The Opposite of Hallelujah

by Anna Jarzab

  “Flip cup,” Reb answered. Erin nodded and rubbed her eyes.

  Pawel grabbed my shoulders in a moment of sudden inspiration. “Your sister!”

  My eyes went wide. “Absolutely not. Shut up. I’ll call my dad, he’ll come.”

  “You want the first time your dad meets me to be this?” Pawel asked. My heart leapt at the idea that he wanted to impress my parents, that he planned on meeting them in the future. The kiss in the backyard wasn’t just a fluke, I assured myself. He really, really liked me. He’d said so himself. “Please, Caro, call your sister.”

  “What sister?” Reb asked. “You have a sister?”

  “She just got out of the Peace Corps,” Pawel bragged for me. Oh, God. This night was dissolving into a total cringe-inducing nightmare.

  “Really?” Erin said, her voice tinged with suspicion.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, regretting the lie for the billionth time. “She just moved home.”

  “When?” Erin demanded.

  “End of the summer,” I admitted.

  “You didn’t tell them?” Pawel looked totally baffled. He watched as his brilliant idea fell apart and condemned him to a long walk home.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Who cares? It’s just my sister. It’s not like I have a secret love child I didn’t tell you about.”

  “Thank God,” Pawel said.

  “Wait a minute, how come Polish dude knows about this and we don’t?” Erin looked furious, way angrier than I thought the situation deserved. But then again, beer did bend the edges of common sense, and Erin had very little of that to begin with.

  “He ran into us at the DMV,” I said. “Come on, Pawel, help me find my cell phone, I’m going to call my parents.” I stood up and tugged at him, but he remained prostrate.

  “Why can’t your sister come get us? She has her license now!” he argued, the words pouring out sloppily.

  “Oh my God, Pawel, I’m going to kill you. Will you please stop talking about my sister?” I hissed.

  “Is that why you were at the DMV? You told me you were having your picture retaken!”

  “Erin, who cares why she was at the DMV?” Reb yawned, leaned her head back against the couch, and closed her eyes.

  “Fine! I’ll look for the damn thing myself.” I thought I remembered leaving my purse in the kitchen, so I went in there to look. I eventually found it under a mound of garbage on the floor, which was awesome. My phone was almost out of battery, but it had enough to call home. I really didn’t want my dad to have to come pick up me and my new boyfriend (was he my boyfriend? I still wasn’t entirely clear on that point) because we were drunk at a party, but it didn’t look like I had another option.

  “Call your sister!” Pawel was not getting it at all. I wondered if he was always this obtuse.

  I dialed the house and waited, my stomach in knots. It stopped after one ring, and rather than my dad’s sleepy, irritated voice on the other end of the line, I heard Hannah. “Hello?”

  “Hannah?”

  “Caro? Where are you? Why are you calling the house so late?”

  “I need someone to come pick me up from Reb’s house,” I told her. She wouldn’t do it. She didn’t have a license, or permission to take the car, and there was no way she would leave the house at that hour without telling my parents. I was so screwed.

  “Can’t you just stay there until the morning?” Hannah’s voice was hushed.

  “No,” I said. “My friend … he has to get home before dawn. Can you come and get us?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I can’t drive,” Hannah said finally.

  “You can drive,” I reminded her. “You just don’t have a license. Look, it’s not that far. I can give you directions, it’ll take twenty minutes to get here and get us home, I promise.”

  “If you want me to wake Dad up, I will,” Hannah said. “But I’m not coming to get you. It’s illegal.”

  “Illegal schmillegal,” I said dismissively. “Who cares? It’s half an hour, tops. There aren’t any cops out at this hour, and as long as you don’t run a red light, you’re golden. Come on, Hannah. Can’t you just do me a favor?”

  “Caro, are you drunk?” Hannah asked, horrified.

  “A little,” I admitted. “Please? You’re my sister, for Christ’s sake.”

  Hannah hesitated and, finally, relented. “Okay. But just there and home, I’m not taking you through any drive-throughs or anything.”

  “Hannah, you’re a saint! We’ll wait for you on the porch.” I gave her directions to Reb’s house and hung up my cell, which was beeping at me incessantly about its low battery.

  “Okay, Pawel, we have a ride,” I said, walking into the living room. Naturally, he was asleep. Perfect.

  I needed Erin’s help to get Pawel out to the car and stuff him into the backseat. (Reb had fallen asleep again.) I pushed him and he went down like a log, breathing softly. He looked peaceful and calm, the complete opposite of the way I felt getting into the passenger seat and meeting Hannah’s eyes.

  “Who is that?” she asked. She was fully dressed, her hair in a ponytail, and sat stiff and upright in the driver’s seat.

  “Pawel,” I told her. “You remember the guy I was talking to at the DMV?”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But he is really drunk, so let’s just get him home, okay?”

  “Fine.” She put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. “I’m going to need directions.”

  “I’ll tell you where to turn.” Before Hannah had gotten there, I’d woken Pawel up and made him program his address into the GPS on my phone. How people lived before mobile Internet, I’ll never know. I was just praying we could outrun the phone’s imminent death.

  We sat there in silence. I could tell she was fuming, stewing, and steaming mad at me, but I didn’t know what to say to her. She was overreacting, but if I told her that, she’d just overreact to it. She had an overdeveloped sense of morality; she saw this as my asking her to break a law just to cover my own ass, and she was as angry with herself for doing it as she was at me for asking.

  I couldn’t take it, that quietly bubbling anger. I had to say something.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, staring out the windshield at the dark streets coming at us. “I know you didn’t want—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Hannah, I get that you’re angry, but I just don’t think this is such a big deal.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she snapped, not looking at me. “You’re a spoiled brat. You think everything you want is your God-given right, and that everyone else in the world is just here to provide it for you.”

  “That’s not true,” I protested. “I just asked you for a ride!”

  “You called up the house at two in the morning and begged me to pick you and your drunk whatever-he-is up and drive you home on an expired license after just failing a driver’s test so that you both can hide from your parents that you were ever drunk or together or out until two in the morning,” Hannah said. “Wouldn’t it have been better just not to get drunk in the first place, or maybe not even go to this party? But you wanted to, so you did, and now here we are.”

  “Fine! You’re pissed. I understand.”

  “No, Caro, you don’t understand. You don’t even try to understand. You live in a world that revolves completely around you, and you never once, not even for a second, try to see what other people might be experiencing or feeling. You just never think about anyone else, and it’s beneath you.” Hannah shook her head.

  “If I’m so awful, if this is such a terrible inconvenience for you, then why did you agree to do it? I called the house for Dad, anyway.” I bit the inside of my lip hard to prevent the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes from spilling all over my cheeks. It was late, Hannah was yelling at me, and I was so, so tired.

  “Oh, you know why I did it,” Hannah said.

 
“Actually, no, I don’t. Tell me why.”

  “Because,” croaked Pawel from the backseat. “She wants you to like her.”

  Hannah’s eyes met mine for a brief second, then she turned her head away.

  “Next left,” I mumbled, reaching back to brush a piece of hair that had fallen into Pawel’s eyes. “First house on the right.”

  13

  When I woke up on Sunday morning, my parents were gone, and Hannah, I assumed, was still asleep. As usual, there was a note from my mother: By the time we get home: water the plants, wash the kitchen floor, take out the recycling. Chores were the price I paid for never wanting to run errands with them anymore.

  I would normally have waited until the last possible moment to do everything, but since I didn’t know when they would return, I just did a quick, half-assed job on everything and went back to bed. My head felt like it was going to explode, and my entire body was shaky, like the muscles under my skin were vibrating. I was uncomfortable and miserable and I just wanted to lie around all day, but I couldn’t fall back asleep. I reached under my bed and grabbed Hannah’s keepsake box. I riffled through it for another letter and finally found one on a folded piece of yellowed stationery that said FROM THE DESK OF EVAN MITCHELL on it.

  Dear St. Catherine,

  Sister Therese called me into her office today. I was afraid that I was in trouble for something, but she just wanted to talk about Sabra. They’re going to create a memorial for her in the main entrance of the school, right next to the statue of Our Lady. They’re also going to put a special page into the yearbook for her. There will be a picture, and a space for notes from her friends. Sister Therese wanted to know if I would contribute a letter. I told her I didn’t know, but I would think about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  It was starting to dawn on me how clueless I was about Hannah’s entire life. I could guess that maybe Sister Therese had been the St. Robert’s principal back in the day (by the time I got there, the principal was a dude and his name was Mr. Fredrickson; he was universally loathed), but I couldn’t know for sure. And as for Sabra, I had no idea. A memorial would mean that she had died, but how? And were she and Hannah friends? I couldn’t remember her having any particular friends, but I was pretty young when she left, and would have been only about a year old when Hannah started the diary—or whatever I was reading. And I didn’t remember any memorial at the front entrance to the school, nor were there any statues there. The first thing you saw when you entered St. Robert’s School was a giant cross.

  I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I jumped when I heard the garage door open. A few moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

  “Come in,” I called, tucking the letter into the notebook with the pink cover and shoving the whole box back underneath my bed.

  Hannah stepped inside and closed the door. “I saw your boyfriend at church today,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

  “You went to church?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I had to go sooner or later.” She sighed. There was clearly more to the story, but I didn’t feel like it was my place to ask. “He looked pretty sick.”

  “I’m sure he was.” It was my turn to sigh. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Really?” Hannah looked straight at me now. “It seemed like he was.”

  “Well, maybe. We haven’t talked about it.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” I stared at her. There was so little in her face for me to see. I’d never found someone as inaccessible as Hannah. Did she want Pawel to be my boyfriend? Did she care one way or the other? I couldn’t tell. “Is that it?”

  Hannah nodded. “I just wanted to let you know.”

  “That Pawel was hungover this morning?”

  “That he was well enough to go to Mass.” Hannah smiled her enigmatic smile and left the room.

  Pawel called me after church. It was wonderful to hear his voice; I’d started to convince myself that the previous night had been just a drunken hallucination, brought on by too much beer and too much wanting.

  “So how are you feeling?” I asked after the usual pleasantries.

  “Like death,” Pawel groaned. “And your family saw me in church! Insult to injury.”

  “Did they talk to you?” I asked, horrified.

  “Your sister did,” Pawel told me. “In the vestibule, while your parents were talking to the priest.” I wondered if it was Father Bob. There were a couple more priests at St. Robert’s, including one I called Father Boring; he always seemed to do the holiday Masses, and as soon as the homily started I could feel my eyes begin to droop. I couldn’t help it; it was a Pavlov’s dog–style reaction.

  “God, I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine. She’s nice. It was weird, because all I know about her is that she was cool enough to drive us home at two in the morning and not tell your parents about it,” Pawel said. “And that she was in the Peace Corps.”

  My chest tightened up. “Did she … talk about that at all?”

  “Nope, didn’t come up. Would it be okay if I asked her about it sometime? You know, once the gut-wrenching humiliation of last night wears off.”

  “So in, like, two or three years?” I asked, sidestepping the question.

  “I was pretty wasted, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “But I wouldn’t worry about it so much. Everybody was pretty wasted.”

  “I’m glad I kissed you before we played flip cup,” Pawel said.

  “Oh, did that happen?” I teased.

  “Ha-ha, very funny.”

  “It’s kind of hard to hear you,” I said.

  “Because I’ve buried my head into the pillow and I’m not moving until it stops pounding, which could be never,” Pawel moaned.

  “So what did you and Hannah talk about?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “She just asked how I was doing,” Pawel said. “It was mostly ‘hi, how are yous.’ She seemed kind of …” He didn’t finish the thought.

  “Kind of what?” I asked.

  “Awkward. I figured that was just because what do you say to your little sister’s boyfriend after carting his ass home piss drunk at dawn?”

  Boyfriend. “Yeah, that makes sense,” I said. Maybe I should’ve reassured him that Hannah was always a little awkward, regardless of the situation, but that just would’ve invited more questions.

  “That was a test, by the way,” Pawel told me.

  “What was?”

  “I called myself your boyfriend and you didn’t flinch.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?” I said. “You can’t see me.”

  “I can tell,” he said.

  “Was I supposed to flinch?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t,” he said.

  “Then I passed?”

  “You did. A-plus, Carolina Mitchell. Top of the class.”

  “You want to be my boyfriend?” I confirmed.

  Pawel’s voice got quiet. “I do. Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Definitely.”

  Dear St. Catherine,

  When I went to confession this week, I told the priest everything about Sabra. It isn’t like he doesn’t know, because everybody knows. It was in the paper and everybody at school was talking about it, the teachers and the parents and the students. God knows. He was there with us—at least, I hope he was. Everybody knows. But it took me six months to go to confession, which I know makes me a coward. I’ve been carrying this sin around on my shoulders and I was afraid to tell the truth. Why is it so hard to admit to something you’ve done if there’s nobody left to tell?

  It was Father Dawson in the confessional on Saturday. I hadn’t taken confession since my first confession in fourth grade, so I didn’t remember how to do it. I asked Mom to drive me to church specially, and at first it made her worried, I think. She asked me to plea
se talk to her first, so I told her it had to do with Sabra, and she didn’t ask any more questions. The therapist in the church office, Mrs. Lang, says that no matter what, I should always be encouraged to talk about Sabra, although this is the first time I’ve really wanted to. Mom drove me to church and waited in the car, like I asked. She wanted to come inside with me, but I asked her not to.

  Father Dawson isn’t a priest I know personally. He’s very old and usually just stays at the rectory, but I guess he decided to hear confession. It doesn’t take very much work, maybe it’s good for him because he gets to be helpful but all he has to do is sit and listen. So I confessed to him and he said the strangest thing. He said, “Child, you don’t need any absolution. Go home and thank God for your health and pray for the soul of your friend.”

  I told him that I needed a penance and he refused to give me one. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. I didn’t want to correct him, because you don’t correct a priest. So I just thanked him and left the confessional. Mom was sitting in the pew right outside, not close enough to listen in. When she saw me, she smiled and told me that she had her own confessing to do, could I please wait for her in the vestibule? So I did. Then we drove home together, and I didn’t ask her what she had confessed, and she didn’t ask me. I wonder if she got a penance.

  Sabra. That name again. This letter had been more illuminating than all the ones that had come before it. Clearly, Sabra had been a friend of Hannah’s, and she had died. It seemed like Hannah held herself responsible, but the priest had told her it wasn’t her fault. So which was it?

  I went looking for my parents and found them in the kitchen, working on dinner; Mom was wrist-deep in hamburger meat and Dad was at the sink, peeling potatoes.

  “Meat loaf for dinner,” Mom said, patting and molding the pile of hamburger. “Can you preheat the oven to three-fifty, please?”

  “Sure.” I set the temperature on the oven and then went to the fridge for a soda. “Can I ask you guys a question?”

  “Of course,” she said, placing the meat loaf into the pan she also used to make banana bread, and going over to the sink to wash her hands, bumping Dad aside with her hip.