by Katie Henry
Dedication
For my grandmother, who taught me how to read,
how to pray the Rosary, and how to think for myself
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Anonymous Creed
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Katie Henry
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Anonymous Creed
We believe in one God, and many gods, and the possibility of none,
And also that the existence of the almighty is largely irrelevant,
Because regardless of who is maker of heaven and earth,
It is our duty to care for all of creation, both visible and invisible.
We believe in one fundamental truth:
That all people, regardless of what they worship, who they love, and what they think
Have a right to exist, and a right to be heard.
We strive to make faith consubstantial with reason and compassion,
Through which all good things are made.
We believe in the goodness of humankind (with a few notable exceptions),
The worth of listening to our friends and understanding our enemies,
The power of a single voice in a silent room,
And the practicality of cloaks and other assorted historical outerwear.
We do not all believe in one holy, catholic, and apostolic church
But are nonetheless grateful that it brought us together.
We strive to remember that high school will not last forever
And look forward to graduation day
And the life of that world to come.
Amen.
1
THERE IS SOMETHING truly evil about plaid.
It might look like just a crisscrossed grid of colors, but in my experience, much like comets and black cats, plaid is a harbinger of doom. The amateur bagpiper who played at my grandpa’s funeral wore plaid. The scratchy suit I was stuffed into three Christmases in a row was plaid. Dad’s boss, who promoted Dad and is therefore ultimately responsible for the disaster my life has become, probably wears plaid boxer shorts. The evil has to be hiding somewhere.
And eviler than all other plaid things is the monstrosity I’m staring at from across my bedroom like it’s a tartan rattlesnake.
“It’s a tie, Michael,” Mom said after I opened the package from the school uniform supplier last week and threatened to test out how flame-retardant the polyester fabric really was. “You’ve worn them before.”
Yeah, to funerals and dinners with grandparents at stuffy, boring country clubs. Not to school. I’ve been to four different schools—two public, one private, and one “experimental learning community”—and none of them required ties.
There are lots of things Mom promised would be no big deal. Like moving for the fourth time in ten years. Or changing schools a month and a half into eleventh grade. Or switching from a public school that observes “winter” break to a school whose motto is Deus Meus et Omnia—My God and My All. So far, she’s been epically wrong about all those things, so there’s no real reason to trust her about the tie.
In fifteen minutes, I have to leave for what should be the second Monday in October but is instead my first day at a school I’ve never even seen. The plaid tie sits on top of a box of books I still haven’t unpacked. It’s mocking me.
I grab the tie and loop it around my neck, under the collar of the Mandatory Required white button-up shirt that’s only half tucked into the Mandatory Required stiff navy pants. I can’t remember exactly how to put the tie on.
Attempt #1: I go under instead of over, and it twists and curls into itself like a birthday party noisemaker.
Attempt #2: I measure wrong, and the skinny half sticks out three inches from behind the fat half.
Attempt #3: It’s inside out. I put it on inside out.
This must be what someone about to be hanged feels like, how the noose feels so limp and harmless even though it’s going to slowly, painfully suck the life out of him.
I should have asked Dad to give me a refresher course in Basic Man Skills before he got on the red-eye for Brussels last night, but that would have interfered with my record-breaking six days of not talking to him. It would be one thing if we moved all the time because we had to, if Dad was a soldier or a diplomat or an escaped convict. But in reality, Dad’s job has something to do with sales and the importation of plastic pool covers, and we move each time he reaches for that next rung on the corporate ladder.
I give up on getting the tie straight and pick up the final piece of my uniform, a navy blazer with a patch over the left breast that reads ST. CLARE’S PREPARATORY SCHOOL. They could have called it HELL and saved on the embroidery costs.
Some people are cut out to follow a higher being, like God or the hosts of the Home Shopping Network, but there are other people, people like me, who find it harder to follow the whims of parents or teachers or two-thousand-year-old undead Jewish mystics with strong opinions on divorce.
I didn’t lose my faith or anything. I never had it in the first place. I never believed in any kind of God, just like I never believed in werewolves, or ghosts, or that mixing Pop Rocks and soda would make your stomach explode. Okay, I did believe that last one, but only until A. J. Rubin pushed a can of Coke and a bag of rock candy across our kindergarten lunch table and dared me to try. So I did, and my stomach didn’t explode. And as I gulped down the rest of the soda, I had my first epiphany: just because a person says something is true doesn’t mean it is, and anyone who tells you otherwise is probably trying to keep you from doing something fun.
The next year, when I was seven, I gave a presentation on the unlikelihood of Santa Claus for show-and-tell, but Amy Buckley burst into tears two sentences in and ruined the whole thing. In middle school, I put together a list ranking religions from most plausible to least plausible and shared my findings at Christmas dinner, which caused my great-grandmother to reroute my Christmas money to her church collection plate.
And now, at sixteen, older and wiser and dressed like a middle-aged investment banker, I’m preparing to face the greatest challenge of my nonbelieving life:
Catholic school.
2
FOR THE FIRST priest I’ve seen in real life, Father Peter is disappointing. I was half hoping to meet one straight out of The Exorcist, black robes and giant crucifixes, or maybe a medieval friar with the top of his head shaved, but Father Peter looks like every principal I’ve ever had: middle-aged, glasses, joyless. If I didn’t know he’d devoted his life to indoctrinating impressionable children and never getting laid, he’d almost look normal.
He scans some papers in a manila folder and then glances across his desk at me. “Michael Ausman,” he says, and I nod even though it isn’t a question. “I see you’ve come to us very highly recommended by our bo
ard member Craig Collins.”
It wasn’t enough for Dad’s boss to uproot my family last minute, oh no, he also had to arrange my acceptance at the area’s best private school. I would have preferred the local public school. It’s huge. The bigger the school, the easier it is to blend in.
“It’s unusual for a student to enter after the semester’s already begun—”
Maybe for him. I’ve done it before.
“—but your grades from your previous school show you’re a competent student, so I can’t imagine you’ll struggle to catch up, will you?”
“No,” I say.
Father Peter raises an eyebrow. “No, what?”
My left leg is cramping. “No, I won’t struggle to catch up?”
Father Peter shakes his head. “No, Father,” he supplies.
My throat goes dry. I am not going to call this man with bitten-down nails and dandruff flakes on his sweater Father. I already have a father, even if I’m this close to filing for emancipation.
Father Peter drums his fingers on his desk in a way that tells me I’m not getting out of this office with my dignity intact.
“No, Father,” I say, with more breath than words.
He sighs and gets up from his desk. “Ms. Edison will give you your schedule. First period starts in ten minutes.”
I start for the door, but Father Peter’s voice jerks me back. “I haven’t dismissed you yet, Mr. Ausman,” he says. “Before you go, I want you to understand something—my job at St. Clare’s is to mold young men and women into leaders in their church and their community. Whether or not you enjoy that process is irrelevant.” His face softens. “But I’ve been at this school for two decades, so I can tell you from experience: being here is only a punishment if you make it one. You’re dismissed.”
No one under the age of forty has talked to me yet. A boy sharing my lab table gives me a quick once-over as he sits down, but then turns away. I have three classes before lunch, which means I have three hours to forcibly insert myself into someone’s friend group. That’s all you need—one person to eat lunch with on the first day. Understanding any complex social hierarchies can come later.
There’s static from the loudspeaker, and the class quiets down.
“Gooood morning, St. Clare’s!” The kid on the intercom is so cheerful I instantly hate him. “Let’s give thanks for another beautiful day, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
As if connected by strings, the entire class crosses themselves, perfectly synchronized. I swipe clumsily up, down, then across my body, finishing at least two seconds behind everyone else. The loudspeaker voice has already moved on.
“It’s October ninth, the feast day of Saint Denis, patron saint of Paris, France, and rabies victims. Here are today’s announcements—”
Standard reminders for SAT sign-ups, chamber choir auditions, and volleyball games follow, and for a second I feel like I’m in my old school again, wondering if we’ll get to blow anything up during lab.
“Please bow your heads for morning prayer.”
So much for that.
After an uncomfortably long prayer I barely understand, my chem teacher starts to write lab procedures on the board. Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn around to see a girl with wheat-colored hair, a gold cross around her neck, and a uniform shirt buttoned all the way up to the top. She’s sort of cute, in an Amish kind of way, and I’m willing to look past the cross necklace if it means someone will treat me like I’m not invisible.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m—”
“You did it backward,” she says with a seriousness usually reserved for presidential funerals.
I look back at her, confused, and her mouth twists.
“You crossed yourself backward,” she clarifies.
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I haven’t had tons of practice, so—”
“It’s up, down, left, right.” She mimes it slowly, like I’m a stupid golden retriever.
“What,” I joke. “Does it summon Satan if I do it backward?”
“No,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “but it’s wrong.”
I suddenly get the feeling she’s not telling me this because she cares if I get it right next time. She’s telling me because it makes her feel smarter for already knowing.
“That’s too bad,” I say. “I was hoping for a Lucifer sighting.”
“That’s not funny,” she says. My brain agrees with her. My mouth does not give a shit.
“I’m not joking.” I put on my best earnest face. “Do you know how I could do it? Is there a spell? Ritual sacrifice?” I lean closer. “Do you think Satan prefers goats or sheep? I’ve had the hardest time finding a baby.”
The girl stares at me, then spins back around, probably plotting her own personal American Inquisition.
It’s first period and only one person definitely wants me dead. Things are going better than expected.
By third period, I’m exhausted, and the three-floor climb to my next class doesn’t help. I’m so sick of getting lost in hallways. Dad promised I wouldn’t have to do this again, he promised I could stay in one place for high school. But the second he got a better offer, the moving boxes came out, just like always. I don’t know what I expected.
As I struggle up the steep, narrow staircase, I look at my schedule.
PERIOD 3: HISTORY—SR. JOSEPH
What the hell does that mean, SR. JOSEPH? The only thing I can think of “SR” standing for is “Sir.” Sir Joseph. Maybe he’s a knight.
I reach the classroom as the bell rings, panting from the climb, but I’m not greeted by a man with a lance and a full suit of armor. Instead, it’s a stout, dour woman in a calf-length gray dress, her hair and ears hidden under a black head covering. My teacher isn’t a knight. She’s a nun.
“You’re the new one?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Michael.”
“I’m Sister Joseph Marie. You can call me Sister.”
Sister. Father. It’s like getting a whole other family I don’t want to spend time with.
She points to an empty chair near the back. “Have a seat there. The class is presenting reports on American historical figures today, so you’ll observe for now.”
I sit. If I want any chance of making it out of this place alive, I’m going to have to find a friend. Not a best friend or anything sappy like that—just close enough to eat with. Close enough to get invited to parties. But not too close. A surface-level friend, the kind of person you can leave behind if you have to.
Sister Joseph Marie selects her first victim, a girl named Jenny Okoye. She seems terrified of everyone in the room, so I dismiss her as a potential friend almost immediately.
“My presentation is on civil rights activist Diane Nash,” she begins, tucking a few of her long black braids behind her ear.
“Louder, please,” Sister Joseph Marie says. “They can’t hear you in the back. Or the front.”
Jenny looks helplessly at her stone-faced classmates and tries again. “DianeNashledthefirstsuccessfulcampaign—”
Sister Joseph Marie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Miss Okoye, it’s not a race.”
Jenny holds her pink notecards in a death grip. “Diane Nash,” she forces out, “was only twenty-two years old when she led the first successful campaign to integrate lunch counters in Nashville, Tennessee. She was arrested dozens of times during her decades of activism, which only goes to show that well-behaved women rarely make history.”
Sister Joseph Marie rises from her desk, holding up her hand for Jenny to stop. “I would like to make a brief historical correction here. Well-behaved women often make history. They’re called saints.”
Before Jenny can faint, die of embarrassment, or both, a clear voice pipes up from directly in front of me.
“Sister, you can’t be serious.”
I didn’t even glance at the girl in the seat in front of mine before I sat down, and now all I can see is the back of a starched uniform b
louse, a lint-free sweater vest, and a tumble of dark brown hair tied back with a red ribbon.
Sister Joseph Marie raises her eyes to the heavens. “If I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have said it.”
“But that’s not true,” Red Ribbon says. “Well-behaved women don’t make history. Saints included.”
I’ve been at this school for exactly 122 minutes and 46 seconds—not that I’m timing—and even I know this penguin lady with a dude’s name is not a person to cross. But none of my classmates look surprised.
Sister Joseph Marie clears her throat. “Miss Peña, I’m sure you’re not suggesting any of the saints recognized by the Holy Roman Catholic Church behaved in any way unsuited to their status, are you?”
Red Ribbon tilts her head to the side, considering. “No.”
“Good. Now, Miss Okoye, if you’ll—”
“Joan of Arc,” Red Ribbon cuts in, “was sentenced to burn at the stake by a church court because she wouldn’t wear a skirt.”
“Saint Joan’s trial was a bit more complicated than that.”
“Saint Mary MacKillop was excommunicated for insubordination.”
“That was lifted,” snaps Sister Joseph Marie as Jenny edges back to her seat.
“Saint Catherine was martyred because she wouldn’t marry who she was supposed to; so were Saint Agnes and Saint Agatha and Saint Lucy.”
“They were martyred because they were committed to chastity,” Sister Joseph Marie says. “That’s different.”
“What about Saint Clare?” Red Ribbon gestures at the school banner hanging above the whiteboard. “The saint this school is named for ran away from her parents when she was eighteen because she didn’t want to get married, and then decided to live in the woods with Francis of Assisi, who was basically a giant weirdo who really liked animals. Do you actually think she would have been considered well behaved?”
Sister Joseph Marie waves the question away. “Take it up with your theology teacher,” she says, “because you’re getting very close to blasphemy.” The girl in front of me takes a long, deep breath in, shoulders hitching and ribbon quivering.
“Well, if you’re going to ignore the fact that most of those women chose to die rather than do what other people told them to, then I think you’re pretty close to blasphemy.”
