Something sweet with hints of cinnamon filled my nostrils. A bake sale. My stomach growled. I shoved my hand in my pocket, fingers curling around the ten-dollar bill.
I stalled. I couldn’t be stupid or naive. These were the type of people who might say things like “We love everyone because Jesus told us to! Oh, except the gays. And the Muslims. And Jews (even though Jesus was Jewish, but that was different). And immigrants (Jesus was American, didn’t you know?). And Planned Parenthood. And fornicators. And tattoos, unless they’re quoting Leviticus of course. And pepperoni pizza on Fridays. And—”
“Hey.”
I looked up. A nun came out from behind one of the tables. In the midday sun, I could see her clearly. She looked my age even though she must be in her twenties if she was a nun. Right? I vaguely remembered some documentary saying that a person can technically join a convent at seventeen but that most orders require aspiring nuns to go to college first.
She had dark eyes and brown skin, contrasting with the bright blue of her habit, and she was a lot prettier than I’d assumed a nun would be—
Internally I recoiled. Was I really checking out a nun? That had to go against so many codes of ethics, especially hers. My cheeks must have flushed a dark scarlet because I could feel the burn on my skin and oh God she was looking at me, stop looking at me, stop looking at me, stop—
“You just moved in with Father Moore.” The nun said it like a statement, not a question. How was a person supposed to respond to that? For once, I waited for the voice to coax me. But it remained silent. Maybe it was gone for good.
Fuck. Could I take it back? I’d pick the voice any day over the panic.
The nun seemed to sense my discomfort. “That probably came out not the way I intended. Your uncle mentioned his niece would be coming, and I saw you unpacking yesterday. I wanted to extend a greeting.”
Great. Just what I needed: for her to be really, really nice.
“Uh, yeah.” I fumbled. “I’m living with him and my aunt Anne Marie for a while. I, uh, I haven’t seen him yet. He was working late, I guess. And out this morning. He’s, uh, he’s not here?”
The nun pursed her lips. Her expression was unreadable. “He’s very busy.”
“Yeah. I, uh, I noticed.” Great. I was fumbling all over my words. Boy-me would never do this. “You uh . . . been here awhile?”
Wow. Great going, Alexis. That’s totally not skeevy at all.
“Yeah. I guess it’s been awhile,” she said, seeming kind of amused. She held out her hand. “I’m Sister Bernadette.”
I hesitated and then shook it. “Alexis.” Her hand was weathered, scarred at the knuckles. “You uh, you having luck with the bake sale?” I asked politely.
“Can’t complain.”
“Could be better?”
She grinned. “If you phrase it like that, anything can be better instead of just being fine.”
Touché.
“I thought nuns weren’t allowed to have sweets. Like the whole mandatory living through poverty thing?”
“Who says I’m eating them?”
Checkmate. I couldn’t help but smile back at her.
“Hey.” The young priest tapped Sister Bernadette on the shoulder. I didn’t know a priest could be so young. Did they have access to some sort of elixir? “I’ve got to get to class. You have this under control?”
Class? Priests went to class? Was he a teacher or a student?
“I already told you, you didn’t need to come,” Sister Bernadette said.
“I wanted to help.”
Translation: I wanted to hang out.
That seemed . . . weird. Did priests hang out with nuns and parishioners just because? Like regular people?
“Go,” Sister Bernadette insisted, swatting him off. Maybe she was uncomfortable with his familiarity. The young priest nodded as he hustled away from the table, slinging a backpack over his shoulder. He looked both ways before crossing the street and getting in an old Honda Civic.
Great, his presence had broken the flow of conversation. I looked back at Sister Bernadette, unsure of what to say. “So . . .” I gestured to the table. “What’s the money going to?”
“Charity,” Sister Bernadette said. “We’re partnered with a few of the local organizations.”
Under my breath, I muttered, “I’m guessing Planned Parenthood isn’t on your donation list.”
Sister Bernadette gave me a once-over. “You’re pro-choice, I’m guessing?”
And hella queer and agnostic, I wanted to say, twirling around on my toes with fake fairy wings as I threw a handful of rainbow glitter up in the air. But I wasn’t Aleks right now. And the whole point of being here was to stay on the downlow. Instead, I clenched my fists defensively. “Well, I’m definitely not anti-choice.”
Sister Bernadette glanced back at the tables with the nuns, who were laughing about something. Then, so softly I could have mistaken it for the wind, she said, “You’re not the only one who believes in choices.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
No. No way. She wasn’t implying what I thought she was, right?
“Tell you a secret,” Sister Bernadette continued. “My favorite subject in school was science. Especially human biology. Bodies are fascinating.”
She broke eye contact again and took a few steps back. I couldn’t believe it. A pro-choice nun? Didn’t that completely go against Catholic doctrine?
But I’d been so wrong about Wanda Elmwood, thinking she was a crook when she was desperate to take care of her children instead. Don’t stereotype, I reminded myself. I couldn’t assume what Sister Bernadette’s beliefs were.
But if she believed in the right to choose, how could she have been allowed to become a nun? Was it a lie that she’d discuss in her own confessions? A secret just for herself?
I pulled out the wrinkled ten from my pocket. “So . . . what do you recommend?” That was as much of an olive branch as she was going to get from me.
She looked at the bill, eyes widening a little with surprise, then at the table. “Pastries are a dollar.”
I ran calculations through my head. Generally I tried to save up as much as I could. Even when I cosplayed, I put more than 50 percent of my money into savings just in case. I wasn’t sure what the just in case was, but I was always serious about it.
With hesitation, I handed over the bill. “Just . . . whatever looks best to you, I guess.”
Sister Bernadette took it. “How much change do you want back?”
Eight dollars.
You gotta keep saving. Just in case.
Ah. The voice again. It was almost comforting to know it wasn’t lost, although I certainly wouldn’t miss it at night. Maybe to spite it, I said, “Keep it. If you’re really . . . if this goes to . . .” Great. Now I’d lost the ability to speak.
She smiled warmly and put the bill in their small cash bin. Next she got a paper box. I watched her go along the tables, picking through danishes and rolls. I also watched her put in way more than ten, more like seventeen, until the box barely closed at the lid. She returned and handed it over to me.
“Thank you so much for your contribution.”