She wore clothes as baggy as a nun’s habit. Elle might have liked a stepfather. It would be nice to have a man around who actually gave two shits about her.
“Mom? What are you doing?”
“Praying to Saint Monica.” Her mother’s eyes remained closed. She clutched her saint medal in her hand.
“Saint Monica? Was she a martyr or a mystic?”
“Neither. She was a mother.”
“Good. Hate the martyrs.” Stupid virgin martyrs. Between getting married and getting murdered they picked murder. She’d pick a dick over death any day. Why did no one ever offer her those sorts of choices?
“She was the mother of Saint Augustine. He, too, was a willful, disobedient child. He had a mistress and fathered a child out of wedlock. He partied and played and didn’t care at all for the things of God. But his mother—Monica—was a Christian and she prayed and prayed for him. Prayed with all her might her child would see the truth of the Gospel and convert. God granted her prayer and Saint Augustine is one of the doctors of the church now.”
“The church has doctors?”
“It does.”
“Why is it still so sick, then? They must be really crappy doctors.”
Her mother stopped talking again, stopped whispering, stopped praying. But still she didn’t leave.
“Elle …” Her mother’s tone was softer now, kinder, conversational. Not a good sign.
“What. Now. Mother?”
“Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”
“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.” The pillow was once more firmly planted on her face.
“And he rides a motorcycle.”
Elle pushed the pillow off her face.
“A motorcycle?”
“Yes.” Her mother smiled. “A motorcycle.”
“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece-of-crap crotch rocket from Japan, is it?”
Her mother shook her head.
“Something Italian.”
“A Vespa? Those are scooters, not motorcycles.” Elle giggled at the image of a priest in a collar on the back of a little Vespa scooter.
“No. Something that started with a D. Du-something.”
Elle’s eyes widened.
“A Ducati?”
“That was it.”
She knew about Ducatis but had never seen one up close. She’d kill to have a Ducati between her thighs. All that power. All that freedom. What she wouldn’t give …
Would it kill her to go to church one more day? One more hour? One more Mass? She could see the bike, maybe touch it, then get out again.
“Okay.” Elle threw off the covers. “I’m coming. But I’m doing it for the Ducati, not for God.”
Her mother slammed the door behind her and Elle got out of bed. Grabbing her uniform skirt off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. Mass or not, she would have had to get out of bed anyway. Her bladder had been about to explode while arguing with her mom.
She pressed her hand to the bathroom window and felt nothing but room-temperature glass. Good. A warm morning. She wouldn’t have to bother with tights under her skirt.
Her hair looked like it belonged on a crazy person since she’d fallen asleep with it wet. No amount of curling or brushing was going to tame it. She grabbed a bottle of tinted green hair gel and streaked it through her hair, taming the wild flyaways enough that she could pull it back into a high ponytail.
Elle shoved her feet into her black combat boots. Carefully she applied a thick swipe of black eyeliner around her eyes. She was short and her boobs were too big but at least she could pull off the makeup component of heroin chic.
In her bedroom she found her thickest flannel shirt and pulled it on over her Pearl Jam T-shirt. She layered her green army jacket on top of her flannel.
Elle jumped in the backseat of their old Ford and her mom barely let her shut the door before backing out of the driveway.
“I want you to say hello to the new priest if you get a chance. Father Greg had me doing the books since he couldn’t handle it. This younger priest might want to change things up.”
“I’ll say hi. And then I’ll steal his Duck and ride away into the sunset.”
“His what?”
“Ducks. Dukes. Ducatis. Never mind.”
“I’m attempting to be open-minded about the new priest. You could at least give him a chance,” her mother said.
“I’m going, right? But only for the motorcycle. I mentioned that part, right?”
Her mother gave a ragged sigh.
“You should be going to church for God, and no other reason.”
“I told you, I don’t even think I believe in God anymore.”
“God is everywhere. He’s in everyone. We’re all created in His image.”
“I haven’t met anybody who looks like God yet.”
“How many people would it take to get through to you? God told Abraham he would spare Sodom and Gomorrah if ten righteous men could be found in the city. Only ten.”
Elle thought about it, thought about the boys at school who were dicks in sneakers, the teachers who did nothing but punish, her father who couldn’t keep a promise to save his life, her mother who forced religion down her throat …
She saw God in none of them. Not even in herself.
“Ten? Mom, I swear I’d settle for one.”
If she met one single person who seemed holy, righteous, kind, self-sacrificing, smart and wise who kept his promises and gave a flying fuck about her? Maybe she’d believe then.
“Only one?” Her mother sounded incredulous.
“Well, one person and a little ‘St. Teresa and the angel’ action wouldn’t hurt, either.” Eleanor grinned and her mother shook her head in disgust.
“You know, all I ever wanted was a daughter who loves God, goes to church, respects her priest and maybe even respects her mother a little. You think that’s too much to ask?”
Elle thought about the question one whole entire second before answering.
“Yup.”
Once her mother pulled into the Sacred Heart parking lot, Elle jumped out of the car. Her mom could make her go to church, but she wasn’t about to sit with her at church.
Elle entered the sanctuary and took a seat on the Gospel side—the left side of the church facing the altar. A visiting priest had explained the difference between the Gospel side and the Epistle side, or right side, a long time ago. He was also the same priest who taught everyone that Amen was best translated as “so be it.” That had surprised her. Until him she’d always thought Amen meant “over and out.”
Her usual pew had already filled up by the time she got there so instead of sitting beneath her favorite stained-glass window, she had to sit on the aisle. That was okay. She’d be able to get a better look at the new priest from here. And if she didn’t like the looks of him, she could “accidentally” step on the train of his vestments. Oops.
She wormed her way out of her jacket, picked up her missal and turned to the day’s readings. From her backpack she pulled out her copy of The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and slid it in between the pages. She’d heard