Arriving at school, I slid the front wheel of my bike into the bike stand and snapped the lock through the tire. Ernie skidded to a stop beside me. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” I said.
We walked up the covered breezeway together, and I was certain the eyes of the entire student body were watching me, and that this would be the best day of my life. Then I opened the door to our classroom and froze. The face that wheeled to greet us had not the soft and comforting features of Sister Mary Williams but the laser-precise glare of Sister Beatrice.
14
Ernie stumbled into me, not seeing Sister Beatrice. “What the hell, Sam.”
Our principal’s eyes threw daggers at Ernie. “Detention, Mr. Cantwell. I will not tolerate profanity.”
Ernie’s shoulders sagged, and he stepped past me and found his seat.
“Do you not know where your seat is, Mr. Hill?”
“Yes, Sister. I mean, no, Sister.”
“Then I suggest you find it.”
I took my seat along with my equally depressed classmates.
“Sister Mary Williams is under the weather. I will serve as your substitute. When the bell rings, you will assemble in an orderly fashion and proceed to the church.”
Ernie raised his hand. “Sister, the altar boys need to be at the church early to get set up—”
“Does Sister Mary Williams allow you to speak without permission, Mr. Cantwell?”
“No, Sister.”
“Then I suggest you wait until called upon.”
Ernie sat back.
“Was there something you wanted to ask, Mr. Cantwell?”
“No, Sister.”
“Something about the altar boys having to leave early for church?”
Ernie still did not answer.
“Well, Mr. Cantwell?”
“Whatever . . .”
If the room had not already been deathly silent, this would have been one of those moments when you truly could have heard a pin drop.
“You just earned a second detention, Mr. Cantwell, and I shall be sending a note home to your mother to discuss your insolence.”
“You’re diabetic?” Peter Hammonds asked.
It was an innocent question, I’m sure. Hammonds wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and his vocabulary skills were less than stellar, but Sister Beatrice saw it as a further attack on her authority. “And you will be serving detention with Mr. Cantwell, Mr. Hammonds. Anyone else wish to test my patience?”
No one did.
“Now, who are the altar boys?” Ernie, Matty Montoya, and Billy Fealey raised their hands. Their arms looked like limp noodles. “The altar boys are excused.”
Valerie Johnson then raised her hand and, when called upon, said, “Sister, the altar preparers also need to leave early to set up the church.”
Sister Beatrice dismissed them. As they departed Sister Beatrice turned her attention to me. “I suppose you believe you should be allowed to leave ahead of your classmates as well, Mr. Hill.”
“No, Sister, just the altar boys and the altar preparers.”
“Vanity is a sin,” she said, but it sounded like thin. “Can anyone in the class tell me what vanity is?” This time not even Peter Hammonds would venture a guess. “No one? Vanity is the excessive belief in one’s own abilities or attractiveness. Do you believe you are better than your classmates, Mr. Hill?” Her words hissed at me like a rattler disturbed from sleep. I noticed her eyes were glassy.