Blackvine Ridge taught me what doors do when men hold the keys. I learned to hate locks. I also learned that a rule you choose can be a rail you don’t fall over.
Seven is a line on the clock and a hook in my chest. I sit in the confessional with the door open and my hands empty, because those are the only terms that mean anything.
I’m not sure how I’ll maneuver it, but I’ve chosen the saint I need to soothe my soul. Now I wait for the woman I’ve already somehow claimed as mine.
For the night, anyway.
3
CATERINA
Pru showsup at my bedroom door with a garment bag like she’s running contraband.
“You didn’t,” I say.
“Oh, I absolutely did.” She unzips it open with a flourish. Black fabric. White collar. Wimple. A perfect, slightly-mothball-scented habit from Theater’s graveyard. “Sinner chic,” she announces. “It’s only a one night rental, so do not bleed on it.”
I touch the fabric. It’s heavier than it looks, and coarse, tailored for stage lights and moral panic. “I’m going to hell.”
“Babe, you were headed to a convent anyway. This is a lateral transition.” She tilts her head, studying my face. “You can still say no. You know I won’t pressure you into anything.”
I can. I don’t. I need this one night before the rest of my life, one night to be nothing more than a college student out to party and have a good time.
“Help me,” I say, and that is the real rebellion: letting someone else tie the strings for once.
She laughs, gentle, and we build me into a saint. Black dress. The collar that turns my throat into a declaration. The veil thatsmooths my hair into obedience. My reflection in the small mirror looks like a warning.
“Okay,” she says, stepping back. “I don’t know how because you are completely covered, but it’s managing to give ‘Bless me, Father, for I am about to make statistically poor choices’ vibes.”
“Statistically,” I say, “yes, there will be poor choices made tonight..”
“Rules,” she says, ticking each off on her fingers. “We are out until midnight. We do not split up unless you say go. You share your location with me, and you keep your phone on vibrate, not silent. If you get weird vibes, we bail. If anything looks even remotely like creepy priest energy, we set it on fire and record the chaos.”
“Those are…robust rules.”
“I like you alive.” She tosses me a pair of sneakers. “Wear these under the gown. I don’t care what the saints think about footwear. We wear comfortable shoes, because no one reaches final girl status by trying to run in heels.”
By six-fifty, campus has traded daylight for neon. The quad spits out costumes that are completely opposite of our daily lives. Sparkly devils, a cluster of exhausted med students in scrubs with glitter tossed over them and cuts made in the scrubs that are obviously two sizes too small, a harried TA in cat ears avoiding eye contact with his undergrads.
We cut through the crowd, heads turning toward us and then away, because Boston has a tradition of minding your own business until it absolutely isn’t possible.
My phone vibrates.
Father: Dinner tomorrow instead. I’ll send the car.
Me: I have class late. I’ll come by Saturday.
Lie number two today. My stomach tightens and then releases. Maybe I’m getting good at this.
I know otherwise around the time we hit the sidewalk that leads toward the North End, though. The nerves in my stomach are jumping all around, too unsettled for me to even think about heading right toward the block where all the bars are located.
Silently I curse the good girl gene that won’t let me act normal without plaguing me with a stupid amount of anxiety.
I tug on Pru’s arm, veering left instead. She knows before I say it.
“St. Brigid’s?” she asks.
“Yes.” My voice is steadier than I expect.
