I clap my hands over both ears. “Turn it off!”
Nana Pete leans over quickly and switches off the radio. “I’m sorry, Mouse. I forgot.” The tires make a crunching sound beneath us as she backs the car out of the driveway. “Why aren’t you two in school?” she asks after a moment, steering the car onto Sanctity Road. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Is this a holiday?”
“Emmanuel always shuts school down during Ascension Week,” Benny says.
“The Ascension,” Nana Pete murmurs. “Which one is that again?”
I almost laugh out loud, until I remember that people like Nana Pete who don’t know the holy days of obligation, let alone recognize Jesus Christ as the one and only Lord and Savior of the world, are going to end up burning for all eternity in hell. Dad says that Nana Pete is a heathen because she doesn’t believe in any kind of religion at all. But when I asked her once about that, she said that believing in God and believing in religion were two different things. Which doesn’t make any sense at all.
“It’s when Jesus Christ rose up to heaven,” I answer.
“Ah.” Nana Pete nods her head. “Of course. And what about that march thingie your father was talking about? What is that, exactly?”
I tell her about the annual tradition, the biggest one of the whole year for Believers, when everyone, including the children, dress in snow-white robes (made especially for the occasion) on the evening of the sacred night. Then we will wind our way up a sloped gravelly path until we reach the highest point of the hill where, as a congregation, we will reenact the Ascension itself.
“And let me guess,” Nana Pete says dryly. “Emmanuel plays the part of Jesus Christ.”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Of course.” Her tone of voice irritates me, but I stay quiet. There’s no way my grandmother could ever understand how amazing a thing it is, how last year, as I stood between Christine and Mr. Murphy and stared at Emmanuel, who lifted his arms toward the purple sky and tipped his head back, an energy began to emanate from him. It was like an actual heat began to radiate from his body, and his feet very nearly lifted off the ground. It was incredible, just like the picture of Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who used to float off the ground when he meditated.
There is a pause, the only sound in the car the pat-pat of Benny batting his empty Funyuns bag between his hands.
“So have you been staying up late to practice for this Ascension March?” Nana Pete presses. “Is that why you’re limping?”
I shake my head as my cheeks flush hot. “I’m not limping.”
“Okay.” Nana Pete eases the bulky car into the narrow driveway of our house and throws it into park. “Can I ask you another question, then?” I can feel her eyes on me. “What did your mother mean earlier when she asked if Emmanuel had sent for you and Honey? Were you in some kind of trouble?”
My blood runs cold. The batting of the plastic bag behind us stops.
“Did Emmanuel take you guys into the Regulation Room?” Benny asks.
I snap my head around and glower at him. His eyes are as wide as softballs behind his glasses.
“The what?” Nana Pete asks, looking at Benny.
“Benedict.” My voice feels and sounds like steel. “Shut your mouth. I mean it.”
My little brother whimpers and then slumps down behind the backseat, disappearing from view. Nana Pete turns off the car engine.
“What exactly,” she asks, staring at me, “is the Regulation Room?” She says the last two words very slowly, as if something bitter has just filled her mouth. My nose starts to wiggle. “Agnes? Talk to me.” Nana Pete never calls me Agnes unless something is seriously wrong. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“It’s nothing. Really. It’s nothing.” The sting of tears pinches the back of my throat.
My grandmother reaches out and grabs my hand. “Agnes. Darlin’. Look at me. Please. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know that’s not true.”
But I just shake my head harder. My nose is going into overdrive thinking about having to tell another lie today, a frantic little knob of a thing that is moving so hard that I am afraid it’s going to take flight off my face. I grab the door handle and yank it open.
“Mouse!” Nana Pete pleads.
Slamming the door behind me, I break into a run, ignoring the white-hot burning of my legs, and disappear into the house. It is not until I get into my room that I realize she has not followed me. I listen to the Queen Mary’s engine as it revs furiously, like a rabid animal growling, and then fades into the distance.
Slowly I take the stones out of my pocket, lining them up one by one on top of my bed. Then I lie down, trying not to wince as they dig and poke into my back. If Saint Rose could do it, then so can I.