by Katie Henry
Max looks confused. “Compared to who?”
There’s a bead of sweat running down my back. It tickles. “I don’t know, compared to anyone.”
“You can’t compare one thing to every other thing. That’s not how comparisons work.”
“Compared to whoever you want,” I say. “Who do you think is hot?”
“Marie Curie.”
“What?”
“She won two Nobel Prizes. In two different subjects. She’s perfect.”
“Max, she’s dead.”
Max looks offended. “You asked who I thought was hot. She’s hot. Was hot.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “So, do you think Lucy’s hot, or not?”
He considers this. “Her hair’s kind of messy—”
It’s not messy. It’s wavy.
“—but her eyes are nice. I like brown eyes.”
Me too.
“And she’s smart and nice to me. Those things don’t make her hot, but they’re still important.”
Yes. Yes, they are.
“I feel weird talking about this,” he admits.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Forget I asked.”
“I can’t forget this exact second,” Max says. “But probably by tomorrow.”
I hear a low, faraway shuffling sound. I poke my head around the lockers.
Sister Helen is walking back our way.
I dash over to the classroom, but just as I’m about to open the door, there’s Lucy in the doorway, with a smile and an oddly shaped lump under the arm of her cardigan.
“Come on,” I hiss. “She’s coming back.”
“I’m out, I’m out,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Try to look less guilty.”
She sidesteps me and breezes down the hallway, past Sister Helen, who doesn’t even lift her eyes from the bag of gummy bears. Max shrugs, and we run to catch up with Lucy as she rounds the corner.
“That was really close,” I say, my heart still beating too fast.
“I wasn’t worried,” she says. “You had my back.”
There it is again, that roller-coaster jolt in my chest.
Lucy stops outside the door to the dining hall, where Avi and Eden are waiting for us. “And as Saint Joan said: I am not afraid. I was born to do this.”
As Max and I follow her inside, he leans over and whispers: “Do you think she knows what happened to Joan of Arc?”
I’d assumed Max, who takes computers apart for fun, would edit the video, but when I ask, he laughs. “I don’t know how to program. Why would I do it?”
“But didn’t the Unitarians give you all their computers?”
“Yeah, so I could disassemble them and recycle the parts,” he says. “Did you know we throw away fifty million tons of electronic waste every year? And that only like ten percent ever gets recycled?”
I did not. Luckily, Max has several pamphlets in his backpack. It turns out that Eden’s going to take care of the video, and she suggests we do the editing at her house. “I work better on my own computer anyway,” she explains. “And my basement’s really big.”
Eden’s whole house is big, I discover after the bus ride we all take together. It’s also silent when we walk into the entryway, which makes it seem even bigger. My house has never been this quiet. When Dad was home more, he used to talk with Mom as she made dinner, or quiz Sophia on whatever new language she was trying to learn. And even now, Mom makes a ton of noise cooking, or cleaning, or passive-aggressively arguing with the TV weatherman.
“I have to grab my laptop real quick,” Eden says. “I’ll be right back.”
“Show them your altar!” Max says, taking his shoes off at the door. “It’s so cool.”
“No one wants to see my altar.”
I raise my hand. “I do.” Avi and Lucy agree.
Eden glances warily up the stairs. “Fine, but everyone be quiet up there, okay?”
Eden’s room is nothing like I’d imagined—the two twin beds have pink comforters, the walls are sunshine yellow, and there’s a big family portrait on one wall. The only thing that looks like hers is the altar, tucked behind a desk. It’s only a step stool, really, draped with green cloth and covered in little trinkets.
“Which god is it for?” Avi asks.
“Brighid,” Eden says. “Goddess of spring, healing, and poetry. I work with Áine too, and sometimes Lugh, but Brighid the most.”
“You make it sound like a business relationship,” Lucy says.
“More like a conversation. I talk, they talk. Brighid’s a particularly good listener. And she’s patient.”
I bend down to get a closer look at the altar. It’s not like I was expecting sheep entrails or anything, but everything’s so simple, normal. It doesn’t look much different than the shrine to Saint Clare in the chapel. Eden points out each part. “Candles, because she’s associated with fire. She likes roses, so those, too. Tea, for us to share. On Brighid’s Day in February, I’ll make bread for her.”
Lucy scoffs. “And when you wake up, it’s half eaten, like cookies for Santa?”
Eden crosses her arms. “I know you think this is all really silly, but you could at least pretend you don’t.”
“Wait,” Lucy says, holding her hands up. “That’s not what I—”
“I don’t treat your religion like that,” Eden says. “That’s one of the best things about polytheism—I don’t have to treat any religion like it’s silly.”
“What do you mean?” Max asks.
“If monotheism’s true, anyone who doesn’t worship that one God is a sinner. If polytheism’s true, then any god can be real. You don’t have to worship them or think they’re good, but they can still exist. I can believe that Brighid’s real, and Athena’s real, and so is Jesus.” She focuses on Lucy again. “He never did a thing for me, but if you want to work with Him, knock yourself out. Just give me the same respect.”
Lucy looks embarrassed but says nothing. Time for a rapid change of topic.
“Is this your family?” I ask Eden, pointing at a photo above the desk. There’s seven or eight blond and redheaded kids ranging from teenagers to one baby, right in the center.
“Yeah,” Eden says, grabbing her laptop off the desk. “Come on, let’s go downstairs before—”
There’s a voice from somewhere down the hall. “Felicity?”
“Who’s Felicity?” I ask.
“Me,” Eden sighs, then raises her voice. “In here, Mom.”
No one else seems surprised. Avi shrugs. “She’s gone by Eden forever.”
“Since fourth grade,” Eden corrects him. She nods her head over to the family portrait I noticed earlier. “She gave us all saints’ names, in alphabetical order. So there’s Anthony and Beatrice and then Christopher, Dominic, Elizabeth, and—”
“Felicity,” I finish for her, looking at the redheaded baby at the center of the photograph. That must be Eden. Her brothers and sisters are so much older than her. Even in the photo, her oldest brother and sisters look college-aged. That’s why her big house feels so empty. She’s the only one left.
“I messed up her system,” Eden says with a crooked smile.
Eden’s mom opens the door. She’s small and stout, wearing sweatpants and a robe and looking like she just woke up. She has a lot more wrinkles than my mom, and all-gray hair.
“Oh, it’s a whole group of you,” she says.
“Hi, Mrs. Mulaney!” Max says from behind Avi, waving his hand furiously.
“Hello, Max,” she says, brightening when she sees Lucy. “Lucy! When’s the last time we got to talk? It seems like it’s been months.”
“I think it was on Assumption, in August,” Lucy says in a cheery camp-counselor voice I’ve never heard her use before. “Your son was visiting, and he brought his adorable baby to Mass?”
Mrs. Mulaney barely acknowledges Avi and me as Eden introduces us, still chattering with Lucy about church and babies and what does she think of that new priest, the young one with th
e long hair?
“Mom,” Eden says, glancing back and forth between Lucy and Mrs. Mulaney, her hands dug deep in her cardigan pockets. “We’re going down to the basement now.”
“To do what, exactly?” Mrs. Mulaney asks with a sharp look at the altar in the corner. Eden clenches her teeth.
“Oh my God, Mom, homework,” Eden says. “What did you think, animal sacrifice?”
“We have a group project,” Lucy interrupts. “For theology. We’re presenting a section of Augustine’s Confessions.”
“That sounds interesting,” Mrs. Mulaney says. “Which section?”
“His conversion in the garden—I mean, obviously everyone wanted the story of the pear tree, but our group didn’t get to pick first.”
The way the story slides off Lucy’s tongue, I almost believe we’re here for a theology project, too. Mrs. Mulaney nods, and I stand there in awe. Everything tumbles out of my mouth whether I want it to or not, but Lucy is so determined and precise, even when she’s lying through her teeth. I’ve never been a good liar, so I barely ever try. It’s my one accidental virtue.
Eden nudges Max. “Let’s go,” she says, walking past her mom and out of the room. Max bounds after her, with Avi following. I take a couple steps outside the half-closed door but then stop to wait for Lucy.
“I’ll see you on Sunday, Mrs. Mulaney,” Lucy says.
“I—” Mrs. Mulaney clears her throat, and Lucy stops. “Half the time I don’t even know what she’s talking about, with—what’s it—”
“Celtic Reconstructionist Polytheism?” Lucy says, getting it right.
“Her father says it’s a phase,” Mrs. Mulaney says, and leaves it there, like she wants Lucy to agree.
“I think it’s . . . meaningful to her,” Lucy says. “I think she’s happy.”
“Keep an eye on her, for me. Make sure none of this goes too far.”
I can feel Lucy gearing up for her biggest lie yet. “Mrs. Mulaney,” she says, “I’d never let that happen.”
“They call it Planned Parenthood,” the narrator warns, “because it sounds better than ‘Infanticide Incorporated.’”
“I bet he spent days thinking up that line,” Avi says as the screen goes red.
I remember watching a couple sex ed videos back in middle school. One had two white teenagers rapping about the importance of contraceptives. The other was called A Child Is Born and showed the joy of childbirth in all its naked, screaming, bloody glory. It made Amanda Keppler faint. But that was nothing compared to the monstrosity that is Relationships Without Regret.
By the time the video moves on to the benefits of “natural family planning” within Catholic marriages, I’m ready to run from the room screaming. How have the rest of my classmates watched this video three years in a row?
The screen shifts to a happy couple, hand in hand, the wife displaying her gigantic belly proudly. “Semen is full of zinc, and a married man engaging in natural intercourse will supply this necessary nutrient to his wife.”
“Or she could eat more meat!” Eden yells at her laptop screen, which we’ve all crowded around.
“I’m pretty sure they’re suggesting she eat his meat,” I say.
Lucy gags. “Michael, ew.”
“They’re not suggesting that,” Eden says. “Blow jobs aren’t allowed, they don’t make babies.”
“Anyway,” Lucy interrupts, “obviously that’s a silly reason to disallow barrier methods, but also, I looked up the study he cited, and it’s from 1947.”
“So not only is it a bad reason, but it’s a bad reason from before color TV existed?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“So where do you want to put that?” Eden asks, hands above her keyboard.
“We could have it in a speech bubble,” Avi suggests. “Like with the husband’s dick saying it.”
I laugh, and so does Eden. Lucy frowns.
“We’re not doing that,” Lucy says, like the rest of us don’t even get a vote.
If Lucy had her way, we’d be writing a dissertation. With endnotes. “Why not?” I ask.
“It’s immature.”
I stare at her. “Do you know how old you are? Because I know you like tea and watching Jeopardy!, but you’re actually not sixty-five.”
“Think about your audience,” Avi says. “You’re not addressing Congress, your audience is Connor.”
“Maybe I don’t want to play to the lowest common denominator,” Lucy says.
“Lucy,” I say. “I’m surprised by your indicknation over the penis speech bubble.”
She gives me a dark look.
“You’re making the rest of us feel like we’re being shafted.”
“It’s not funny,” she snaps. “This isn’t funny.”
“It might be, if you weren’t such a prude.”
I know it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves my mouth. Lucy stomps up the stairs to the ground floor of the house, shutting the door behind her.
Avi and I look at each other. He raises his eyebrows. I stand up and walk to the stairs.
“You always know just what to say,” Avi deadpans as I pass by.
“Shut up.”
Lucy’s sitting on the hallway floor in the entryway, her back up against the wall, her eyes staring at the ceiling.
We sit for a moment in silence, then Lucy says, “Before you ask, no, I’m not okay.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“That’s inconsiderate.”
“It was a joke,” I say. “The prude thing was a joke.”
“It absolutely was not.”
She’s not even going to let me apologize now? “It was!”
“No, it’s true, and I’m fine with that,” she says. “I don’t think it’s some failing on my part if I don’t want to wax lyrical about—uh—”
“Penises,” I say. “I think the word you’re looking for is—”
“Male genitalia! God!” She slumps back against the wall.
First storming out of HA, now using the Lord’s name in vain. Something’s clearly wrong.
“What’s up with you?”
She hesitates. “I wanted to do something good, something real and helpful.”
“We are.”
“Are we?” She looks at me. “Or are we using it as an excuse to mess with people we don’t like?”
I consider this. “Why can’t it be both?”
“Because! If we’re trying to make sure our classmates know enough about sex to make their own decisions, I can justify that. Even if everything goes wrong, even if we get caught, I can live with that.”
“We’re not going to get caught,” I assure her, though I don’t know why I think that.
“We could,” Lucy says. “This could have real consequences. So we have to make sure what we’re doing is worth it.”
“We’ll make sure it’s all important. And that it’s worth it, if we get caught. And also that we don’t get caught. That’s like priority number one.”
Lucy laughs, her shoulders relaxing maybe half a centimeter.
We’re sitting so close our knees are touching, so close I can smell the laundry detergent on her shirt, so close I can see her lips are chapped, and I wonder if mine are too. I wonder if we kissed right now, both with cracked, chapped lips, if it would feel like sandpaper. I decide I don’t really care.
But before I can decide anything else, Eden’s mom is standing over us. Lucy jumps away. “Do you two need anything?” she asks.
“Construction paper,” I say.
“A copy of Augustine’s Confessions,” Lucy says.
I follow Eden’s mom through the kitchen to collect the supplies, still thinking about Lucy’s chapped lips.
10
THE LIFE CHOICES assembly is scheduled for fifth period, PE, which is really too bad. Since it’s pouring outside, I would have been guaranteed a full hour of hiding behind gym bleachers and playing card games with Max. Instead, I’m following Avi and the rest of
our PE class into the auditorium behind the chapel.
“I don’t know who decided bright purple was a good look for this place,” Avi says as we settle into plush seats in the front row, on the aisle. “But they were wrong.”
“I don’t know,” I say, running my hand over the fuzzy armrest. “Maybe alien vomit purple will be the next big thing.”
Theresa, at the head of her class, stops on the stairs to glare at us. “Violet. Our school color is violet,” she says before swishing her ponytail and continuing up.
“Violet,” Avi repeats. “Please. It’s Barney.” He cranes his neck toward the back. “Do you see where everyone is?”
I twist around, scanning the auditorium. Lucy told everyone to split up, to look less suspicious, so Max agreed to hang back when we lined up. He’s sitting in the second row, in the center, chatting up a girl in the row behind him.
“Eden’s off to the left,” Avi says. “Five rows up.”
It takes me a couple seconds until a distinct red ribbon flashes in the second-to-last row. Lucy’s wearing her ribbon as a headband today, and she smiles nervously when she sees me looking at her. I don’t feel nervous at all. Returning the annotated DVD to the theology room bookshelf went off without a hitch, and there’s nothing left for us to do.
Avi nudges me. “It’s starting.”
Father Peter takes the stage. He clears his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, as if we’re opera patrons, not teenagers about to hear about STDs against our will. “I’m very happy that once again, we’re able to host this Life Choices program. We’ll be starting with a speech and activity session hosted by Mr. Paul Dwyer—”
“Wait,” I whisper to Avi. “Purity Paul’s name is actually Paul?”
“Why’d you think I called him that?”
“—followed by a short video presentation. Now.” Father Peter folds his arms across his chest. “This is sensitive material, and I expect each and every one of you to be mature about this. There are terms used in these presentations you may find . . . uncomfortable.”
Father Peter sighs the kind of sigh that only comes from decades of hearing fifteen-year-olds giggle at the word “vagina.”
“I expect the St. Clare’s community to be attentive and respectful to those who have given up time in their day to speak to you. On that note, let me introduce our guest speaker, Mr. Dwyer.”