Part 4 (1/2)
”Father Greg is officially retiring soon. He's not coming back. Today is the day the new priest is starting. If the new priest hires someone else to the church's books, you don't get free tuition to St. Xavier anymore. I need you to help me make a good impression.”
Elle shrugged. ”Don't care. Send me to public school. No more uniforms.” And no more fights on the bus. No more getting mocked because her dad had been in jail. No more getting teased for her b.r.e.a.s.t.s that didn't seem to want to stop growing. No more blood on her knees.
”Eleanor, I'm serious.”
”Mom, I'm serious. You're going to have to give up trying to turn me into a junior version of you minus the kid you didn't want. Go without me. There's nothing at church for me. Not now. Not ever.”
Elle threw herself back into bed. She knew she hadn't heard the last of this topic, but maybe winning the battle was the beginning of winning the war. Covering her face with her pillow again, Elle tried to will herself to fall back to sleep.
She waited to hear her mother's footsteps retreating. But instead of creaking floors, she heard whispered words. Eleanor peeked out at her mother from under her pillow. Too bad her mother hated men so much. Her dad was right. At thirty-three her mother was still young looking and beautiful. At least she could have been beautiful if she tried at all. No makeup. She never did anything with her hair. She wore clothes as baggy as a nun's habit. Elle might have liked a stepfather. It would be nice to have a man around who actually gave two s.h.i.+ts about her.
”Mom? What are you doing?”
”Praying to Saint Monica.” Her mother's eyes remained closed. She clutched her saint medal in her hand.
”Saint Monica? Was she a martyr or a mystic?”
”Neither. She was a mother.”
”Good. Hate the martyrs.” Stupid virgin martyrs. Between getting married and getting murdered they picked murder. She'd pick a d.i.c.k over death any day. Why did no one ever offer her those sorts of choices?
”She was the mother of Saint Augustine. He, too, was a willful, disobedient child. He had a mistress and fathered a child out of wedlock. He partied and played and didn't care at all for the things of G.o.d. But his mother-Monica-was a Christian and she prayed and prayed for him. Prayed with all her might her child would see the truth of the Gospel and convert. G.o.d granted her prayer and Saint Augustine is one of the doctors of the church now.”
”The church has doctors?”
”It does.”
”Why is it still so sick, then? They must be really c.r.a.ppy doctors.”
Her mother stopped talking again, stopped whispering, stopped praying. But still she didn't leave.
”Elle ...” Her mother's tone was softer now, kinder, conversational. Not a good sign.
”What. Now. Mother?”
”Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”
”Mom, he's a priest. That's gross.” The pillow was once more firmly planted on her face.
”And he rides a motorcycle.”
Elle pushed the pillow off her face.
”A motorcycle?”
”Yes.” Her mother smiled. ”A motorcycle.”
”What kind? Not some no-thrust piece-of-c.r.a.p crotch rocket from j.a.pan, is it?”
Her mother shook her head.
”Something Italian.”
”A Vespa? Those are scooters, not motorcycles.” Elle giggled at the image of a priest in a collar on the back of a little Vespa scooter.
”No. Something that started with a D. Du-something.”
Elle's eyes widened.
”A Ducati?”
”That was it.”
She knew about Ducatis but had never seen one up close. She'd kill to have a Ducati between her thighs. All that power. All that freedom. What she wouldn't give ...
Would it kill her to go to church one more day? One more hour? One more Ma.s.s? She could see the bike, maybe touch it, then get out again.
”Okay.” Elle threw off the covers. ”I'm coming. But I'm doing it for the Ducati, not for G.o.d.”
Her mother slammed the door behind her and Elle got out of bed. Grabbing her uniform skirt off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. Ma.s.s or not, she would have had to get out of bed anyway. Her bladder had been about to explode while arguing with her mom.
She pressed her hand to the bathroom window and felt nothing but room-temperature gla.s.s. Good. A warm morning. She wouldn't have to bother with tights under her skirt.
Her hair looked like it belonged on a crazy person since she'd fallen asleep with it wet. No amount of curling or brus.h.i.+ng was going to tame it. She grabbed a bottle of tinted green hair gel and streaked it through her hair, taming the wild flyaways enough that she could pull it back into a high ponytail.
Elle shoved her feet into her black combat boots. Carefully she applied a thick swipe of black eyeliner around her eyes. She was short and her b.o.o.bs were too big but at least she could pull off the makeup component of heroin chic.
In her bedroom she found her thickest flannel s.h.i.+rt and pulled it on over her Pearl Jam T-s.h.i.+rt. She layered her green army jacket on top of her flannel.
Elle jumped in the backseat of their old Ford and her mom barely let her shut the door before backing out of the driveway.
”I want you to say h.e.l.lo to the new priest if you get a chance. Father Greg had me doing the books since he couldn't handle it. This younger priest might want to change things up.”
”I'll say hi. And then I'll steal his Duck and ride away into the sunset.”
”His what?”
”Ducks. Dukes. Ducatis. Never mind.”
”I'm attempting to be open-minded about the new priest. You could at least give him a chance,” her mother said.
”I'm going, right? But only for the motorcycle. I mentioned that part, right?”
Her mother gave a ragged sigh.
”You should be going to church for G.o.d, and no other reason.”