The Patron Saint of Butterflies

“In your backpack,” she says sadly. “I noticed it sitting open by the door, just before I came out here. The barrette was right on top.” She shakes her head. “Why would you steal, Honey? Why? You broke a commandment!”


I shrug. “I just … I saw you looking at it in the store and … and then you went and put it back and … I know it’s wrong to steal, but … I just wanted you to have it, Ags.” I look into her blue eyes. “I just wanted you to have something for yourself for once. To feel pretty, instead of always trying to make yourself ugly with all those freaky penances you do. It’s not a sin to feel pretty, Agnes! It’s not!”

Agnes’s eyes blur with tears as I talk and when she blinks, they roll down her cheeks. “We’re not supposed to clothe the body,” she whispers. “Just the soul.”

“That’s garbage,” I answer. “God wouldn’t’ve given us bodies if he didn’t want us to take care of them.”

Agnes doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she looks at me again. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Everything’s changing.”

I take her hand in mine. “I know.” The words hang between us, heavy as stones. Out of nowhere, a drop of rain hits the side of my face. I squint and look up. Two more drops splash my cheeks and then all at once, as if God has shaken a wet blanket in the heavens, thousands of drops scatter and fall around us. Agnes pulls the cardigan over her head.

“Get back in the car!” I yell, throwing open the door.

We sit there for a while, watching the rain run in soaking rivulets along the windshield. It’s coming down so hard that even with the lights on, I can’t make out the shrubs anymore. The glass looks like the inside of a thick piece of ice.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing Agnes’s sleeve. “Let’s run.”

Agnes looks at me like I’m crazy. “Run where?”

“Just run! Race! Like we used to! In the rain!” Something inside me starts jumping around, thinking about it.

But Agnes just stares down at her wet legs. After a moment, she curls them up under her. “I can’t.”

“Oh, why not?” I reach out and punch her softly in the arm. “Come on, Agnes, you know you w—”

“No, I can’t, Honey. I mean it.”

I sit back against the seat and pout for a minute. “Is it because you’re good at it? Is that why?” Silence. “It is, isn’t it? It’s just like the ‘pretty’ thing.” I sit up straight again and turn toward her. “Agnes, you know, I’ve been trying for a while to figure you out since this saint-wannabe thing kicked in. You used to be this really great, funny best friend of mine. Remember how hard you could make me laugh? So that I practically peed in my pants? Remember?” I nudge her a little with my elbow, but she doesn’t look up. “I can kind of understand the whole penance deal and praying all the time and all that. I really can. I know you want to be good. But this, this I don’t understand at all. You’re a really good runner. I mean it. And I know you enjoy doing it. And now, because you think that being good at something must mean you’re taking glory away from him or … or whatever the hell it is … ”

“Would you stop using that word?”

“What word? Hell?”

Agnes flinches and then nods.

“Okay. I’ll try.” I take a deep breath. “I just … God, you already give up so much. You wear strings around your waist that practically cut you in half, and you barely eat, and you probably even sleep on the floor at night when you’re in your own room. Why do you have to give this up, too? I mean … it’s not necessary. I really don’t think God means for us to offer up everything, Agnes. I really don’t.”

She turns her head to look at me and for just a second I can see that clear, liquid light behind her eyes.

“Let’s run,” I whisper. “Come on, Ags. Just once. It’ll feel great.”

I switch Nana Pete’s beams to high. The bright lights slice through the rain like razors. It’s the only light we have to illuminate the length of the parking lot, but it’ll have to do. We line up at the far end of the lot, just past the hotel front door. Agnes is tipped forward, the way she used to in the old bicycle ring, her fingertips spread flat against the pavement, her rear end high in the air. She has taken off Nana Pete’s cardigan, and her new shorty pajamas are so wet they are practically transparent. I imitate her racer’s stance and then look over through my dripping strands of hair.

“Just one,” Agnes says, staring nervously ahead. “That’s it.”

“Ready … ,” I say, dragging the word out slowly. Her fingertips tense beneath her. “Set … ” Her butt lifts up an inch more. “Go!”

She doesn’t notice when I stop halfway across the lot. The rain is coming down so hard that I can barely see.

“Go,” I whisper, watching her run through the downpour, her elbows pumping alongside her hips, hair streaming behind her in thin ropes. “Go, Agnes.”





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