"Bless me father, for I have sinned..."
Those were the words I was dreading. I couldn't say them. Mass was extra long today, and every word sounded like a pronouncement that I was going to hell. The girls crowded around outside the confessional, talking in small groups and snapping their gum. We were supposed to be standing in a quiet line saying the Rosary, but Sister Abby had taken someone to see Mother Superior and we were momentarily without supervision.
"I can't do this," I whispered to Erica. She was sitting against the wall, her knees up, with a copy of one of the
Gossip Girls
tucked into her geography book. I could see her panties—which wasn't unusual, in an all-girls school where we were required to wear skirts, we often got careless—but it made me remember yesterday in the worst way.
"Do what?" she murmured, not looking up from her book.
I nudged her hip with one of my Mary Jane's, hissing: "Confession!"
She looked up then, puzzled. "Why not? Swearing, lustful thoughts, self-flagellation, blah blah blah, thirty Hail Mary's and ten Our Father's later, and you're all set. What's the big deal?"
I stared at her, blinking and speechless.
"Well fine," she said, standing and brushing off the back of her skirt. "Then let's make like Casper."
"Cutting class?" I groaned. "Adding yet another sin to my growing list? Not helping!"
"Okay." She shrugged. "So you're ready to go in there and tell Father Michael about our little porn-watching session yesterday?"
"Shhhh!" I put my hand over her mouth, looking over at the group of girls closest to us to see if they'd heard anything. "You're evil!"
"Perfect timing," she said, glancing around. "Sister Abby's gone, and I know I'm not up for one of Sister Helen's usual lectures on the Church's revisionist history—I don't care what they say, Jesus was clearly a Jew."
The confessional door opened behind us and I sighed as another girl went in. I couldn't—I just couldn't. It wasn't just that we had looked at the magazines and watched the movies, or even that we'd masturbated together. That was bad enough, but sitting in the dark and telling Father Michael the thoughts I was having about Mr. Nolan!? No way... the prospect made me feel weak with dread.
"Okay," I agreed, grabbing Erica's arm. "Let's do it."
"Leah!" It was Erica's turn to sound shocked. "Seriously?"
I nodded, grabbing my backpack off the floor, saying loudly, "Let's go to the bathroom."
Erica snickered as we left the church proper and went into the breezeway. "Good cover."
"I'm no expert," I agreed. "So how do we get out without being seen, Houdini?"
"Follow me," she said, and I did, down the corridor and through a door.
"Where are we?"
"Storage room," she answered, making her way through a maze of shelves with all sorts of vestments, candles and candle lighters, and statues.
The whole nativity scene was stacked into a corner, the baby Jesus wrapped in a shroud in the manger. The oddest thing was the hundreds of boxes full of heavenly host. I stared at them as we passed, looked at the stamped sides:
Cavanagh Communion Hosts 1 1/8"
, marked either with "white" or "wheat" flavor.
Erica grinned back at me when she saw me looking at the boxes. "Do you think Christ was white or wheat?"
"You are so going to hell," I replied, but couldn't help grinning, too. We were nearing a door at the back of the room and she pulled it open, heading down a dark flight of stairs.
"Where are we?" I asked, feeling my way down, holding onto the railing.
"Church basement, now," she replied, waiting for me at the bottom. "Bobby meets me here sometimes."
"Oh my God!" I gasped, mentally adding my taking the Lord's name in vain to my list of sins for the week. It was a small trespass, considering. "He'd be shot on sight if they found him!"
"No one finds him," she assured me as I followed her through the dark basement. There were small windows near the top of the concrete walls that let in a little, shadowy light.
Around the corner, Erica pulled open another door and waved me through.
"What is this?" There were cots all along each side of the long, narrow walls of the room we stepped into.
"Old storm cellar-slash-bomb shelter, I think," she replied, starting up the ladder to our left and pressing on the door above her head. "Either that, or this is where they do all the experiments on the
really
bad kids."
I snorted, following her up the ladder and waiting as she pressed at the door. We were in our uniforms, of course, and I could see right up her skirt from this angle and the flash of white panties made me remember yesterday.