I shook my head. “No, Sister.”
“Smarter? More important?”
“No, Sister.”
“Good, then you shall demonstrate your humility by being last in line entering the church.”
When the bell mercifully rang, my classmates and I solemnly lined up against the wall. Sister Beatrice didn’t have to worry about us talking. We marched down the playground to the church like prisoners on a forced death march. Not even the crisp winter air could raise our spirits.
Outside the grand cathedral doors, we waited for the younger grades to parade down the aisle and take their seats. When our line moved forward, Sister Beatrice reached out and put an arm across my path the way my mother did when she had to stop the car suddenly. Her eyes bored into mine, and I could smell the alcohol on her breath.
“Your classmates chose you because they want to see you fail,” she said.
15
As we marched into the church, I became keenly aware of the parents and the rest of the congregation assembled in the pews behind the students in their school uniforms. Valerie Johnson and her cohorts had hung white RESERVED signs on the pews for the students. As we waited for the nuns to ensure the usual boy-girl-boy-girl seating, I saw my mother standing beside Mrs. Cantwell. They smiled at me, but my mother’s smile quickly faded when her eyes shifted to Sister Beatrice. She bowed her head, and her chest heaved. She also must have uttered something audible, because Ernie’s mom turned with a look of alarm and touched my mother’s arm, like people do when they think someone is sick. My mother just closed her eyes and shook her head.
We filed into our designated pews. As I was last, the girl to my left, sitting at the end of the pew nearest the center aisle, was Sister Beatrice. I felt nauseated, and only partly from the smell of alcohol emanating from her. We stood at the first song. Moments later Ernie led the procession up the aisle, carrying the crucifix. Father Killian shuffled forward in his white-and-gold cassock, singing loudly, and ascended to his throne. When the song concluded, he gathered us in Christ’s name and welcomed our parents and the members of the congregation. After leading us in the profession of faith, he sat.
That was my cue.
I stood to exit the pew and noticed that Valerie Johnson and her cadre of friends had all turned their heads to stare at me and giggle. I chastised myself for not having listened to Ernie, for allowing my hopes to get raised. Clearly my classmates were waiting for me to fail. So, too, I was certain, was Sister Beatrice.
I was supposed to genuflect before climbing the steps to the altar, but I was wondering what would happen to our well-rehearsed choreography if I vomited right in the middle of the center aisle. I wanted to be anywhere but in that church. God’s will, it seemed, was to humiliate me.
I caught sight of Ernie kneeling at the side of the altar, but he was looking past me, and when I followed his gaze, I saw Valerie Johnson leaning forward to whisper to one of the girls seated in the pew in front of her. I bent to a knee to genuflect, made the sign of the cross, and proceeded to the lectern, climbing the steps. Once at the podium, I adjusted the microphone as rehearsed. Then I reached for my readings, which the altar preparers were to place on the shelf in the lectern, but when I pulled out the pages I realized, to my horror, that Valerie Johnson had replaced my readings with pages that, at a quick glance, contained old Hebrew words I didn’t have a clue how to pronounce. As my anxiety built, I felt myself becoming red in the face, more and more nauseated, and burning up as if I had a fever. I didn’t know what to do.
And then I heard the bells.
At first I didn’t know what was happening. No one did. I turned to the altar and saw that Ernie had grabbed the gold fingerhold and was ringing the four altar bells with more vigor and enthusiasm than I had ever heard before or since in that church. Father Killian’s head swiveled, his facial expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance. He swung his arm at Ernie as if swatting at an annoying bee. Unfortunately, Father Killian swatted exactly where the altar servers had set his glass of water on a side table, sending it sailing.