by Diane Munier
So we went to Saturday mass and we never, ever, ever do that because we have to go all the other days during school but not summer. So we went and then we each had our rosaries in our hands and we waited after mass, kneeling there with our black lace veils hanging along our faces which always makes Abigail feel like she has long hair and it makes me feel like a bride, but we wait there and Abigail pretends to pray but I really do because we’re about to commit a really big sin, one I’ll have to confess but I’ll disguise it as much as possible.
So after the last old lady finally leaves we breathe a big sigh of relief and Abigail leads the way and we get in the aisle and genuflect, make the sign of the cross, and I put my rosary in the velvet pouch, and she does too, and we put those in our purses, mine red with sharp brass trim, and hers straw for summer with daisies on it. We put our missals in there too though mine won’t hardly close now, and then we keep our heads covered cause we’re still in church what do you think.
We have never been inside the gate that surrounds the altar and keeps people out unless they are wearing vestments and are boys or old men. So I don’t even know if girls can go in here or ever have.
But Abigail says nuns have to go in cause someone has to clean it and put in the communion so even though we’re not nuns we are Catholic and Abigail says that’s probably enough.
So my heart is pounding so hard. I hope God’s not mad about this. But we go up to the fence and Abigail goes over. I almost die. Seeing her put her butt on that marble fence top and lift her legs and flash her under wears and then be on the other side, I can’t believe it. We’re going to get burned at the stake for this.
But I go right over after. Lord Almighty I nearly faint. We are standing in here and it’s so different. “It’s too holy,” I say and I say it so loud my words echo.
But Abigail is already moving up the marble steps closer to the altar. I can’t believe her nerve but I follow her skinny white legs and her ankle socks and her Mary Janes.
She goes up the second set of steps and my knees are weak and I have to pee. That altar is so, so tall I can’t even look up at all the saints crouching in the little spaces because I know they would give me teacher looks and I would have to faint.
She is at the altar now and I’m biting a knuckle.
“C’mon Georgia,” she says and I wish she wouldn’t have told all the saints my name.
So I get next to her and she goes around the side and there’s a door cut into all that gold and she unlatches it and pulls it open and gasps at what she sees.
I look over her shoulder cause I am a spy at heart and great balls of fire. Mops and buckets.
She closes the door and sets the latch and I am already going over the fence. She calls for me to wait but I don’t stop. I see that confessional and I know I’m going to be in there once school starts in the fall and I’m going to have to come up with something to tell Father Anthony but for now we’ve solved our second mystery and it feels…great
About the Author
Living comfortably in the heart of America with the people I love. I live an extroverted life, but I'm a genuine introvert. An urban kid, I spent much of my youth running in various neighborhood establishments. There I met many colorful characters and I learned to love them and be fascinated by them. My love of story comes from them. I learned to sit on a bar stool or a kitchen chair or in a pew and hear story. Hear the voices telling story. See the mouths move and the hands clutching glasses or cigarettes. See and hear the laughter. There is no greater honor than to hear someone's story. If you feel that way about the tales I tell...what more could I ask.
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