Mother Superior folds her hands, soft authority over steel. Her gaze flicks over the phone pointedly and she continues speaking. “Purity isn’t a burden, child. It’s a gift you return to the world.”
Purity is a leash that looks like lace.
“We’ll just need your signature to lock the postulate date,” Dean Park adds lightly. “No rush—end of week.” They pass over two slips of paper. One marking my attendance at the meeting, and the other stipulating that I want to move my commitment up by almost an entire year.
No rush. Just the end of my life on paper.
“I’ll review everything.” I sign the attendance form with my best obedient-daughter handwriting and stand, holding on tothe other form. I keep my knees steady and my smile intact through sheer force of habit. I’ve trained for this.
The corridor air is cooler. I lean my shoulders against stone, inhale the scent of floor wax and old wood. I count to four. Then eight. I hold the numbers in my mouth like lozenges until my ribs stop trying to climb out of my body.
“Are we about to murder someone?” Pru appears, a backpack full of cables banging her hip, nose ring flashing.
A smile carves my face despite the meeting I just exited. Pru is my hands-down favorite chaos gremlin, carrying sunshine with her wherever she comes. “Cause I brought bail money. By which I mean a granola bar and an expired student ID.” She pauses to look me over. “How did it go?”
“I signed the attendance sheet,” I say. “I didn’t sign away my soul.” The wordyethangs unspoken between us.
Her eyes flick over my face—she reads me, files away my responses, and then offers a grin. “Good. Because Theater misplaced the costume closet key, and I have a moral obligation to facilitate a felony of fun. Also, Carbone called you ‘the perfect candidate’ by the salad bar. She’s beta-testing your halo and I think you need to take it a step further.”
“Perfect is just PR with a rosary.”
“Honestly girl, you’re perfection without trying. If you weren’t so honest-to-god nice, I would have hated you on sight. But you’re not. So let’s mess up their plans, at least for a little while. Make you completely not-perfect. Just for a little while tonight. We’ll be ghosts before midnight. And then you can turn back into a pumpkin and return yourself to the tower you’re locked away in.”
“I think you’re mixing up your fairytale princesses.” I chuckle, but the entire time I’m chewing on the inside of my lip.
I should say no. I should sit in the chapel and practice looking holy beside the donation plaque with my name on it. Ishould call my father and thank him for purchasing my virtue in bulk.
Stained glass spills fractured light across the hall. Saints in jewel tones. Shadows where the sinners stand.
“Seven,” I tell her. “Are costumes optional?”
“Optional? Babe.” She squeezes my arm. “You’re putting on a habit, and you’re gonna look just as hot as Whoopie in that old movie.”
I laugh. It feels sacrilegious. It feels like oxygen feeding the flames of my freedom. “Go, before Carbone catches us planning to enjoy things.”
“She can fight me.” Pru backs down the hall, already tapping on her phone. “I’ll bring the ghost. You bring the girl who wants a life outside of the nunnery.”
When she’s gone, I text my father.
Meeting went well. I’ll review the packet.
No emoji. He hates them, and if I use one, chances are he’ll accuse me of drinking or using drugs.
The reply arrives before I pocket the phone.
Proud of you. Dinner tonight?
I stare at the screen until the words blur, then type:
Can’t. Study group.
A lie so gentle it barely qualifies. A lie that buys me a few hours as an almost-someone else. A someone with a life. God, I wish I could be the person that walks away from family expectations.
I go to the chapel anyway. I choose a pew halfway back. There are twelve panels in the nearest window. I count them three times to make sure. The counting helps.
Why can’t I be as perfect as my mother was?
I try so damn hard.
