The church itself is always featured in Architectural Digest for its impressive brick facade and original four-story bell tower. And, as if this is a selling point for my attendance, the stained-glass windows were flown in from Italy in the early 1900s and blessed by Pope Leo XIII shortly before his death.
Mom and Paul had a choice of private schools in the area. The other option was an all-boys school about twenty minutes away, but my mom thought it was too “he-man.” Her words, not mine. We got back from the tour, and all she said was how she couldn’t get over the military look of the uniforms. Paul just shrugged. He was always going to follow her lead on this.
The funny thing is that St. Agatha’s is Paul’s alma mater. And even though I have no interest in religion and my mom has always been more inclined to buy healing crystals than set foot in a church, it made her feel better to send me to a school with beautiful, old brick buildings. I wasn’t going to argue with her, because it doesn’t matter where I go. It’s just a place to be.
But it’s basically like every other old church you’ve ever seen in your life. Half-naked angels. Uncomfortable wooden pews. And burning incense that smells like someone cooking dirty laundry. Oh, and shame. It reeks of shame.
Speaking of shame, I realize that the appealing image of a Catholic schoolgirl is cliché, but there is something distracting about the pleated skirt and vest. Within minutes of walking through the hall on Friday, I witnessed two nuns with rulers pulling girls aside and measuring the length of exposed leg from knee to skirt. Before starting school, I’d had no idea nuns still did this. It was a while before I realized I was staring and another while until I realized we were all being ushered into the church for mass. Rebecca was following me in, her lavender dress shining against the sea of navy blue and red.
She’s not mad about me not talking to her anymore. Pretty sure she resented it in the beginning, when I first started taking the drug, but now she seems okay with it. If she were real, I’d point out that she’s never spoken to me, but that’s not really an argument I can win, you know? Every so often I still throw a head nod or an eye roll her way. I don’t want to be a complete jerk.
On my way into the church, I felt something wet slap against the back of my neck. A spit wad. When I jumped and turned around, a severe-looking nun gave me a look that clearly wished me a painful death. Ian laughed with a couple other guys behind me, and I turned back around and kept walking even though I was pissed. I couldn’t believe spit wads still happened. It occurred to me in that moment that I’ve never actually hit anyone before. I think I’d like to hit someone who deserves it. Not arbitrarily, of course. I’d just really love to punch an asshole. Instant karma, you know?
It’s not like I’d never been to church before. I’ve had all the sacraments I’m supposed to have at this point. Got all the boxes on my Catholic worksheet checked off to get into heaven, because my mom knew it would make my grandmother happy.
But it was a new place, and something in the back of my mind made me anxious. We had just increased my dosage. Remember? It’s in your notes somewhere, I’m sure. But that’s really something you should know off the top of your head.
I didn’t tell anyone I was feeling dizzy. Not that I could’ve told anyone, because the only person I really talked to at school was busy being an altar boy. I think church is pretty much the only place Dwight shuts up. It was weird seeing him sitting still and not talking to the people next to him. But his robes were pretty stupid-looking, so I don’t blame him for keeping quiet and just waiting for the whole thing to be over.
Anyway, we’d only gotten through the first reading, which, judging by the usual length of a Catholic mass from my memory of them as a kid, meant that the priest still had another thirty minutes of our undivided attention. Even longer if the homily was extra preachy, as they usually were. So I folded my hands and waited for the room to stop spinning.
I tried fixing my eyes on something still, but the church was full of fidgeting kids messing with their uniforms. I looked up at the stained-glass windows above the altar. They were images of the Stations of the Cross.
When we’d toured the school, they said that before Easter every class from middle school to high school would have to present their own rendition of the Stations of the Cross. They would elect one student to be Jesus, and he would be covered in fake blood and then forced to drag a heavy plywood cross across the church floor to act out each stage of his crucifixion.
This disturbed no one but me.
The stained glass is pretty awesome, though. Solemn and creepy at the same time. There’s something soothing about the rich golds and reds when they catch the light. Even the blood on Jesus’s face seems less threatening in glass. But after a few minutes, I knew something was wrong.
Jesus’s chest had begun to rise and fall. I looked away from him and forced my eyes to the sixth station. It’s the one where a woman named Veronica steps out of the crowd to wipe sweat and blood off Jesus’s face as he’s being marched to his death. It’s my favorite one, easily the kindest of the stations. But after I stared at her for a second, she began to breathe, and her colorful clothes turned black as she turned her face to me. Slowly, all the figures in the stained glass turned their faces to me.
Even the angels gazed down at me, their glassy faces half reflected in the morning light. A strange wind rustled their wings, and I closed my eyes and bowed my head, hoping the kids sitting next to me would think I was praying. The angels were all watching me from the glass, and I knew that if I stared back I might not be able to look away again.
That was when I felt Rebecca’s eyes on my back. When I turned around, she smiled at me. That worried smile she always wears when she knows something is wrong but doesn’t want to make a big deal. I knew it wasn’t real. Hell, I knew she wasn’t real, but it was hard to convince myself in the moment. I just tried to let the communion procession distract me.
I didn’t get up for communion. You know, where they hand out pieces of Jesus made of stale wafers.
It’s funny how people still seem surprised when you don’t get communion. When I was little, my mom explained that it usually meant someone thought they were too filled with sin to receive Jesus. Even if I hadn’t been feeling weird, I just don’t like the idea of some old guy shoving food in my mouth. Or sharing a wineglass with a hundred strangers. It’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. They pass the same glass to everyone, wipe it, turn it, and then pass it off to the next person. Like wiping it with the same white cloth over and over magically makes it clean. The Blood of Christ…and the spit from that girl with the questionable cold sore.
Soon, Rebecca was sitting at the edge of the row, two pews in front of me, running her fingers through her hair, looking concerned. I wanted to reassure her, but then everyone would have seen me talking to nothing. Still, it’s not her fault she’s not real.