I looked around at all the faces waiting to go into confession. They were bored.
Maya sat in the pews on the other side of the aisle and smiled at me, then rolled her eyes a little as if to say, This is stupid. I made the same face back. Yeah, I know, right? But I don’t actually know what my expression looked like, so maybe she didn’t get that from the look. Maybe the look actually conveyed nothing. It was the first time I’d seen her since I’d pulled her out of the pool, but for some reason, it didn’t feel awkward.
The choir was practicing for Sunday mass, and I cringed when they started to sing. I’ve discovered that it’s pretty easy to let information wash over me if I want it to or if it’s boring, unless someone puts it in a church song. Then that shit is stuck in my head for life.
When it was my turn, I walked into the confessional and knelt behind the mesh screen. I said what you’re supposed to say. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight years since my last confession.”
“Why so long, my son?” He was a fill-in priest with an Irish accent who says mass for Father Benjamin sometimes. I hate when people say “my son” to people who are not their son. It’s creepy. But he is legitimately Irish, which makes him slightly more interesting than the average American priest. Kind of like a leprechaun who grants wishes. I imagined him saying, They’re always after me Lucky Charms, and tried to feel guilty about it. But I didn’t. That shit is hilarious.
“I think telling someone your sins is a waste of time.” I could hear him shift a little in his chair. It might have been rude to say that, but it was probably worse to lie in confession.
“A waste of time?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Then I added, “Sorry.”
I waited for Father Patrick to reach his hands through the screen to strangle me, but nothing happened. The silence built for a while until I felt compelled to speak. “Did I give you a heart attack?”
I was glad when he laughed and said, “No.”
“Do people usually just come in, tell you their sins, and go on their merry way?”
“Usually,” he said. I could tell he was still smiling. “But once in a while I get a kid like you who wants to know the point of all this.”
“And what do you tell them?” I asked.
“That telling someone your sins…actually telling someone your sins is like admitting you are flawed.”
“You think we don’t know we’re flawed? Why does that need to be rubbed in our faces all the time?”
He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Would you accept it if I told you that it’s just another way to communicate with God?”
“And if I don’t believe in God?” He shifted in his seat again. Probably because that threatens his job security.
“Then use the time to think about the kind of person you want to be. And at the very least,” he said quietly, “believe in yourself.”
Not what I’d expected to hear from him, but I still got the hell out of there before he could assign me any prayers.
After his fairly logical assessment, I would have felt compelled to say them.
When I walked out of the confessional, Sister Catherine pointed toward the pew to her left and pressed her fingers to her lips, like I was five years old and didn’t know not to whistle or shriek with glee as I skipped down the aisle. Maya was sitting directly across from me now, praying. Presumably.
When I knelt down in my row, I bowed my head the way you’re supposed to and closed my eyes. A second later, I felt someone sit down next to me.
“Hey,” Maya whispered.
“Hey,” I whispered back. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for talking in church?”
“Not if you stare straight ahead and keep your voice down,” she said calmly. “Sometimes the Holy Spirit commands you to pray out loud.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “How’s your nose?”
“Not bad,” I lied. I wasn’t going to tell her that it still hurt, especially when she looked guilty about it. Luckily, it wasn’t bruised, just sore.
“Listen, Sister Catherine is going to ask you to be on Academic Team. I overheard her telling another teacher after class about how you memorized all those prayers.”
“That loser group that does decathlon tournaments?”
“That’s us,” she said, raising an eyebrow. I think at that point I made a lame attempt to apologize for calling her a loser.
“Please,” she said, ignoring me. “We’ve embraced it. Plus you have to have an extracurricular here. If you don’t play an instrument or a sport, it’s Academic Team.”
“So I don’t have a choice, actually.”
“Well, you’re tall. Do you play basketball?”
I laughed and then abruptly turned it into a cough when Sister Catherine looked my way. I’d been recruited once to try out for the team at my old school, but I have no coordination. I can barely put my spectacles on without poking myself in the eye. It took less than ten minutes for the team to realize that I was basically useless unless they needed someone to hold the hoop.
“I’ll get your number from you later so I can text you the meeting spot for practice,” she said.
“Just give me yours,” I whispered.
“I don’t have a pen or anything,” she said.
“I’ll remember.”
“Of course you will,” she smirked. I tried not to look pleased with myself when she told me her number and I memorized it.
Sister Catherine did ask me to join the team later that day. Since I had no religion homework to worry about, I could use that time to memorize facts, she said. Awesome.
Meanwhile, Rebecca was doing pirouettes at the front of the classroom, her blond hair swaying like spun gold while a choir of voices sang “Amazing Grace.” It distracted me for a minute until I saw Sister Catherine’s eyes flicker to mine. I thought I’d covered it up pretty well, but she’d noticed. There was a moment of understanding between us but also a warning that I had been obvious. I took a deep breath and focused all my attention to the front of the room until the end of class.
I sent Maya a text later that day. It took me ten minutes to write it, and all it said was “Hey, this is Adam.”
A second later, she responded with “Thx.”
When Paul picked me up after school, he didn’t say much, but he drove through McDonald’s for shakes. He’s still afraid of me. But it feels like he doesn’t want to be.
My pocket buzzed when we were pulling into the driveway, and I saw that Maya had sent me another text.
“Welcome to the loser group, by the way.”
I think she likes me.
DOSAGE: 1.5 mg. Same dosage. Adam appears to be opening up about his illness. Some increased hostility regarding therapy. Still refuses to communicate verbally.
SEPTEMBER 26, 2012
Your comments about my diary seeming “too self-aware” to be authentic are bullshit. This is just me. You’re just pissed that I won’t talk to you.