His mom paused. “I guess our pastor doesn’t wear one. What about asking Fr. Borgia? We’ll pass his rectory on our way home from the supermarket. He probably has one—but whether or not he’ll loan it out is another matter.”
Holy Child was a small, run-down parish on the outskirts of town. It was the only local church that had an early Mass on weekdays. George’s mom had been going to the 6 a.m. Mass there for as long as he could remember.
They rang the bell at the rectory. There was a long pause before the door opened. “Mrs. Peterson! George!” Fr. Borgia said, a little too loudly. “What a nice surprise! Come in!”
Fr. Borgia was a wiry Italian priest with iron-gray hair and a black patch over one eye. George remembered how disappointed he had been when, in fifth grade, his mother had informed him that Father Borgia wasn’t wearing the eye patch because he had lost an eye in a knife fight, as popular grade school gossip said: the old priest had glaucoma.
Fr. Borgia seemed to be very interested in John Paul 2 High. “How’s it going over there?” he shouted bringing a couple cans of soda into the rectory’s living room. “I was in favor of it as soon as I heard of what they did to Dan Costain! The nerve of those people down at St. Lucy’s! And they claim to be a Catholic school!” He snorted.
George shifted nervously in his chair. For some reason, no one ever talked about why John Paul 2 High had been started. But Fr. Borgia seemed to have no reservations.
“Is it true that they fired him because he was teaching Humanae Vitae?” Fr. Borgia roared. “Imagine that! Teaching a papal encyclical at a Catholic school! The horror!”
George, taking a gulp of his coke, snorted in laughter and sprayed soda across the coffee table.
He apologized and started to clean up, but Fr. Borgia waved him off impatiently. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Do you have a chaplain at your school, son?”
“No, I don’t think so,” George admitted. “It’s been a little disorganized.”
“Hm. So, what brings you here?”
George cleared his throat nervously.
The night before the party, Allie ignored Tyler's repeated calls and flipped through the four volumes of Butler’s Lives of the Saints that Celia had lent her. “And that’s not even all the saints,” Celia had said cheerfully. “Pope John Paul II canonized lots more! But I don’t have a volume on them yet.”
That didn’t cheer Allie up. Even with another volume she didn't think she'd find a single saint she could dress up as without looking stupid. Saints all seemed to wear flowing gowns or nun outfits, and she didn’t have anything, anything that resembled that kind of costume.
“All right, Truth person,” she growled to nobody as she slumped on the floor by her mom’s bed, staring into the closet. “If you’re still following me around, then maybe you can tell me what can I wear to this saint party.”
If you want to know the truth, you must look for it.
It’s that simple.
It wasn't as though she got an answer. It was just that, as she looked at the white summer dress hanging in her mom’s closet, she suddenly got a really good idea. Or a passable one, at least.
She jumped up at once to work on her costume. But before she forgot, she whispered, “Thanks.”
After dinner, George got a ride with the Costains and helped Celia unload the party things. Mr. Costain had to pick up one of Celia’s younger sisters from cheer-leading practice and would be back later.
“Do you think these will be all right?” Mr. Costain asked, handing George and Celia a rainbow pile of Catholic Answer tracts through the car window. The little pamphlets had titles such as “Are Catholics Born Again?” “Call No Man Father” and “Do Catholics worship statues?”
“All right for what?” Celia asked.
“For the event tonight,” Mr. Costain explained. “James said you needed Catholic tracts.”
George looked at Celia quizzically. Celia also looked puzzled, but then she said, “Brian said his family has a “Defending the Faith Night” on Halloween. Maybe James was thinking of doing the same thing at the party. I guess they’ll be okay.”
“It’s what I had on hand,” Mr. Costain said apologetically. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to be there the whole time—I was called into work tonight.” Mr. Costain had been working night shifts as an assistant manager at the supermarket.
“We'll be fine,” Celia assured him. “See you later, Dad!”
Yeah, fine. George thought that sitting around reading Catholic tracts to other Catholics was a pretty dumb idea for a party—what was James thinking? Maybe he was thinking about educating Allie. James’ holier-than-thou attitude would trip him up there. George’s lip curled involuntarily.
When you’re finished with that,” Celia said, “can you grab some stuff from the furnace room?”
“Like what?” George grunted, dragging the tables into position.
“Dad put soda and chips there earlier. The door’s open.”
“Okay,” George said, walking toward the hallway. “I could use a break.” It's a good thing I’m not wearing my cassock yet, he thought. I would have messed it up. The cassock Fr. Borgia had let him borrow was immaculately tailored and didn't look like it had ever been worn. It fit George well, but he felt kind of weird wearing it, especially when Allie Weaver kept popping into his mind.
I hope Fr. Borgia doesn’t have any ideas about me becoming a priest, he thought nervously. I mean, it’s only a costume…
The furnace room was near the center of the school. George had never been inside it before, but the old metal door opened with a creak when he turned the knob.
He walked into the darkened room, and immediately he was hit by a wave of revulsion. It smelled terrible in here; like there was a dead rat or something. Gross.
George found the light switch and turned it on. The sodas were right by the door. But the smell seemed to be getting worse.
Where is it coming from? The huge, ancient looking furnace took up almost all the space, vents sprouting from its top and branching toward the ceiling.
The smell seemed to be coming from…he sniffed deeply, and almost gagged. It seemed to be coming from the furnace itself. He approached it nervously, wondering if it was going to blow up or something.
Then he saw something that made him even more nervous. Wisps of smoke seemed to be coming from one of the ventilators at the top of the furnace. But it sure doesn’t smell like smoke!
Fighting a wave of nausea, George pulled on the ventilator. Loose screws popped. Clearly, someone had been here recently.
He reached in and felt something smooth and plastic. Mystified, he pulled it out. It was a clear plastic bottle with ugly yellow liquid in it. The smoke—and the smell—was rising from holes in the top of the bottle.
It’s a stink bomb, he thought incredulously. Someone put a stink bomb in the furnace!
J.P. He growled inwardly. This wasn’t funny. This thing was stinking up the room, and if he hadn’t found it, it would have stunk up the whole school through the ventilation system. I can’t believe he did this. I’m gonna kill him.
Right now, he had to get thed stink bomb out of the school. He looked around frantically and grabbed a roll of black garbage bags. He threw the plastic bottle into a bag, tied the drawstring tight, then double-bagged it. The smell suddenly grew less pungent; but the bag started to swell alarmingly.
Gotta get this thing outside. George ran for the door. I am…really…going to kill J.P.!
Here are your sodas,” George said, clunking them down on one of the tables.
“It took you long enough,” Celia said. “The others should be here any minute.” She sniffed. “Do you smell something?”
“Uh…” George said uncomfortably. He had thrown the stink bomb into the woods outside the school. Then he had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom washing his hands, changing into his costume and throwing away the undershirt he had been wearing, but apparently it wasn’t enough.
“Where’s James?” he asked. “I thought he was going to plan everything.”
Celia shrugged, but looked worried. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He was supposed to meet me here.”
George looked around. The tables were covered with tablecloths, trays of snacks, and pictures of saints. One table also had books about saints, along with more pictures and photographs.
“I brought a tub so we could do bobbing for apples,” Celia said, a little anxiously. “But I was hoping that James would have more things to do.”
A door slammed.
“Maybe that’s him now,” Celia said. “Nice costume, by the way.”
“Thanks,” George fingered the cassock’s tight collar.
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“St. John Bosco.”
“Ah ha!” Celia said triumphantly. “You’re not supposed to tell!”
“Oh, right.” George said. He was still distracted by the stink bomb. “What about you? You’re not even wearing your costume yet.”
“You’re right! Can you stay here and greet people while I get changed? ” Celia grabbed her patchwork tote bag and dashed out of the gym. George grunted, not looking forward to having to deal with James.
But it wasn’t James. A few second later, when the cafeteria door creaked open, George looked up to see—an angel. Allie Weaver stood there, wearing a fluttery white dress and feathery white angel wings Glittery flecks sparkled in her blond hair and around her blue eyes. Despite her uncomfortable, cornered-again-by-crazy-Catholics expression, she was still a knockout. George felt his jaw hanging.
“Wow…” he said. “Hey, Allie. Nice costume. You look beautiful.”
She laughed nervously. “Thanks. I was looking for something, you know, that would work for this thing and for the Sparrow Hills dance tonight.” Her nose crinkled. “What’s that smell?”
George felt his face get hot. I’m going to kill J.P., he thought. I really am.
Allie was surprised by the costumes that the JP2 kids had made. First there was George, dressed up as some type of priest. Then Brian, wearing a breastplate of juice-can lids, holding a wooden shield and plastic sword. Allie thought he must be a knight.
Next Liz had walked in, dressed as an old lady. She had powdered her hair and was wearing a shawl, granny glasses, and, weirdly enough, she had put a pillow under her dress to make her look pregnant.
“What are you supposed to be?” Allie asked, and Liz gave her a ‘duh’ look.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “Just think of my name!”
“Oh… yeah, right,” Allie had said, and hoped that her ignorance hadn’t shown.
Then J.P. arrived. His costume, at least, was obvious. He was wrapped in a white bed sheet, carrying a staff made from a tree branch, and wearing a cardboard pope hat on his head. When he entered the gym he raised one hand in a mock blessing. “Tha Lord…be with you!” he said in what was apparently supposed to be an imitation of Pope John Paul II’s accent.
“Oh, look who’s here,” George grumbled. He seemed to be in a bad mood. “The life of the party.”
“John Paul is always the life of the party, my friend,” JP said expansively. Then he shook his head. “Whoa: my name is John Paul, I’m dressed up as Pope John Paul, and I’m at John Paul 2 High School. This is like, mind-blowing!”
“J.P.,” Liz said, giving him a funny look. “Is it just me, or is your pope hat made out of a pizza box?”
“Do you know how hard it is to find white cardboard?” J.P. said. “Cut me some slack!”
“Is James here yet?” Celia came into the gym wearing a beautiful, old-fashioned gown, her hair flowing around her shoulders. The only puzzling thing about her costume was that she had drawn a thin red line around her neck. It was a little jarring.
“Hi, Celia,” Allie said, walking up to her. “Nice…costume. What’s that thing on your neck for?”
“You don’t know?” Celia said, smiling. “Well, just think of my name…”
“Never mind,” sighed Allie. She was glad that no one from Sparrow Hills was here to see her hanging out with…well, saints.
George kept looking for a chance to pull J.P. aside and yell at him, but the guy kept bouncing around the room, picking sword fights with Brian, poking Liz with his crosier, and pronouncing random blessings and excommunications on everything. Finally, after Celia had made them pose for a group photo, George caught him alone at the drink table, where J.P. was consigning Diet Pepsi to the depths of Hell.
“Hey, J.P.,” he said, glaring at him. “Nice stunt you pulled today.”
“I know!” J.P. said with a goofy smile. “Of course, I had to put it together at the last minute…”
I can’t believe he thinks it’s a joke! George thought.
“…but once I found the pizza box, the whole thing came together,” J.P. said.
“What?” George said. “I was talking about your other stunt. The stink bomb.”
J.P. looked mystified. “What are you talking about?”
“Stop it,” George said impatiently. “I know you put a stink bomb in the furnace. You could have ruined the whole party. It’s not funny.”
“Somebody put a stink bomb in the furnace?” J.P. said. “Wow. That’s pretty cool.”
“Uh, no, actually it’s not,” George growled.
“It must have been the poltergeist,” J.P. said, his eyes widening. “Whoa! I was joking before, but maybe the poltergeist…is real!”
George gritted his teeth and prayed for patience.
“Man! We should set some traps for him!” J.P. said. “Maybe we should set them up tonight! We gotta catch this ghost!”
“Traps?” George said, and wished he hadn’t. He didn’t know what J.P. was talking about, and he really didn’t want to know.
“Yeah!” J.P. said enthusiastically. “Hold on a sec…” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Look!”
He held up a small metal cylinder, with a plastic horn protruding from the top.
“A miniature air horn!” J.P. said conspiratorially. “It’ll make the loudest sound you ever heard! Perfect for alarms! We could rig it up so when the poltergeist comes in…”
“Sure,” George said, snatching the air horn. “Or blow it in someone’s ear when they weren’t looking?”
“Hey! I need that!” J.P. said. “Give it back! ”
George walked away, ignoring J.P.’s protests.
Celia was pouring herself a soda. “What was that all about?”
“J.P. had this.” George held up the mini air horn.
Celia took it and sighed. “I’ll give it to Dad.” She slipped it into her purse.
“Don’t push that button on the top, or it’ll make a real loud noise. There’s something else,” George said, gritting his teeth. “J.P. put a—”
“Dad!” Celia exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Costain had just walked into the gym. “Hello!” he said, smiling broadly. “Well, I have to say I’m very impressed. Very good costumes, one and all.” He picked up the Catholic tracts from one of the display tables. “Here’s some for you, Liz. And you, J.P., why don’t you take the ones on John Paul II? And George, you might as well take the ones on celibacy and the priesthood…I think I have—yes, here’s one on angels for you, Miss Weaver. Celia, you can take these ones on salvation and indulgences…I think that’s all of them.”
Everyone stared at the tracts. “Catholic trivia, right?” J.P. said hopefully, looking with some confusion at his copy of “Was Peter In Rome”?
But even more confusingly, Mr. Costain didn’t explain the rules of the game. He just said, “Ready to go? Sorry to rush you, but I’ve got to get to work.” And with that, he walked out of the gym.
One by one, they followed him out. George caught up with Celia and whispered. “Go where? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, shrugging. “Maybe he’s got a surprise for us or something. I wonder where James is?
I hope he shows up for this…”
They followed Mr. Costain down the darkened hallway and out the front doors, where the Costains’ van stood with the engine rumbling. “Come on, pile in!” he said.
One by one, they piled into the van. Allie had some trouble getting in because of her wings, and George helped her slip them off.
“Thanks,” she said, and sat next to him in the van. “Hey,” she said in a lower voice, “Do you know where we’re going?”
“No idea.”
I wonder where James is?” Celia said again while her dad took a call on his cell phone.
“Do you have to keep asking?” Allie asked in some exasperation. “It’s not as though he’s the life of the party.”
“But it is his party,” Celia said, a little nervously. “I hope he didn’t get in an accident on the way over.”
“Okay, Brian, I give up,” Liz said, changing the subject. “Who are you?”
“Martin of Tours,” Brian said. “You know, the Roman soldier who gave his cloak to the beggar. That’s why I’m only wearing half a cape.”
“Oh. Yeah,” said Liz. “How about you, Allie? There are angel saints like St. Michael, but I don’t remember any girl angel saints.”
“Maybe she’s Saint Michelle,” said J.P. “Or Saint Gabrielle.”
“Who are they?” Allie said grumpily.
“St. Michelle is St. Michael’s wife,” J.P. said authoritatively. “And St. Gabrielle is St. Gabriel’s wife.”
The van erupted into laughter, except for Allie and Brian. “Angels don’t have wives,” Brian said, frowning. “They’re spirits.”
“Oh yeah? Then where did all those baby cherubs come from?” J.P. said.
“We’re here!” Mr. Costain said.
To Allie’s surprise, the van had stopped at Sparrow Hills.
“Everybody out!” Mr. Costain said when no one moved.
Celia opened the door and everyone slid out.
Maybe this is something Catholics always do for All Saint’s Day, Allie thought. I wish they had told me! She wasn’t exactly prepared to be seen in public with her classmates dressed as they were.
Catholic, Reluctantly (The John Paul 2 High Series) Page 13