1
CATERINA
Perfection only looksgood on paper. On me, it pinches like a pair of cheap shoes that don’t fit quite right.
Dean Park smiles like he’s attending a press release while Mother Superior Carbone rests both palms on the neat stack of my life sitting in one manila folder.
GPA. Service hours. Conduct notes so spotless they squeak.
The portfolio of a girl whose soul’s already been sold to God.
“You are,” Mother Superior says, “a model candidate, Caterina. You’ve shown your purity, grace, acceptance, and faith beautifully. From the time I met you when you were only a child, you’ve volunteered every spare moment to others. We’ve watched as you handled your mother’s death with dignity, and you took her place in your household and the Church as we would expect. The Order of Sacred Mercy is eager to welcome you after graduation. We could even accelerate your postulate start, if you prefer.”
I draw in a discreet breath through my nose, exhale slowly, and smooth a wrinkle over my knee, taking my time answering. That’s the thing—Idon’tprefer it. I prefer air. I prefer freedom.
Being a postulate entails the exact opposite.
It means a five a.m. bell and my feet on cold stone tile before the second chime. Hair scraped tight, skirt hem pinned to regulation length, shoes shined enough to catch the overhead bulbs.
Morning prayers in the chapel, study hour in the library, kitchen duty on Tuesdays, laundry on Fridays, floors whenever the chart says so.
No phone—that’s locked up with personal effects. Calls home are scheduled and supervised. Letters, if I wanted to write any, are read before they’re mailed. Silence at meals unless spoken to.
Curfew at nine, lights out at ten, room checks at random.
I’d answer to Sister Clarisse, keep my eyes level and my hands visible, and ask permission for everything from Advil to air on the courtyard.
God forbid I have a headache.
There’s a sign-out sheet for the bathroom after vespers. There are demerits for sarcasm, for lateness, for a strand of hair that escapes the bun.
They call the uniform modest. It fits like a list of rules.
My chest squeezes and I try to inhale again. The air in Mother Superior’s office is suffocating…it’s starting to close in around me, almost, and I can’t quite pull a full breath into my lungs.
But that doesn’t matter to the two people watching me expectantly.
Grace above all.
“I’d like to finish my senior projects,” I manage, smooth and dutiful.
Don’t choke on the words. Don’t fidget. Don’t look at the door.
Dean Park’s smile clicks up a notch. “Perfect. The timing aligns with your father’s very generous endowment in your name. We’ll be able to grow the outreach program significantly.”
And there it is. The pinch I’m starting to feel everywhere tightens. I didn’t know about an endowment “in my name.” I didn’t have to. In our world, I’m secondary to the things that actually matter. Here, just like I am at home, I’m nothing more than a ledger line with a pulse.
“Generous,” I echo. My throat tastes like the old varnish the nuns use to polish the wood.
Bitter.
My phone buzzes once in my coat pocket and I don’t have to check to know who it’s from—Prudence.
Quietly, I slip my phone out and into my hand, hoping that neither of the adultier adults in the room decides to question me on it. I’m not theirs yet.
I was right. Pru’s name is right there on my lock screen, followed by a pumpkin emoji and then a ghost. Of course. Halloween. Campus is already running on sugar and sin. The North End will thrum after dark with saints and party-store devils.
I am supposed to be in bed by ten, reading about charitable tax law.
