You know why? Because Brent is a jerk who’s failing half his classes, and his mom is a drunk. But what happened is the bell was about to ring, and Brent walked up to me. Everyone was clearing out, so we were mostly alone. I was expecting him to say something mean, and I was ready. I wasn’t even afraid of him anymore. I learned it was pretty easy to take him down with comments about how fat he is. I’d called him a walking sausage, chub muffin, tank, chunky monkey, and Fatzilla.” Eden gasps a little, but I continue. “But that day, he didn’t say anything mean or try to trip me. He said, ‘This is getting stupid. I just want it to stop. So I’ll stop if you stop. I’m sorry about the Halloween party. And I’ll say I’m sorry for the rest if you say you’re sorry.’”
“Was he lying?”
“I don’t think so. Everything about him was different. His voice was quiet. His face was serious. I think he was ready to be done with it. And it made me so mad. Madder than I’ve ever been.” I take a deep breath. “So I punched him.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I can’t completely explain it, either. But I think I got angry because I didn’t want our fight to end.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“In the weirdest way it felt good to be fighting with him.”
The car is silent.
“I know it’s crazy,” I say.
Eden squeezes the steering wheel and thinks. Finally she says, “Maybe you couldn’t do anything about Home Supply Station, or your Dad moving away, or switching schools, but fighting with Brent gave you power.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Brent’s apology set me on fire, so maybe you’re right. I guess I needed someone to fight with. I couldn’t yell at Mom, but I wanted to. She’s been so whiney and annoying, like she’s the only one who misses Dad.” It’s warm in the car, so I roll down the window. I hear the song of crickets and frogs from the tree line next to the church—sounds I don’t hear in St. Paul. “You know what? Every single person who’s asked me about it—my friends, the principal, Mom, even Father Benson—asked me what Brent did to make me hit him. Every single person. And the truth is he didn’t do anything.”
“I know your heart is full of kindness, Mary. You’re a good person with love in your heart.” She does her deep-breathing thing and says, “That’s why you’re going to apologize before we leave tomorrow.”
“No way. Never.”
“You’ll feel peace. You’ll be able to forgive yourself and put it behind you.”
“I don’t want to see him ever again.”
Eden’s voice shakes. “You’re making me practice being assertive, I guess. You see, I have the keys and the car, and we’re not leaving until you make it right by telling that boy you’re sorry. It’s for you as much as it is for him.”
I’m too shocked to argue. I’ve never heard Eden say something with such strength, but I’m even more surprised by my reaction.
I think Eden is right.
Chapter Twenty-one
There’s going to be a wedding in 6 days
Brent lives in a tiny, square-shaped house not far from the bypass that leads to Home Supply Station. The bushes under the windows are brown and dry like stalks of tumbleweed that can’t blow away.
“Good luck.” Eden rolls down the window. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
“What if he’s not home?”
“Then maybe you can write a letter, but maybe he is home.”
Two things are torturing me. First, it’s Brent. He’s not known for being a kind and forgiving guy. Second, I’m not used to delivering big apologies because I’m always nice to people. I want it over fast.
Brent’s mom opens the door and squints against the sunlight. In all the years I’ve known Brent, I’ve never seen Mrs. Helzinski at school like the rest of the parents, who volunteer for classroom parties, come to lunch, cheer at games, and browse the science fair. I’ve only seen her leaving the bar across the street from our store.
“Yeah?” Her voice is gritty like sandpaper.
“Is Brent home?”
She stares with flat-brown eyes. They’re Brent’s eyes. I can’t tell if she’s generally unhappy about morning visitors, or if she knows I’m the girl who punched her son. Finally she says, “Just a minute.”
As I wait, I say a quick prayer to Dominic Savio, Patron Saint of juvenile delinquents. Dear Saint Dominic Savio, Here’s your chance to show me you’re not deaf. Help me get through this.
Brent presses his face against the screen and blinks in surprise. “What do you want?”
His acne has spread from his forehead down his nose and cheeks. When he scratches his head, his shirt rises and displays a ring of belly.
I spit out the words. “I want to say I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am. I really am sorry. Really.”
He makes a high-pitched voice and mocks me. “Really really really really?” Then he laughs. “You moved. I know you moved because the town stopped smelling like butt when you left.”
Since I’ve been practicing revenge all year, my instinct is to blurt out something mean, or call him “Count Fatula,” an insult I’d saved all winter for the right moment. But I’m not going to do that. I’m going to turn the other cheek because the other cheek can be turned.
“I was really awful to you most of the year, Brent. And that’s not the person I want to be, and I want you to know that I was wrong, and I know I was wrong. So I’m sorry, and I guess I’ll just leave now.”
But I don’t leave. I shift back and forth, waiting for him to offer his forgiveness, so my heart will feel whole, like Eden said.
Brent says, “You came back to tell me you’re sorry?”
“I had to take care of some stuff before we move. Saying sorry was one part of it.”
He frowns and shrugs. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say, still waiting.
“Yeah, well, okay then.” He shuts the door. At least it’s not a slam.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Obviously it wasn’t going to be one of those movie-type apologies where I say I’m sorry, and then he says something nice, and we become friends. I wasn’t really expecting him to say something overly sweet because he’s not like that, but I thought he’d say something more than okay. He could’ve said goodbye or good luck or have fun in your new school.
I guess okay is better than nothing. Okay is as good as it gets.
* * *
Eden’s in the bathroom at the gas station when I notice a colorful brochure sticking out of her purse. We’re still an hour from St. Paul, and she wants to get home before the traffic hits. I see the words Las Vegas across the top of the brochure, so it has to be something about the surprise honeymoon. I pull it out and look at the pictures. It’s a gorgeous hotel with palm trees and the biggest pool I’ve ever seen. Tucked inside is a printout of the trip details, and something catches my eye.
Departure: 9:30 a.m., August 17.
; That makes no sense. The wedding is August 19. I read it again and again. Departure: 9:30 a.m., August 17. How is that possible?
Slowly I put it together, like a movie where the mystery is explained in flashbacks … Eden sitting on her bed saying she can’t take any more of the wedding planning … Eden swearing me to secrecy about the Las Vegas trip … Eden saying she’s not going to be eating cake at the wedding … Eden telling me she’s dealing with her wedding in her own way …
This trip to Las Vegas isn’t just a honeymoon. Eden and Justin are going to elope.
When I see Eden coming back to the car, I shove the brochure and papers back in her purse.
“You sure you don’t need to use the bathroom? It’s actually clean.”
“I’m sure.”
Eden drives back to the highway and turns off the radio. “I have a massive headache. Do you mind if it’s quiet?”
I mumble no, but I want to ask if this massive headache has anything to do with a massive secret. I can’t believe it. Eden wouldn’t give up her church wedding. Would she? Eden’s not a person who’d hurt Grandma’s feelings. But I’m not the kind of person who would punch a boy in the face, either. And that’s exactly what I did.
Still, Eden wouldn’t run off and disappoint us. Between our family and Justin’s family, there are 400 people coming to the wedding. She wouldn’t ruin an event for 400 people.
Would she?
I don’t know. I have to put myself in Eden’s mind. Most people wouldn’t flee their own wedding. But for Eden, there are 400 reasons to run away.
Chapter Twenty-two
There’s going to be a wedding in 5 days
The next day, while Eden’s working, I flip through the Patron Saint notebook and count the stars. I give up when I reach 300, because what’s the point? The notebook is a time-waster. I stuff it under the bed and get the button Nick made from the nightstand drawer. I run my fingers over the words: Mary Miller Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids.
Until yesterday, when I saw the plane tickets, I thought I’d been doing a good job as the junior bridesmaid. Not so good that I’m worthy of being an actual Patron Saint, but pretty good for an inexperienced kid with no adults advising me. Obviously, though, I’m a huge failure—I missed the clues that Eden is going to run from this overly spectacular wedding.
I don’t know what to do. If I tell Grandma, she’ll go nuclear, and Eden might never speak to me again. If I tell Aunt Maggie or Mom, they’d immediately tell Grandma, and she’d go nuclear, because that’s how it works in my family. Grandma is the queen. Even if I convince Eden to stay in St. Paul and get married, the wedding might be a disaster, and it would be my fault. She might faint or puke, or she might panic and leave poor Justin at the altar.
I could look for the Patron Saint for eloping couples, if there is such a person, but why bother? The saints either don’t listen or don’t care.
There aren’t any good options—just bad options and worse options.
I squeeze Nick’s button and wonder what he’d say about this mess. I look out the window. He’s not in his driveway, but maybe he’s inside. I don’t want Eden to come home and see the button, but I want to keep it. I’m never going to throw it away. I decide to put it in the rosary box. I get the little key from the dresser, open the suitcase lock, and put the rosary box on the bed. Out of habit, I send one final plea to Blessed Imelda. Dear Holy Blessed Imelda, show me the universe isn’t on autopilot. Please.
I lift the Pope Francis prayer card. My heart nearly stops beating.
The Communion wafer is gone.
Gone!
* * *
My feet move in a blur—down the stairs, out the door, across the lawn. I bang on Nick’s door and wait for what seems like forever. He opens the door and smiles. “Guess what? My dad got me a new skateboard, so now I have two.” He looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
I sit on his front step and pull my knees to my chest. “I don’t even know what to say. It’s so weird.”
He sits down, too. “Good weird? Bad weird?”
“There was a Communion wafer in my rosary box, and it’s gone.”
“Um … okay.”
“Gone! It just disappeared.”
“Am I missing some information?”
“I think it’s a miracle,” I whisper. My hands are shaking. “It’s a long story, Nick, and you have to understand Communion and all that, but trust me. It’s miraculous.”
“I’m still missing some information here.”
“I’ve had this chewed-up piece of Communion wafer, which is the Body of Christ, by the way, in my rosary box, and I’ve been praying to Blessed Imelda—”
“Who?”
“She’s the Patron Saint of Communion. I’ve been praying to her to help me get rid of this wafer because it’s sacred. You can’t throw it away. So it’s been in my rosary box for weeks, and now it’s gone.”
Nick’s face twists like he’s thinking hard. “Maybe it disintegrated.”
“In a few weeks?”
“Maybe ants ate it.”
“Impossible. Bugs couldn’t get into that box.”
“Maggots could, I think.”
“No.” I cross my arms. “They couldn’t.”
“Luke probably took it.”
“I hid it in my suitcase, one of those with the little lock and key on the zipper. It was locked, and I hid the key in the dresser.” I take a breath and say, “There’s no explanation.”
“There must be an explanation, Mary. I’m sorry, but things don’t just disappear.”
“Exactly! Things don’t just disappear. That’s why it’s a miracle.” I stare at him, but Nick looks away. “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Faith is belief without evidence, right? I believe you have faith, so yes, I believe you.”
“That’s a weird way of saying it.” I’m waiting for him to believe it, to feel it like I feel it. But he looks at his shoes. I cross my arms and say, “Nobody in your family or your church believes in miracles? Your culture?”
“I once read that Vietnam is the least traditionally religious country of any in the world. Doesn’t matter, though, because I’m not from Vietnam. I’m from St. Paul, Minnesota. My parents were born in St. Paul, Minnesota. My grandparents are the last people in my family to set foot in Vietnam, and only one of them is still alive.”
“Oh, so nobody in Vietnam is Christian? Nobody?”
“A lot of people are Buddhist, but that religion is more about enlightenment.”
He makes me so mad. No matter what I say, he has something smarter. “Sorry. I haven’t spent my whole life studying the world’s religions.”
“Don’t get mad.” He looks surprised I’m upset. “I just don’t believe in miracles. I believe in science.”
“It’s faith, not science. Your heart belongs in faith. Otherwise we’d be people with brains and logic and nothing else. No emotion.”
“Even emotion comes from your brain, not your heart. What we feel is caused by chemicals in the brain.”
I haven’t been this mad at a boy since Brent Helzinski. I don’t say anything else because I’ll end up yelling. Nick stays quiet, too. We sit on the step, me with my arms crossed, him staring at his shoes.
When Grandma’s car pulls up to the house, I’ve never been happier to see her and have her yell at me to stop dilly dallying and come inside. I don’t want to spend one more second with Mr. Intellectual. I jump off the step like I’d been sitting on a spring and run to the house, making sure the door slams with a bang.
I sink into the living room couch and try not to think about Nick and whether ants were in my rosary box feasting on the Body of Christ. Is that even possible?
I hear Grandma telling Luke we need a few minutes alone. She comes to the living room, crosses her arms, and speaks with a low voice. “Mary, come to the kitchen with me. We’re overdue for a talk.”
Her laser eyes shoot through me, and I think my spine might melt. I follow h
er to the kitchen, slump in a chair, and try to figure out what I’ve done. Maybe the Home Supply Station had cameras in the parking lot, and the cameras caught me throwing the rock, and the police tracked Eden’s car, and Grandma knows.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Mary.”
“Why?”
There’s something about Grandma’s face. The way she’s raising her eyebrow, the way her lips press together. And it hits me: Blessed Imelda isn’t the miracle-maker.
Grandma took the Communion wafer!
“Luke told me everything.”
I’m stunned. It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Did he tell you it’s not my fault? Because it’s not my fault.”
Grandma’s eyes grow wide. “Mary Margaret Miller, if you keep a secret about something wrong, then you are also wrong.”
Her words are supposed to make me feel guilty, but they just make me mad. It’s totally unfair. This is what Mom’s trying to avoid with her truth-stretching. I kind of get it.
“Believe me,” Grandma continues, “I plan to have words with your mother as soon as the wedding is over. I don’t want to create problems before Eden’s special day.”
I take a deep breath and say, “That’s why Mom didn’t tell you. Because you’d have words. Lots of words.”
“Oh, I have more words than you can imagine!”
Luke opens the door. “Grandma, are we playing Monopoly?”
“Sure. You set up the board. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
When Luke leaves, Grandma sits next to me and sighs. “That poor boy. He’s been suffering under the weight of this secret all summer.”
“Luke’s been suffering? He gave the wafer and all his suffering to me.” And I realize, I am relieved. At least the wafer is no longer in its hiding place. Then the relief turns upside down. “Wait a minute. How’d you know where I put it?”
“I can read my granddaughters easier than a picture book.” Ha! She must be reading Eden in a different language, because she’s clueless about Eden’s dream wedding. She says, “I knew you wouldn’t toss it. I knew you’d try to preserve the integrity of Communion, and I’d seen your rosary box when I was putting away laundry. When I went up there yesterday and it was gone, I knew you’d hidden it. And I was meeting with Father Owens that night, so it was critical I get it to him so he could handle it properly.”
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