Bitterly, the confessing man said, “There are those in higher positions who do worse.”
My amusement dissolved. Higher positions? Worse?
“Do you wish to restate your last comment?” my uncle’s voice deepened, dangerously so. I could almost feel the other person tremble.
“I—I didn’t say anything.”
What the hell? The guy literally just said he wouldn’t lie in confession, yet—
“I thought so,” my uncle said. Weird. Why was he encouraging a lie?
“Is . . .” The guy’s voice hitched a little. “Is it so bad to love someone? You’re married. Surely you know love.”
It took a while for my uncle to speak. Then he sighed heavily, like he didn’t have an answer. “Maybe priesthood isn’t for you, Joey.”
My eyes widened. Joey? The transitional deacon?
It hit me like a semi. He must be in love with Sister Bernadette. That made total sense, and for some reason also it made me feel so hollow.
“You can’t tell Monsignor,” Deacon Jameson said, desperation filling his voice.
“Joey—”
“I want it so badly, Father. This relationship with God, our savior Jesus Christ.” He wept harder. “You don’t understand. I’d do anything. Anything.”
A vice clamped around my heart, squeezing until I was gasping, clawing at my chest for some sort of release. I needed air. Needed to breathe.
Help me. Help me. Help me.
Help him.
Although I never prayed, I tried to will my thoughts into reality: Help him, help him, help him. I pictured Deacon Jameson and Sister Bernadette praying together, walking hand-in-hand. I pictured them smiling in the sun, talking about their love for God and each other. It should have been a beautiful image, but somehow at this moment I could think of nothing sadder.
Hopelessly, I set down my notebook. I didn’t see how I could help on this one. A nun and a transitional deacon on his way to priesthood were going to be rigid about their vows, and even without that complication, matchmaking in general made my stomach turn. My two most serious relationships were ones I’d tried because my friends, I mean ex-friends, pushed me into them. I let people convince me that maybe I was being too harsh, maybe they weren’t that bad. Except the boy I dated when I was fifteen was an asshole, and the girl I dated a few months later punched me. Setting other people up felt gross and intrusive—and that was without throwing in the eternal damnation for good measure.
I hugged my pillow tightly, helplessly. I’d gotten cocky, too cocky. Sinning from pride and the smug satisfaction I got from helping others. Maybe I needed to stop listening to the confessions. They were making my head spin, making me feel even more stressed and guilty and mixed-up than usual. I hated myself enough as was. Last thing I needed was a reason to feel worse about myself. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’d just accused myself of sinning against a god I didn’t even believe in.
“Get a grip, Aleks,” I said out loud, just to hear my voice. My words didn’t sound like me, or what I thought “me” was. Distorted through the continuous prayers in the confessional below, it was like another stranger in the room.
Get a grip, Aleks, Alexis said to me.
And, for the first time, I felt like I didn’t know her.
FROM: Robin, Lee
TO: Yagoda, A.
SUBJECT: . . .
Hey Ale/xis/ks or whatever stupid name you’re using,
I know you’ve been online. The shop and everything. How stupid do you think I am? Did you forget about that app you showed me? You know the one where you could tell if a message had been read?
Surprise, bitch.
Why are you avoiding me? I tried to apologize. All I wanted was one little reply, that was it. You could have said you were angry, asked me to give you space, but you’re just giving me the silent treatment. Coward.
I wonder why I bother. Probably because I love you. It’s weird. I love you but I don’t like you. You’re mean. Both parts of you. You’re mean, you’re standoffish, you’re an asshole. All of us have been so worried about you and you couldn’t even send a courtesy note.
But I love you. As much as I hate you, I love you. We complete each other. It’s why the hate-shippers like us so much.
We hate. We love.
You need to call me. Or email me back. Or ANYTHING. You owe me that much.
I hate you, Alexis. Aleks. Whoever the fuck you’re pretending to be this time. I don’t know why I’m bothering. You’re the worst.
Hate/Love,
Lee
—
There is no magic anymore
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.
But though the pool is safe from the storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.
—Sara Teasdale, “After Love”
12 Alexis
My phone woke me up. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but at some point I must have set down the notepad and pen on my desk, along with my phone. I rolled on my side, back to the phone, as I waited for the ringtone to play out. That ringtone made me sad. I wished I’d remembered to change it. It was the opening theme song for Synthetica.
Note to self: Change ringtone. Way too early to get kicked right in the feels.
Maybe I’d change it to the opening of Attack Girl Tokyo. Maybe it’d help me forgive myself for not leaving sooner, for putting up with the jokes, the derogatory comments, for my inability to walk through a convention without someone grabbing my ass. My inability to tell people to back off, that I didn’t feel like it or just plain didn’t want it.
You know what’s the worst part? These people weren’t all strangers. These were people I knew, people I thought were friends. I figured I’d hurt their feelings if I told them. And what if in the future I wanted them to treat me like that? To objectify me as something sexy, something desirable? If I said no once, they wouldn’t get that out of their heads, would accuse me of sending mixed signals.
So I didn’t say anything. Not one word. Nothing. Disappearing without a goodbye or a hint about where I’d be.
My phone stopped ringing. About three seconds later, the ringtone started again. Three times in a row meant it was important. I dragged myself out of bed and padded across the room. I blinked a few times at the name on the screen before I picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear. “Mom?”
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“Sorry, just woke up.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Why?”
“I was starting to wonder if they locked you in the church to pray the Devil out of you.”
“Nah, that’d be way too much effort,” I said. “They want me to see the light on my own.”
“Woof. That bad?”
“Eh. They have their moments.”
“Uh huh.”
“Honestly, Mom, they’ve been fine overall. Aunt Anne Marie actually took some of my cosplay to the post office.”