On my way into the church, I felt something wet slap against the back of my neck. A spit wad. When I jumped and turned around, a severe-looking nun gave me a look that clearly wished me a painful death. Ian laughed with a couple other guys behind me, and I turned back around and kept walking even though I was pissed. I couldn’t believe spit wads still happened. It occurred to me in that moment that I’ve never actually hit anyone before. I think I’d like to hit someone who deserves it. Not arbitrarily, of course. I’d just really love to punch an asshole. Instant karma, you know?
It’s not like I’d never been to church before. I’ve had all the sacraments I’m supposed to have at this point. Got all the boxes on my Catholic worksheet checked off to get into heaven, because my mom knew it would make my grandmother happy.
But it was a new place, and something in the back of my mind made me anxious. We had just increased my dosage. Remember? It’s in your notes somewhere, I’m sure. But that’s really something you should know off the top of your head.
I didn’t tell anyone I was feeling dizzy. Not that I could’ve told anyone, because the only person I really talked to at school was busy being an altar boy. I think church is pretty much the only place Dwight shuts up. It was weird seeing him sitting still and not talking to the people next to him. But his robes were pretty stupid-looking, so I don’t blame him for keeping quiet and just waiting for the whole thing to be over.
Anyway, we’d only gotten through the first reading, which, judging by the usual length of a Catholic mass from my memory of them as a kid, meant that the priest still had another thirty minutes of our undivided attention. Even longer if the homily was extra preachy, as they usually were. So I folded my hands and waited for the room to stop spinning.
I tried fixing my eyes on something still, but the church was full of fidgeting kids messing with their uniforms. I looked up at the stained-glass windows above the altar. They were images of the Stations of the Cross.
When we’d toured the school, they said that before Easter every class from middle school to high school would have to present their own rendition of the Stations of the Cross. They would elect one student to be Jesus, and he would be covered in fake blood and then forced to drag a heavy plywood cross across the church floor to act out each stage of his crucifixion.
This disturbed no one but me.
The stained glass is pretty awesome, though. Solemn and creepy at the same time. There’s something soothing about the rich golds and reds when they catch the light. Even the blood on Jesus’s face seems less threatening in glass. But after a few minutes, I knew something was wrong.
Jesus’s chest had begun to rise and fall. I looked away from him and forced my eyes to the sixth station. It’s the one where a woman named Veronica steps out of the crowd to wipe sweat and blood off Jesus’s face as he’s being marched to his death. It’s my favorite one, easily the kindest of the stations. But after I stared at her for a second, she began to breathe, and her colorful clothes turned black as she turned her face to me. Slowly, all the figures in the stained glass turned their faces to me.
Even the angels gazed down at me, their glassy faces half reflected in the morning light. A strange wind rustled their wings, and I closed my eyes and bowed my head, hoping the kids sitting next to me would think I was praying. The angels were all watching me from the glass, and I knew that if I stared back I might not be able to look away again.
That was when I felt Rebecca’s eyes on my back. When I turned around, she smiled at me. That worried smile she always wears when she knows something is wrong but doesn’t want to make a big deal. I knew it wasn’t real. Hell, I knew she wasn’t real, but it was hard to convince myself in the moment. I just tried to let the communion procession distract me.
I didn’t get up for communion. You know, where they hand out pieces of Jesus made of stale wafers.
It’s funny how people still seem surprised when you don’t get communion. When I was little, my mom explained that it usually meant someone thought they were too filled with sin to receive Jesus. Even if I hadn’t been feeling weird, I just don’t like the idea of some old guy shoving food in my mouth. Or sharing a wineglass with a hundred strangers. It’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. They pass the same glass to everyone, wipe it, turn it, and then pass it off to the next person. Like wiping it with the same white cloth over and over magically makes it clean. The Blood of Christ…and the spit from that girl with the questionable cold sore.
Soon, Rebecca was sitting at the edge of the row, two pews in front of me, running her fingers through her hair, looking concerned. I wanted to reassure her, but then everyone would have seen me talking to nothing. Still, it’s not her fault she’s not real.
Instead, I hunched my shoulders and took a few deep breaths, trying to keep my head from spinning.
“Are you okay?” the girl next to me whispered. It took a second for me to register that it was Maya and then another second to tell her it was just a headache, which wasn’t a complete lie. I say that a lot to people. And it bothered me that I couldn’t remember if she’d always been sitting next to me or if she’d just moved to that spot.
Without another word, she got up from her seat, walked to the edge of the pew, and disappeared out of sight toward the back of the church. A minute later she was back with a bottle of water. She handed it to me.
I was glad she didn’t come back with aspirin. Not sure how I would have told her that it might interfere with what I was already taking.
Because I hallucinate and hear voices.
“Drink,” she said. “Sometimes it helps.”
“Thanks,” I whispered back. “I’m Adam.”
“Maya,” she said, turning her attention back to the altar. Dwight had already told me this, of course, but I accepted it as new information and then tried to stare at her using only my peripheral vision. Dwight had told me her last name was Salvador, and I’m pretty sure she’s Filipino. Her short brown hair brushed the top of her shoulders in perfect even strokes. I was impressed that she’d managed to make it all the way down our pew and back without incurring the wrath of the nun at the end of the row. Nuns were usually quick to punish any disturbance during mass, but in this case Maya had moved with such swift determination that they couldn’t possibly object. Sister Catherine nodded in her direction.
I never would have gotten away with that.
Maya paid attention to what the priest was saying. I could see the force of concentration in her eyes, but every so often I felt her gaze drift toward me.
It took a minute for me to realize that she was checking to make sure I was okay.
I pretended that this didn’t matter to me.
I’d had friends back at my old school. I’d grown up with them. Ridden bikes with them. Snuck out after curfew with them. But when they found out what I was, they were afraid of me, just like Paul. After the incident at school and all the strange behavior, they stopped calling.
I’d known Michael and Kevin since we were five. We’d been on the same T-ball team together. They’d at least sent “Get Well Soon” cards when I left school, no doubt forced into it by their mothers, but no one came around after that. My best friend, Todd, disappeared completely.