But I’m sure God will forgive a little kid for taking Communion too soon, as long as the kid is doing it right. Putting the actual body of Christ in his pocket is definitely doing it wrong. As everyone lines up for Communion, Luke grabs my hand, and we follow Aunt Maggie, Eden, and Grandma. He keeps looking at me, waiting for me to think of something smarter. I stare ahead and act like I know what I’m doing.
When we get to Father Owens, Luke holds out his hand, and Father places the wafer in his palm saying, “Body of Christ.” Luke doesn’t say amen. He shifts to the side and waits for me to get my wafer.
“Body of Christ.” Father Owens puts the wafer in my palm, and I put it in my mouth and say, “Amen.”
The Body of Christ tastes like cardboard. The Communion bakers should flavor it with cinnamon and sugar. How hard could it be to add a few sprinkles? I doubt Jesus would mind. I keep the wafer on my tongue and wait for it to dissolve, because if you press it on the roof of your mouth, it turns to glue and you can’t get it off unless you scrape with your finger. You don’t chew the Body of Christ.
Luke and I walk past Father Owens’s helper, who has tiny plastic cups filled with the wine. Grandma doesn’t mind if we skip this part because it’s actually alcohol. I mean, the priest’s blessing turns the alcohol in the cups into Jesus’s Blood. Transubstantiation, remember? But somehow it’s also still alcohol.
My family returns to our pew and kneels, except for Luke, who’s sitting on the edge of the pew still holding the wafer. Grandma leans across me and whispers, “Lucas Matthew, put that in your mouth right now.”
Luke’s hand shakes as he puts the wafer on the tip of his tongue, but then he freezes. His tongue hangs out like a panting dog.
“What is wrong with you? Act like a big boy!” Grandma says.
He sucks his tongue and the wafer into his mouth. He looks at me with big eyes, like he’s waiting for something terrible to happen. I whisper, “It’s okay. I researched it just in case you couldn’t get out of it.”
When Grandma returns to prayer, Luke gags a little and then jumps up and runs down the aisle toward the door. I did not see that coming!
I have to do something. I can’t have Luke wandering around the parking lot. I tap Grandma’s shoulder and say, “Luke left because he’s missing Dad. I’ll go talk to him.”
She nods. Grandma wouldn’t leave her pew during post-Communion prayer unless the church was on fire. I hustle outside and find Luke sitting on the curb next to Aunt Maggie’s minivan.
“Are you okay, buddy?”
There’s a tear on his thick eyelashes. He shrugs and holds out his hand to show me the wafer, which is now a spit-drenched glob. “I couldn’t swallow it because it’s against Catholic law, and what if the Pope finds out?”
I sit next to him. “You get a pass because you’re eight.”
He sticks his hand with the wafer under my chin. “You eat it. You’re allowed. It’s good for you because it’s like being blessed twice.”
“That’s disgusting! I’m not going to take your chewed-up clump of grossness and eat it.”
Luke frowns in concentration. “God loves everyone, right? All people, even animals?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can feed it to a squirrel.”
“Absolutely not.”
“A bird?”
“No way. Just let me think.”
His lower lip goes out, and he puts his hand on his lap and stares at the wafer. Then, in a swift move, he smears the goop on my lap and runs back to the church as fast as his legs will pump.
“Luke!”
I want to tackle him, but he’s too fast, and the Body of Christ is stuck to my sundress.
“Luke!” He’s already inside the church. I scrape off the wafer and hold it in my palm. Luke has a grand plan, and it involves getting me to eat the wafer, but I can’t. If I put that spit-covered wafer in my mouth, I will puke, and it’s definitely bad to throw up Jesus.
This is stupid. Our church has seven Holy Sacraments. Seven. That’s not much. One is when you’re born and one is when you die and one is if you become a priest, so that really only leaves four. Only two of those four are when you’re really young—Confession and Communion. Mom managed to get Luke through Confession, but Communion has been an epic fail. The way I see it, she’s got a 50 percent failure rate in the job of Catholic parenting.
Why am I the one sitting in a parking lot with the Body of Christ on my dress? It should be Mom, because it’s her truth-stretch; not mine! I take a few deep breaths to calm down. I’m so mad I’m probably breaking the Commandment about honoring parents. I don’t need a Communion sin and a broken Commandment on my shoulders.
The breathing calms me down until I see Grandma, Luke, Eden, and Aunt Maggie on their way to the van. Luke is holding Grandma’s hand and smiling like there’s nothing wrong in the world. As I put the Body of Christ in the pocket of my sundress, I wish Brent’s face were in front of me to punch. That horrible thought makes me shiver. I’m an award-winning nice girl, and I can’t lose control like that again.
Ever.
* * *
As soon as we get home, I fly up the stairs and get out my laptop. I type Patron Saint of Communion and click on the first search result, the Blessed Imelda, and speed-read.
Most saints are saints because they had hard lives. You don’t get to be a saint by winning the lottery and driving your new convertible to the beach. Saint Germaine Cousin was abused by her horrible stepmother. Saint Helen’s husband divorced her and ran off with another woman. Saint Rene Goupil was tortured for being Christian. Easy lives don’t make saints.
But Blessed Imelda’s story is the worst I’ve ever read.
Hundreds of years ago, Imelda was a little girl so devout she dreamed of being a nun. She was desperate to receive her First Communion, but the priest wouldn’t allow it because she was too young. One day, she continued to kneel at mass even though it was time to stand. She wanted her First Communion. A beautiful light appeared above Imelda. Everyone could see it. The priest knew the light was a miracle, so he felt it was his calling to give her Communion. Imelda’s prayers were about to come true! When she accepted the Communion wafer, she fell into a state of complete joy.
And then she died.
Everyone believed Imelda died from joy. They also believed she was lucky because God loved her so much He took her home to Heaven. If that’s how God shows His love, I don’t want Him to love me that much. Not yet.
Seriously, there’s no way she died from joy. I’d bet anything she was choking on her Communion wafer and jumping around and grabbing her throat, and all those adults stood around smiling at each other, not even thinking about the Heimlich maneuver. Check out little Imelda. She’s fallen into a state of joy.
Poor Imelda!
Anyway, I need her help. I write her name in the notebook, add a star, and pray.
Dear Holy Blessed Imelda, I’ve got a Communion problem on my hands. It’s not as bad as choking to death on the wafer, but it’s close. I’ve got a half-chewed piece of Communion and I don’t know what to do with it. Please help me fix this.
With my eyes closed and my hands pressed together, I try to hear or think or feel Blessed Imelda’s answer. Nothing. Not a single movement, sound, thought, feeling. When I finally open my eyes and look at the clock, it says I’ve been sitting like that for twenty minutes. That’s almost as long as it takes to say the rosary.
I scrape the wafer from my pocket and take my rosary box from the nightstand. The box is the holiest place to store the Body of Christ until Blessed Imelda speaks to me. I gently tuck the wafer next to the rosary. I cover it with the Pope Francis prayer card. I don’t want Eden to open the box and find it, and I can’t have Luke looking for it and feeding it to a bird. I take my suitcase from the closet and zip the box inside. There’s a small padlock and key attached to the suitcase with a piece of plastic. It’s one of those locks that prevents someone from unzipping the suitcase. With a tug
, I pull the lock and key from the plastic and lock the zipper. Then I hide the key in my underwear drawer.
Dear Holy Blessed Imelda, Just think about it and get back to me, okay?
ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME
Brent Helzinski was invited to Ryan Dorman’s Halloween party. The whole class was invited, and I know that’s the only reason Brent got an invitation. Ryan’s parents probably made him add Brent to the list. And Ryan was probably afraid Brent would beat him up if he left him out.
Who’d invite Brent Helzinski to anything?
After that party, I needed Saint Michael the Archangel, Patron Saint for those going into battle. Or maybe Gertrude of Nevilles, Patron Saint for protection from rats.
Chapter Eleven
There’s going to be a wedding in 42 days
It’s exactly nine in the morning when I hear a swooshing and clacking noise. I press my pillow against my ears to muffle the sound until I realize it’s coming from Nick’s driveway. Suddenly I’m awake.
I get up and stand sideways behind Eden’s lamp, so I can see clearly down to his driveway without him seeing me. Nick is on a skateboard near the street. He pushes his right foot carefully against the cement, then strikes an uneasy balance on the board. His first push takes him maybe two feet, so he repeats the process.
After the Communion mess, I could use some laughs. I get dressed and head outside. Nick smiles when he sees me walking across the yard. He pushes down on the end of the skateboard with his foot. The back side flips up, and he catches it with his right hand.
“So you’re a basketball champ and a skateboarder.”
“Watch this.” He puts the skateboard down, steps on it, and wobbles as the board clunks ahead a few feet. “That’s the best I can do. Skateboarders would take me down if I called myself one of them.”
“There’s a guy in my old neighborhood who could do these crazy jumps on his board. My mom would freak out because he never wore a helmet.”
“My mom got this at a garage sale, and technically I’m supposed to wear my bike helmet, but I’m not even going grandmother speed yet.” Nick’s bangs fall across his forehead, so he sweeps them aside. He has cute hair and a cute smile and cute eyes. He is bursting with cute. “Want to try it?”
“Sure.” I stand on the skateboard, bend my knee, and push off. I forget to put my other foot on the board and nearly tip over. The board flies across the driveway, and I jump off before it crashes into the garage door.
“Maybe we should get a helmet.” Nick laughs.
“And kneepads.”
“And elbow pads.”
“A full suit of body armor.”
We stand there, sort of looking at the ground, thinking of what to say next. A neighbor starts a lawn mower, and the dog across the street barks at a squirrel. I start talking about the dog just as Nick starts saying something about the lawn mower. Then we both stop talking and wait for the other to finish.
Finally Nick says, “You go first.”
I freeze. For the life of me, I can’t remember what I was going to say. I feel my face turn Eden-red. “No, you go.”
Nick trips over his words. “I was thinking about the lawn and mowing the lawn, which I should do tomorrow, maybe. But, anyway, should I get my basketball?”
Nick’s stumbling gives me time to pull myself together. I say, “No, let’s keep doing this. I refuse to be defeated by a skateboard.”
We take turns on the skateboard until we’re stable. Then we take it to the sidewalk so we can time each other skateboarding from the street corner to Nick’s house. When I make the run in an impressive five seconds, I try to pop up the skateboard with my foot and catch it like Nick, but it snaps faster than I expect and bangs my knee. Not cool.
Nick says, “I’ll laugh if you’re not hurt.”
My knee throbs, but it is pretty funny, so we crack up.
Eden comes out of the house wearing her laundry uniform. I call out a hello. She gives a little wave, but she keeps her eyes on the ground like she’s watching for land mines. She starts her car and drives away.
“Is that your cousin?” Nick asks.
“Yeah. Her name is Eden.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone being named Eden.”
“My Uncle Will really liked the name Eve, but my grandma didn’t like it because Eve ruined the Garden of Eden, and if it weren’t for Eve, we’d all be living in paradise.”
“Um … do you believe that?”
“I believe Eden’s an unusual name for an unusual person.”
Nick nods. “Yeah, it’s a good name.”
“She’s getting married, and the whole thing is weird. She wants it small, but my grandma basically wants a pageant. I’m the junior bridesmaid.”
“I was a ring bearer in my cousin’s wedding when I was five,” Nick says. “I remember I carried around this stupid red pillow and the ring was tied to it with a ribbon. Isn’t it crazy to put an expensive ring on a pillow and trust a kindergartner to hang on to it?”
“Did you lose the ring?”
“No, but I had a tantrum because I didn’t want my picture taken. My mom took me in the hall and promised if I was good for the whole day we’d stay overnight at a waterpark.”
“Nice bribe.”
“Well, I thought I could do better. So I asked her for SpongeBob socks instead. I really, really wanted SpongeBob socks for some reason.”
I laugh and Nick, grinning, says, “I’m totally serious.”
“Mary Margaret Miller!” Grandma yells from her front door. “What are you doing?” She’s so loud Nick actually backs away.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just skateboarding.”
“Get away from that thing. You’ll break your arm and ruin the wedding.”
Nick raises his eyebrows, and I shrug, like What can you do?
She yells, “Come inside and have breakfast. I made cinnamon rolls.”
I push my foot on the skateboard’s tip. This time I catch the board when it flips, and I hand it to Nick. “See you later.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t dilly dally!” Grandma yells.
“Dilly dally?” Nick laughs. “You better get going, you rapscallion.”
“What’s a rapscallion?”
“I heard it in an old black-and-white movie.”
“Mary!”
I say, “That’s her last-warning voice. I better go.”
“See you later, rapscallion.”
I hold back giggles so Grandma doesn’t make me tell her what’s so funny.
Chapter Twelve
There’s going to be a wedding in 40 days
“An August wedding? And you just started looking for dresses?” The voice of shock comes from a sales lady with a nametag that says Paula T., Wedding Consultant.
Grandma gets haughty. “The reason for the short timeline isn’t inappropriate. The groom is starting graduate school in another state, so they’re moving. He’s going to be a biomedical researcher.” Grandma makes biomedical researcher sound like the most important thing a person could do, definitely more important than being a wedding consultant.
“I’m afraid the selection I can offer you—that any store could offer you—is very limited. Dresses take months to order. You’ll have to find something that fits on the rack.”
Eden realizes she, as the bride, is expected to answer. She blushes and looks at her feet and says, “We’re understanding.”
“Have a look at the racks. We can always alter a dress if it’s a close fit. I’ll be happy to open a dressing suite for you.” Paula T. leaves us to help another bridal party, a party that probably planned way better than us.
Grandma pats Eden’s back. “Don’t worry. We’ll find the world’s most beautiful dress for the world’s most beautiful bride.”
“Maybe we should wait for the weekend when Aunt Maggie can come with us,” I say.
Grandma sighs. “She’s working overtime all week, and there’s just no time. We have to dig in a
nd find something beautiful. Luke, do not wander off.”
“Is this going to take long?” Luke asks.
“As long as it needs to, and there will be no complaining from you.” Her voice is stern, but she hugs him. “Besides, we need your opinion.”
The store is divided into wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, and racks of mom-and-grandma dresses, the kind with sequined jackets that hide bulging tummies. Grandma shows me a dress from the bridesmaid section. It’s hunter green with a fat bow on the butt. She must know that color died before I was born. When I don’t gush over the hunter green, Grandma says, “Well, it’s not like we don’t have choices. Look at all these dresses! Look at the colors! I think a rainbow melted in this store!”
I wish she’d wander off so we can look without her hovering.
Luke is already bored. “This would go faster if you look at the Grandma dresses and Mary looks at the bridesmaid dresses and Eden looks at the bride dresses.”
“Okay,” Grandma says. “But you stay next to me.”
Paula T. swoops in just as Grandma swoops out. “What are you thinking for the bridal party? Any particular color or style?”
Eden says, “Colors? I haven’t thought of colors, or thought of styles, at this particular point in time.” Eden points to me. “She’s the junior bridesmaid.” Normally I’d tell her I’ll wear whatever she wants me to wear, but I’m pretty sure she wants me to take charge. She’s blushing and chewing on her thumbnail.
I think about how a grown-up bridesmaid would answer and say, “What do you suggest?”
“It used to be a summer wedding meant pastel, but it’s not that way anymore,” Paula T. says. “I’ve sold brown dresses for summer. Brown! Certainly it’ll be warm, so you’ll want short sleeves or spaghetti straps or something strapless. Blue would be lovely with the rich brown tones in your hair. You have gorgeous hair. I’d suggest leaving it down.”
I say, “I like blue.”
Eden nods. “Blue is good.”
“Now we have a place to start. Also, if you find a dress, but you don’t like the color, we can always order—oh wait, you’re the ones with the quickie wedding.” She sighs. “Follow me, girls.”
A Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids Page 6
