The dog grew rigid and barked. A whiz of bike tires on asphalt: Francesca, tearing from their garage out into the street, her bare calves circling below the bunched silk hem. The dog lunged at her.
“Francesca!” Mira yelled, as her sister sped past Ben and the dog. Mira winced, knowing their father may have heard her call and hell could break loose. She stared at her sister’s misshapen figure for as long as she was in sight. It wasn’t unusual for the Cillo girls to ride bikes like they were twelve, not when they weren’t allowed in hardly anybody’s car, and neither had applied for their junior license. Anyone who saw Francesca would think she’d lost it: a bag lady tearing along the highway down Powder Neck before seven a.m. Mira wondered, had she lost it?
Ben gave a half wave up to Mira, straining against the dog pulling toward Francesca’s leftover dust.
“Hey!” he called, unsure.
More importantly, would Mr. Falso think she’d lost it? And if he did, would he tell their father? Mira was fairly sure Daddy never noticed when Francesca went dim; she hid her withdrawals, citing girl problems, or lack of sleep. Mira helped, backing up the same excuses, even claiming the same ones sometimes, to make them seem more likely. What would happen if there was some adult consensus that Francesca needed help?
Above, the crayon-colored birds held Mira with their eyes, wobbling on their branches. They crouched one by one, then rose together on silent wingbeats, toward the ocean and Francesca, up and out of sight.
The dog yanked Ben’s arm. He planted his legs.
“Girls?” her father called crustily from inside.
Mira dragged the window shut.
*
Francesca rounded the tip of Powder Neck, riding close to the ocean. She tried to ignore the cooler air gripping her chest and her runny nose. She rode slowly past identical bungalows until she spotted the cherry Miata parked in front of a white house with a porch layered in jalousie windows like a glass cake. The garage door mawed open. Anxious thoughts skidded through Francesca’s mind: Had someone broken in? It was so early. She slid from her bicycle and walked it, taking baby steps alongside. Mr. Falso’s fancy European racing bike lay on its side with its parts strewn around on the garage floor. Her heart pounded: he was already awake. More toys lay about, in the garage and the driveway, and on the lawn. They included a second bike, for off-roading, which he did in the nearby conservation area; a moped, for cruising Powder Neck Beach at night; a small speedboat for fishing off the boat club dock; rappelling hooks and harnesses, for climbing in the quarry; and an eerie man-sized scuba suit hanging from a hook, for dives into the harbor. Francesca knew precisely how Mr. Falso used each of these things from scraps of overheard conversations.
She slipped her hand through the armpit of her mother’s dress and felt her breast. The muscle was pleasingly thin over her sternum. Saints starved themselves so that others could see their heart beating for love of Jesus underneath their skin: this she knew.
“Francesca?”
Mr. Falso’s voice came from the dark back half of the garage. He emerged in a thin T-shirt and jeans stained with grease. Francesca stared at his arms—how hadn’t she known about the tattoos?—and shivered.
“You rode out here on your bike? It’s barely seven in the morning!” His words were stern, but his face exploded with happy surprise, the signature Mr. Falso look: eyebrows spiked upward, white teeth bared.
Francesca snapped to attention. “I don’t drive.”
“You could have asked your dad to drive you out here. Or I could have met you somewhere! You didn’t have to come out all this way…” He wiped his hands on a cloth and stepped toward her, his smile tightening. “What did you come out all this way about, anyway?”
Francesca held her elbows. Rehearsing them at night, the words seemed easy and right. Now in the harsh light of morning, they seemed impossible.
So she lied. “I want to talk to you about a friend.”
Mr. Falso pocketed his thumbs. “Then this isn’t a spiritual matter?”
Francesca cleared her throat. “It is, in a way. My friend’s spirit. I care about her deeply, you see. And I’m afraid she’s in trouble.”
“I see. Remember, talking to me isn’t like confessing to Father Ernesto. If someone in your family is in trouble, I’m obliged to tell an adult.”
“Whatever,” Francesca said quickly, then scolded herself: stupid Cesca! Her flip “whatever” made her sound like a dumb teenager. She felt a tide rolling back, sand moving back under her feet, everything in reverse. His face assumed its professional mask. She stumbled for lost ground.
“What I mean is, I don’t care, because you’re the right person to tell. Father Ernesto is—God forgive me for saying this—a little out of touch when it comes to stuff of young people”—Young people, NOT teenagers. I am a young person, Francesca thought hard, willing him, telepathically, to understand. She cleared her throat—“stuff young people have to deal with. I would never be comfortable telling Father Ernesto that a friend is acting … inappropriate. With boys.”
Mr. Falso’s mask dissolved, she thought. It had softened around the eyes and mouth, she was sure.
“I’m touched that you came to me,” he said.
Francesca’s blood pounded hot in her ears. It was going to be okay. And her story about Connie wasn’t untrue; her behavior around boys lately was appalling. The kind of person Francesca wanted Mr. Falso to think she was—the kind of person she was-was—would care about Connie’s self-respect. She couldn’t ignore the problem. Her concern was based in love.
“She’s been letting boys touch her for the attention. And they’ve been using her, terribly,” she whispered.
She saw a tiny flicker, a blaze in his eyes. It was a protective fire, anger born of gallantry. She might have been talking about someone else, but he seemed to be thinking of her. And he wanted to protect her.
“Go on.” He matched her whisper.
“Not just any boys: awful boys. Of course, all boys our age are awful. It’s always been this way for us.”
He leaned forward. “Us?”
“We attract boys we want nothing to do with. It’s like we give off some vibe. But the ones we want don’t seem to see us.” Francesca bit her lip as she watched the muscles in his arms shift under his shirt. She trained her eyes on his faith charm. “Of course, we’re talking about my friend. Not my sister and me.”
“Of course. But, Francesca…”
“Yes?”
“There’s only so much you can do. You can give advice to a friend who’s making a fool of herself, but you likely won’t be able to change her ways, at least not right away.”
“But I’ve got to!”
“Oh?”
“You see, I’ve been inspired to help her by the life of Saint Gemma Galgani.”
Mr. Falso coughed. “A saint?”
“You know, the story of Saint Gemma and the prostitute.”
“Why don’t you remind me?”
“When Saint Gemma was ill, as she was a lot during her excruciatingly painful life, a prostitute offered to take care of her for extra money. Saint Gemma’s aunt tried to turn the prostitute away, but Gemma wouldn’t allow it. She knew it was her soul mission to convert sinners to God.”