by Autumn Grey
He looks up at me, frowning. “You want to be a priest?”
“Yeah.”
He just nods and then walks out the door with doubt in his eyes. Of course, he doesn’t believe me, given what went down in Baltimore.
I go back to my seat, thinking about Seth and how I can make his life better. If I can make it better at all. Being a kid sucks sometimes.
The room starts to fill, the kids being loud and shoving each other as usual. Then the familiar scent of vanilla waffles drifts into the room right before Grace steps through the door, quiet as always, prettier than ever. She’s wearing black shorts, black Converse and a sky-blue shirt with those frilly lace thingies around the collar.
She sits at her usual place near the door and scans the room until her eyes meet mine. We just stare at each other, like, for hours. It feels like hours, anyway. I lift my hand and wave, offering her a half-smile. Her lips lift at the corners. She gives me a quick wave, then ducks her head.
I look away, her smile playing on repeat in my mind. Eric enters the room and I sit up straight, trying hard not to sneak another look at Grace. Or think about her. But I fail miserably. It’s like someone stuck the image of her pretty face in my brain with Krazy Glue.
Eighteen years old
Today is the Monday-est Monday ever.
The clock on the nightstand stares back at me, blinking 6:30 a.m. over and over. I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, then sit up on the bed. It’s only the first week of June, but it’s already hotter than hell. Well, not that I know how hot it is down there, but from what I’ve read from the scripture and heard Father Foster preach in his sermons, I can only conclude it’s a shitstorm of fire and brimstone.
It’s been a week since summer vacation started. I should be sleeping in. Instead, I’m wide awake and wondering about my future. I’m wondering what my next step should be.
My skin feels too tight against my bones, and my mind is racing with excuses, possibilities, and plan As and Bs. Most people my age have already figured out what they want to study in college. I thought I did, too. Seeing my mom smile proudly at me when I got accepted at Brown University made me drunk with happiness.
Then something in me changed. I realized I was trying to please my mom instead of doing what was best for me. I want to go to college and do something I love, not go to Brown just to fulfill Mom’s dream. I love my mom a lot, and if we lived in a world where people were thrown in cages to fight lions or tigers, I’d volunteer to trade places with her in a heartbeat, Katniss style. But I can’t live my life for her.
I need to talk to her about my decision soon. I can’t continue to pretend everything is okay. I don’t want thousands of dollars to be spent on my education if I don’t even know who I am, what I want, or what I like. I’m tired of feeling so lost. I want to carve my own path and find my purpose on this earth, but the thought of confronting her makes me sick to my stomach. Brown University was her dream, a dream she never got the chance to experience because of me.
I hop down from the bed and head to the kitchen to get a glass of cold water. The scent of coffee greets me right before I walk into the room. Mom is already sitting at the small kitchen table, her fingers curled around a large mug. She’s staring blindly ahead, her forehead creased in thought as one finger taps the rim of the cup. Sometimes I wish I could get a peek inside her head. I have a feeling there’s this other big part of her life I don’t know about.
I always take a few seconds to study her whenever she’s distracted; her shoulder-length dreadlocks tied in a high ponytail atop her head, a clear, smooth chocolate-brown complexion, round cheekbones, stubborn chin, and a generous mouth. Even though she’s thirty-six, she could easily pass for twenty-six years old. I may be biased since she’s my mom, but just look at her. She’s a beauty.
She and I have similar features down to the dimple in our chins. My skin is a few shades lighter, though. It’s only been me and Mom for as long as I can remember. The only thing I know about my father is that he was Caucasian. Mom never talks about him, so I’ve made peace with it. I mean, why dwell on something that’ll only end up hurting me in the end?
I have more pressing matters to think about, thank you very much. Like how the heck am I going to tell Mom I won’t be attending Brown in the fall?
Just thinking about her disappointment makes me want to run back to my room and hide under the sheets like I used to do after I got upset when I was a kid. Then she’d trail after me with a cup of hot chocolate and make me smile again. God, being a kid was so much easier.
“Morning, Mom.” I force my feet to move toward her and give her a hug from the side.
Her body tenses like it always does at unexpected hugs or touches. She blinks several times, then focuses her dark brown eyes on me. A smile quickly spreads across her face as she reaches up to brush the wayward curls off my face. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping in until God-knows-when o’clock?”
“It’s too damn hot. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Watch your language, young lady,” she scolds.
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping my arms from her shoulders.
She hands me the coffee. “Everything okay, Grumpy?” she teases.
I’m not really a morning person. The Brown issue is making me even grumpier. Maybe I should just tell her, rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with.
I take a sip from the offered cup, then set it on the table in front of her. I head to the sink to buy time, silently praying for strength and also to avoid her knowing eyes until I’m ready to tell her. I swear some days I think she is a mind reader. Either that or she has a special antenna—programmed just for me—set to receive signals whenever there’s a lot of activity in my head.
Like now. The heat in her curious eyes warms my back. My heart starts racing, causing this loud thudding in my ears.
Oh my God. I’m not ready to tell her.
Maybe tomorrow.
Definitely tomorrow.
“I’m . . . um . . . going to church. Morning Mass.” I’m such a coward.
“Now?” she asks, surprise clear in her voice.
I spin around and smile so wide my cheeks hurt from the effort. “Yeah. I mean, I’ll jump in the shower first, then head out.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion, but all she says is, “All right.” I turn to leave, relieved I’ve narrowly escaped “the talk” when she adds, “You better finish writing a list of whatever you need for college so we can start shopping early.”
I almost miss a step in my haste to escape her scrutiny. “Yes, Mom,” I say without looking back at her. “Love you!”
“Oh, by the way, can you do me a favor? Could you grab some yarn for me from that shop downtown? I promised to purchase some for my next visit at SMU.”
“Sure.” Mom volunteers at Single Moms Unified every month. Growing up, she drummed into me the importance of paying it forward to the community. If it wasn’t for the kindness and support she received when she arrived in Portland, she wouldn’t be here today.
“Love you,” she says just as my feet hit the small hallway.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m sitting on the fourth pew at St. Peter’s Church, blissfully basking in the cool interior. Father Foster’s voice drifts in and out of my thoughts as he delivers his homily.
My gaze wanders around my surroundings. About fifteen people, at most, are attending Mass. Someone snores in the back, making Father Foster pause and lift his head a little with a small twitch of his lips.
Then I see him. Solomon Callan is occupying one of the seats where the altar servers sit during Mass. Locks of wavy dark brown hair fall over his eyes, and his hand reaches up to brush the hair away. I can’t stop staring, fascinated by that movement. Sol and I went to different schools in middle schools, then we attended the same high school at Winston High. It’s just so weird how we never really spoke even though we ended up in the same class.
I guess we moved in different circles back then: me, t
he quiet girl trying to fit in with the popular crowd while he hung out with Ivan and a bunch of other soccer guys from their team.
Three years ago, Sol was this awkward teenage boy with a tangle of long legs and arms and a shy personality to match. Time has definitely been kind to him. His limbs have finally grown to fit the rest of his tall frame, and all the soccer practices back in high school have left him in great shape.
And God, Solomon Callan is glorious. He’s known around town as Father Foster’s nephew, the town’s good boy and every parent’s dream kid.
Too bad all that gloriousness won’t be here long enough for us to drool over. Sol will be heading to seminary in the fall to become a priest. Otherwise, I’d totally break the promise I made to myself after things went south with my asshole ex-boyfriend, Gavin, to steer clear of boys.
As if sensing me, Sol’s eyes lift and meet mine. One side of his mouth curls up in a subtle half-smile. I grip the bench I’m sitting on and drop my gaze to my lap, feeling hot and cold at once.
Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. Sol has always been the cute boy from church who I met eight years ago. The boy I always wanted to talk to at youth group but wasn’t brave enough to approach. I don’t even know why he intimidated me. Maybe because he was so pretty and looked like a dark-haired, blue-eyed angel through my thirteen-year-old eyes.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now, though.
It’s all in my head, even this stupid shiver that came out of nowhere.
I shouldn’t be thinking about tall boys with cute smiles and messy hair who are bound to become priests, albeit very hot priests. I should be thinking of sorting out my own life.
When I glance up again, Sol’s eyes are still on me. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me like that.
I force myself to look away, reminding myself that boys break the ever-loving shit out of your heart.
The scent of frankincense and myrrh surrounds me as I extinguish the candles with a snuffer after morning Mass. When I’m done, I glance across the room at Seth as he shuffles around collecting the song books and placing them on the table in the back of the church.
Last summer he and two other boys attended the altar server training class. He’s come a long way from the boy I met years ago. He’s still a bit skittish about the Catholic Church at times. He attends Mass more often than he used to, so I consider that a win. Joining the altar server team is a big step for him. The other two boys prefer serving in the evening and Sunday Mass.
“I gotta run. Mom’s waiting for me outside,” Seth says when he’s finished with his task.
I nod, giving him a two-finger salute. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”
He rolls his eyes and smiles. “Where’s the fun in that?” His sneakered feet drag across the worn-out concrete floor as he heads toward the sacristy to remove his alb.
I chuckle, shaking my head, then drop to my knees in the first pew. I make the sign of the cross and clasp my hands in front of me.
Instead of filling the silence with a prayer, I choose to enjoy the quietness. I stare at the altar in front of me and let the tranquility of God’s presence wash over me.
This is my thing. I like to take a few minutes after Mass to absorb the beauty my mom used to discuss. I think about how far I’ve come. I think about my path ahead. Over the past few years, my uncle has repeatedly asked me if being a priest is what I really want. I understand his concern, I really do, because I know what I’m giving up. I also know what I’m gaining by wholeheartedly giving myself to God. Life is too short. I want to make the most of it by having a positive impact on people’s lives.
Okay. I’m going to be honest for a second. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t entertained thoughts of having sex with someone special. I have, many times. I mean, I’m not a saint. I’m a teen with raging hormones, but I’ve learned the art of restraint to a science. Sometimes I get so wound up I feel like I’m about to shatter into pieces. I end up taking cold showers after rubbing one out. Guilt mixed with pure relief rides me hard after that, so I grab my Bible and read the scripture to force those thoughts out. Or play my guitar while wearing headphones as Linkin Park or Green Day blare into my ears.
My gaze lands on the cross. I wonder if Jesus had these feelings and if he acted on them by locking himself in a room and riding it out. I don’t remember reading anywhere in the Bible about him having carnal thoughts.
I sigh and pray to God for forgiveness for putting Jesus and carnal thoughts in the same sentence. I pull out my mom’s rosary from my shorts pocket, running the tips of my fingers over the smooth surface as I recite the Lord’s Prayer. I mutter, “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”
After pocketing the rosary, I step away from the pew. I’m about to head down the aisle when I see a familiar head with a riot of black curls to my right.
Grace Miller.
I groan inwardly when my stupid, stupid body heats at the sight of her. And instead of heading to the sacristy to remove my alb, I glance in her direction, taking in the way her hands are clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on something in front of her. Despite the way her fingers keep flexing, her face is set in a calm expression. She tilts her head as if she senses me, and our eyes meet, sending a shockwave of awareness down my spine.
I nod my chin in her direction and let my lips curl in a smile. Her brows lift as if she’s surprised I acknowledged her. She nods back at me hesitantly.
My feet move forward, intending to go sit next to her. A bold idea coming from me. I’ve never acted on my interest. And sure enough, as soon as I try, my feet refuse to move. I just stand there with my hands clenched into fists at my sides and give my body time to calm down.
“You’re hovering,” she says quietly, the words traveling across the empty church. I can’t tell if she’s angry or irritated. When I don’t say anything, she continues talking without looking at me. “Dude. I’m kind of trying to talk to God here. You’re making it difficult.”
I clear my throat. Irritated it is, then.
“Yeah? About what?” I officially want to kick my own ass. What kind of question is that? Conversations between someone and God are private.
She’s quiet for a few seconds, and when I think she’s about to bite my head off, she mutters, “Important life decisions.” She shrugs absentmindedly. “But I think He’s left the building because I’m not getting much of an answer sitting here.”
Her head falls back, and she stares at the domed ceiling as if expecting the Big Guy to materialize from above. My gaze can’t help but fall to her throat, tracing the curve of her smooth, delicate-looking skin. I swallow hard and rip my gaze away. “I assure you, He’s listening.”
She just shrugs again and continues to stare up. I want to add something more meaningful and encouraging, but I can’t form any words. Her presence has stolen all of them, like always.
I sigh, feeling dismissed, and head for the sacristy. After carefully hanging my alb and putting away the snuffer, I grab my blue baseball cap from the shelf and head to Luke’s office. I shut the door and lean over the desk, bracing my fists atop it. Bowing my head, I inhale deeply, my starved lungs greedily sucking in air.
What is it about Grace that makes me so nervous? What is it about her that steals my breath when I’m close to her, leaving me high-strung and speechless?
Where God appeases me, makes my soul lighter, Grace is like an electric shock jump-starting my dormant body.
The door opens behind me, and I jolt upright. Luke pauses at the door, eyeing me for several seconds before rounding his desk and sitting on his padded leather chair. Dressed in his usual black pants and clerical shirt with a white collar, he looks like the man I aspire to be. The man who inspires me, my confessor. The man who’s been my mentor from the moment I chose to follow in his footsteps.
“I thought you were heading straight to work after Mass?” he asks while rearranging the already impeccable desk, straight
ening the pile of papers. “What are you doing here?”
“Do I need a reason to drop by?”
His hands stop moving. He sits back and levels me with a stare. Often, when he does small things like smiles or looks at me in a certain way, it’s like I’m looking at my mom. It’s a little unsettling at times, dredging up painful memories of her loss. Other times, I’m grateful I have someone who reminds me of her.
“All right. Talk to me,” he prompts, taking me out of my thoughts.
He ducks down and pulls out a chessboard from one of the drawers behind his desk and sets it in front of us, then gestures for me to sit down. I stare at it, a reluctant smile creeping on my face as he stares at me expectantly. For Luke, playing chess is a ploy to make people at ease so they can open up.
I sit across from him and prop the cap on my knee. “Talk about what?”
He starts arranging the pieces on the board. “We both know you’re here to talk about something that’s bothering you, Solomon.”
I blow out a breath and drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m not in the mood to play today.”
“You need a haircut,” he points out, pushing the board to the side.
“Yes, Mom,” I shoot back playfully.
He chuckles, laughter lines fanning the corner of his eyes. “Smartass. I like seeing this side of you where you behave like a teenager instead of acting like a forty-year-old.”
I roll my eyes and his grin widens.
We fall silent for a few seconds. My leg bounces, and I’m trying hard not to look nervous, but Luke’s probing stare is my undoing. Although he might have a rough idea of what’s got me tied in knots, he doesn’t force it out of me. He’s patient, always giving me all the time I need to speak my thoughts.
Eventually, I give in. “She was in there.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the door.
His head tilts slightly to the side as he continues to watch me. He doesn’t need to ask who. He knows about Grace. “Did you talk to her?”