“And you decided to go for a swim?” I asked. My nose was bleeding pretty heavily at this point, but she continued to glare at me.
She pointed at a fallen tower of safety vests and breathed, “I tripped.”
It got awkward pretty quickly after that. We both realized at exactly the same time that we were both soaking wet lying on the floor of the pool room, next to a puddle of Maya’s vomit, while blood poured steadily out of my nose. The good thing is I think the awkwardness softened her.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, pointing at my face.
“It’s okay,” I said. Actually, it was not okay. It hurt like hell, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.
We both stood up and shuffled in place for a minute. In the movies when this sort of thing happens, it’s usually followed by a dramatic love scene or, at the very least, an undying pledge of friendship. But we both just stared at each other until finally she said, “Thanks for saving my life,” which is a lot less dramatic when someone actually says it than Disney would have you believe.
“You’re welcome,” I said. For a split second, I saw her smile and the effect was stunning. I didn’t get to enjoy it, though. She bolted through the door to the girls’ locker room, leaving me there to wonder what the hell just happened.
Did I run to the sound of the splash when she fell in? Or did I follow Rebecca when she ran?
Does that even matter?
—
My first confession at St. Agatha’s was this past Friday after mass. All the grades take turns going, which still amazes me because of how much time the whole process takes. It’s like an hour and forty-five minutes of waiting for your turn. Five minutes with the priest and then five minutes kneeling afterward. That’s a lot of time that probably could be spent learning stuff.
I’d grown up Catholic, but I’d only ever gone once before, when I was about eight years old, because that’s the age kids typically are for their first confession. Needless to say, there had been nothing to confess. Eight-year-olds don’t get up to much. But I felt guilty, so I told the priest some stuff I felt guilty about, and he seemed satisfied with that.
I can’t understand why anyone would feel compelled to tell a complete stranger all their sins (as I sit here and tell you all my problems). More importantly, I don’t believe for a second that anyone actually does it.
You just make up a bunch of stuff while you wait in line.
This makes me wonder about how other people feel guilt. Because I think I’m doing it wrong. I don’t generally feel guilty about the things I do—I feel guilty for NOT feeling guilty about the things I do. Like yesterday. I had a full internal monologue about how I would give away my schizophrenia if I could. I thought about choosing someone who deserved it and how great I would feel after I gave it to them, knowing that it didn’t belong to me anymore.
I would feel the most wonderful sense of relief, and for a brief second I would be happy to think that I could cast my problems off on someone else. Then I would feel guilty for not feeling guilty about it. Because that pretty much makes me an awful person, right?
I looked around at all the faces waiting to go into confession. They were bored.
Maya sat in the pews on the other side of the aisle and smiled at me, then rolled her eyes a little as if to say, This is stupid. I made the same face back. Yeah, I know, right? But I don’t actually know what my expression looked like, so maybe she didn’t get that from the look. Maybe the look actually conveyed nothing. It was the first time I’d seen her since I’d pulled her out of the pool, but for some reason, it didn’t feel awkward.
The choir was practicing for Sunday mass, and I cringed when they started to sing. I’ve discovered that it’s pretty easy to let information wash over me if I want it to or if it’s boring, unless someone puts it in a church song. Then that shit is stuck in my head for life.
When it was my turn, I walked into the confessional and knelt behind the mesh screen. I said what you’re supposed to say. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight years since my last confession.”
“Why so long, my son?” He was a fill-in priest with an Irish accent who says mass for Father Benjamin sometimes. I hate when people say “my son” to people who are not their son. It’s creepy. But he is legitimately Irish, which makes him slightly more interesting than the average American priest. Kind of like a leprechaun who grants wishes. I imagined him saying, They’re always after me Lucky Charms, and tried to feel guilty about it. But I didn’t. That shit is hilarious.
“I think telling someone your sins is a waste of time.” I could hear him shift a little in his chair. It might have been rude to say that, but it was probably worse to lie in confession.
“A waste of time?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Then I added, “Sorry.”
I waited for Father Patrick to reach his hands through the screen to strangle me, but nothing happened. The silence built for a while until I felt compelled to speak. “Did I give you a heart attack?”
I was glad when he laughed and said, “No.”
“Do people usually just come in, tell you their sins, and go on their merry way?”
“Usually,” he said. I could tell he was still smiling. “But once in a while I get a kid like you who wants to know the point of all this.”
“And what do you tell them?” I asked.
“That telling someone your sins…actually telling someone your sins is like admitting you are flawed.”
“You think we don’t know we’re flawed? Why does that need to be rubbed in our faces all the time?”
He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Would you accept it if I told you that it’s just another way to communicate with God?”
“And if I don’t believe in God?” He shifted in his seat again. Probably because that threatens his job security.
“Then use the time to think about the kind of person you want to be. And at the very least,” he said quietly, “believe in yourself.”
Not what I’d expected to hear from him, but I still got the hell out of there before he could assign me any prayers.
After his fairly logical assessment, I would have felt compelled to say them.
When I walked out of the confessional, Sister Catherine pointed toward the pew to her left and pressed her fingers to her lips, like I was five years old and didn’t know not to whistle or shriek with glee as I skipped down the aisle. Maya was sitting directly across from me now, praying. Presumably.
When I knelt down in my row, I bowed my head the way you’re supposed to and closed my eyes. A second later, I felt someone sit down next to me.
“Hey,” Maya whispered.
“Hey,” I whispered back. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for talking in church?”
“Not if you stare straight ahead and keep your voice down,” she said calmly. “Sometimes the Holy Spirit commands you to pray out loud.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “How’s your nose?”
“Not bad,” I lied. I wasn’t going to tell her that it still hurt, especially when she looked guilty about it. Luckily, it wasn’t bruised, just sore.