A Patron Saint for Junior Bridesmaids Read online

  Big whew. Mom, Luke, and now Jessica. This distraction thing really works.

  ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME

  It’s a sin to have hate in your heart.

  Therefore, the feeling I have for Brent Helzinski is strong dislike.

  Chapter Three

  There’s going to be a wedding … and a confession

  Two days. That’s how long it takes Mom to remember I walloped Brent. I avoided the subject for two whole days, but instead of two days of relief it was two days of worrying. I’ve been constantly on edge wondering when she would bring it up. And all I did was think about what she’d say and how I’d explain it. That was the hardest part, because I can’t explain what I don’t understand.

  When Mom finally confronts me, she doesn’t even give me a lecture. Instead, she says, “After school, you’re going to hop on your bike and go straight to church for Confession.”

  And that’s worse than a lecture. It’s worse than being grounded. I’ll have to look into the eyes of Father Benson, who nominated me for that youth group award. I’ve always been his favorite kid. I volunteer in the church day care and help with the food shelf drive. Three years in a row, I was Mary in the Children’s Christmas Pageant. Jessica was so jealous. One year, she had to play one of the three wise men. Wearing a fake beard, Jessica brought baby Jesus the gift of myrrh. Myrrh! What even is that?

  So I’ve gone from playing Mary the Mother of God to Mary the Puncher of Brent.

  As I bike to church, I think about cruising around town for an hour, then going home and pretending I was at Confession. Mom would never know because Confession is supposed to be private—just you, the priest, and God. But Holmestrand is so small she’d probably find out. Secrets here are like lice. They spread from person to person until everyone is scratching. I’d be lying, which is a sin, and dishonoring my mother, which is also a sin. A sin wrapped in another sin.

  Father Benson and I sit across from each other in a small room next to the altar. He has a round face, thick silver hair, and a wide smile that shows all his teeth, which are yellow and crooked. It’d be vain to whiten them, I guess, and being vain is a sin, but probably not as big a sin as punching someone.

  My normal confession is always the same: I read books past bedtime. That’s what I tell him because the real stuff is too awful for the nicest girl at St. Bridget, the girl who won the state award. I can’t tell him I copied part of an essay off the Internet. It was just once, and only because I forgot it was due the next day, and I’ll never do it again. I can’t tell him about wanting to throw a rock at Jessica’s family car when I saw a Home Supply Station bag in the back window. I can’t tell him about Brent.

  Here’s the thing, though: If you go to Confession with a real sin, like cheating in school, and you don’t actually confess it, you no longer have one sin. Now you have two! Cheating in school and the sin of omission, which is keeping your sin a secret. Not telling is just as sinful as sinning. So technically I sin every time I come to Confession! I can’t think about it. All these sins are too heavy for my heart, and there are so many piled up that if I dwell on one thing too long, I might explode.

  Besides, I’ve done something that’s way, way worse than the sin of omission.

  I quit praying to God.

  I can never tell Father Benson—or anyone—that I don’t pray to God anymore. They would never think the same of me ever again. So I keep that confession in the darkest part of my heart.

  When I’m in the room with Father Benson, I always say, “Bless me Father for I have sinned. I stayed up past bedtime reading a book.” Father Benson laughs and asks, “Was it the Bible?” And I always give him the name of some random book. And he always says, “I absolve you from your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  This time, though, when I mumble, “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I can’t spit out more words. I stare at the carpet, which is frayed and dirty but can’t be replaced because people don’t put enough money in the donation baskets, according to Father Benson. When people pass the baskets during mass, and there’s the clink of coins instead of the swish of paper money, Father Benson’s crooked teeth disappear under thin lips.

  That’s how he looks now. Thin lips.

  “Please continue,” he says.

  “Let me think about it.”

  He lets me think for a minute. Then he sighs and says, “I already know, Mary. I heard from the school secretary’s husband’s cousin’s wife at the café this morning.”

  See? Lice!

  “Tell me what happened, Mary,” he says. “God is forgiving. I can feel His love for you in this room.”

  I close my eyes and try to feel His love. How is His love supposed to feel? Like a soft breeze? A shiver? A wave of warmth? I just feel me with my sweaty hands and burning stomach.

  “Excuse me, Mary,” Father Benson asks. “Are you paying attention?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what Brent did to provoke you.”

  I keep my eyes down and stay quiet.

  “Mary, bullies are a fact of life. But Jesus commands us to turn the other cheek. We also must love our neighbor. Of course, when the neighbor is a bully, it isn’t easy. Turning the other cheek is never easy, especially when you live an honorable life.”

  I nod.

  “You are probably wondering, ‘How do I defend myself against bullies if I’m supposed to turn the other cheek?’ That is an excellent question.” He looks proud of himself as he delivers the answer. “You defend yourself by praying to God for Jesus to defend you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any questions, Mary?”

  “No.”

  He watches me for a moment and presses his glasses up his nose. “Are you sure?”

  I feel a spark in my guilty heart and suddenly I hear myself saying, “Jesus got angry sometimes.” I’d been thinking those words; then they just flew out of my mouth. I focus on staring at my lap. I’m totally embarrassed.

  He adjusts the white priest’s collar on his shirt and says, “Yes, that’s true. But His anger was honorable because He was deeply concerned about acts against God. Also, He controlled His anger. His anger didn’t control Him.”

  I nod even though this makes no sense whatsoever.

  “I’ll give back that youth group award. I don’t deserve it.”

  “No, that award is yours. And your story is a good one because it shows that good people sin, but we can all repent because God is forgiving.”

  “Oh.”

  Father Benson says, “Let’s bow our heads and pray together.”

  He bows his head and prays.

  I bow my head, too. I listen to Father Benson’s words, but in my heart, I’m not praying. Technically speaking, I didn’t confess. Father Benson guessed.

  * * *

  I stopped praying to God and started the Patron Saints notebook after Ryan Dorman’s Halloween party, the night everything changed.

  The timing went like this:

  I went to Ryan’s party Saturday night.

  I came home and heard about the plane crash.

  I started my notebook of Patron Saints.

  The party was awful because Brent Helzinski came. Ryan’s parents must have told him to invite the whole class, because who’d voluntarily put Brent on a party list? Kindergartners wouldn’t invite Brent to a party even if he promised to bring ponies.

  After the Halloween party, I went straight to my room and got ready for bed. I could hear my parents mumbling—their voices serious and quiet—and I figured it was another money conversation. When I walked into the kitchen to say good night, I heard Mom say, “You see this stuff on the news, but you never think you’ll have a connection to it.”

  “To what?” I asked.

  Dad said, “You were pretty young when John Danner worked at Dave’s Diner. Do you remember him?”

  “The guy with the goofy laugh. I remember. He moved to Florida.”


  “John and his wife were on that plane that crashed in the Caribbean.”

  “I didn’t know there was a plane crash,” I said. “When did it happen?”

  “This morning. He was on vacation with his wife,” Mom said. “We’re going to take up a collection at church for his children. Pray for them, okay?”

  “I will.” I remembered that John Danner was tall and thick and fierce-looking, but he laughed like a toddler—high-pitched and silly. I pictured John and his wife laughing on the plane, and I imagined John’s goofy laugh turning to a desperate, unanswered prayer.

  The thought made me shiver.

  Mom said, “It’s late. We can talk more tomorrow. Time for bed.”

  “Can I go online and read the news story?”

  “Sure, but only for a few minutes.” Dad hugged me. “See? Our troubles are nothing. We should count our blessings every day.”

  My parents went to bed, and I got on my laptop. The news articles said investigators didn’t know why the plane crashed. They would be sweeping the ocean floor to find the plane’s black box, which stored information about the plane and the flight. John and his wife’s names were among those in a list of passengers. Dad’s words echoed in my head. Our troubles are nothing.

  That’s when I figured it out: God didn’t answer our prayers to save the hardware store because our prayers were nothing. A joke. If He’s not saving people from plane crashes, why would God care about a stupid hardware store in northern Minnesota? There are wars and climate change and kids with awful diseases. How could God hear the prayers of sick kids with all the noise from people whining about nothing?

  My prayers are tiny. They’ve always been tiny. I used to pray for Santa to bring the presents I wanted. I wasted a whole prayer on a My Best Friend Doll! God gets ridiculous prayers from ridiculous people all day, every day. Prayers from hockey players wanting to win a game, prayers from a girl hoping a boy likes her, prayers from hunters hoping to shoot sixteen-point bucks.

  I realized I’d been doing it wrong. I went back to my room, got a notebook, and spent an hour looking up Patron Saints on the Internet. I knew the famous Patron Saints, like Saint Jude for lost causes and Saint Francis for animals. But there are hundreds of Patron Saints, and each one is a specialist. They have time for tiny prayers because they aren’t watching out for the whole world. Saint Mary, Queen of Peace, pretty much has nothing to do except take care of North Dakota. She doesn’t have to worry about war and plane crashes. Just North Dakota.

  Grandma has asked Patron Saints for help. She wanted to sell her house so she could move in with Aunt Maggie and Uncle Will. She got a statue of Saint Joseph, the Patron Saint of households, and buried it in her yard. Then the house sold, and she said it was because of Saint Joseph. She also told me that Saint Gertrude of Nivelles, Patron Saint of cats, helped her find Cleocatra when she escaped from the house.

  Grandma says her small prayers to the Patron Saints. Sometimes it even works.

  The first saint in my notebook is Saint Sebastian, Patron Saint of hardware stores. It was too late, but I needed to see his name on paper.

  ABOUT BRENT HELZINSKI AND ME

  I can think of one person who loves Brent Helzinski. Jesus. Jesus loves Brent Helzinski because Jesus loves everyone.

  Oh, and Brent Helzinski’s mother. She probably loves Brent, too.

  Chapter Four

  There’s going to be a wedding … and a change in plans

  I’m packing my bag for Easter at Aunt Maggie and Uncle Will’s house when Mom comes into my room and says, “We’re not going. I’m too tired for a long drive.”

  We never miss Easter at Aunt Maggie’s. Two years ago we drove through a spring blizzard. We risked our lives for ham and cheesy potatoes, and now we can’t go because she’s tired? I don’t get it. Luke runs down the hall to my room and says, “Did you say we’re not going?”

  “Sweetie, I’m exhausted.”

  “How will the Easter Bunny know where to find me? We’re always in St. Paul for Easter.”

  Mom says, “The Easter Bunny knows these things.”

  “What about the wedding?” I ask. “We’re supposed to talk about it. We don’t know when it’s going to be, we don’t know where it’s going to be, and I don’t even know what a junior bridesmaid does.”

  Luke stomps his foot. “The Easter Bunny has never been to this house!”

  “Go write a letter and explain,” Mom says. “The Easter Bunny will understand. I’ll sign it, too.”

  Luke thinks this is a great idea. “Then I can tell him exactly what kind of candy I want!”

  “Maybe the Easter Bunny has already picked out the candy,” Mom says. “Maybe the Easter Bunny doesn’t have time to shop.”

  Mom needs help, so I say, “You don’t want to be rude and greedy, Luke.”

  Luke nods and races to his room to write his letter. I’m not sure how bunnies got tangled up with Easter and Jesus’s resurrection. Jelly beans and a crucifixion? It’s a question for Saint Dymphna, Patron Saint of insanity.

  “You’re the best big sister.” Mom hugs me. “I’m sorry about changing our plans, but I just can’t do it this year.”

  “What about the wedding plans? You said it was fine for me to be in the wedding. Are you changing your mind?”

  “Not at all. I should’ve said yes immediately. Family is more important than money.” Mom squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed. But how about this—we’ll order pizza tonight! Tomorrow I’ll make tacos and cake, and on Easter we’ll eat all the leftovers after church and watch movies.”

  “But I gave up pizza for Lent.”

  Her shoulders drop, and she sighs. “Mary, I’m not cooking tonight. I worked ten hours, and there’s no food in the house. I’ll get groceries in the morning.”

  “You could get groceries tonight.”

  “Are you not hearing me? Tonight it’s pizza. Pick off the pepperoni. Then you can feel like you’re still giving up something.”

  “Mom, it’s Friday! You and Luke can’t have meat on Friday during Lent.”

  She tugs at her ponytail and sighs. “We’ll get plain cheese pizza. You can have peanut butter toast.”

  “Okay.” It’s going to be hard to eat peanut butter toast while Mom and Luke have pizza, but I’ll get the leftovers. “Why do Catholics have so many rules?”

  “All churches have rules.”

  “Why do we have so many saints? Jessica says Lutherans focus on Jesus and that all those saints take away attention from Jesus, which is a bad thing.”

  “Honey, I’m too tired to talk about religion. This sounds like a conversation for Grandma.”

  Luke comes back into my room and says, “Before we eat we have to talk to Grandma and tell her we’re not coming.”

  “Later.” Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “But I already called her on the computer so we can see her and talk to her and tell her that we can’t come for Easter.”

  “She’s on the computer right now?” I ask.

  “She’s waiting.”

  Mom looks like she wants to beat her head against the wall. If Mom wasn’t so stressed out, I’d laugh. Luke does not understand our family at all. We follow Luke to the kitchen where Grandma’s face fills the laptop screen. I can see the frown through her silver bangs. Mom tugs her ponytail and plops down on a chair like a kid who knows she’s in trouble.

  “What’s this I hear about you not coming? I’m making a German Easter. Rouladen and potato dumplings and a black forest cake.” From behind Grandma I see Uncle Will, Eden’s dad and Aunt Maggie’s husband. He shouts from across the kitchen, “And I’m making Irish soda bread so there’s something decent to eat!”

  Grandma shouts back, “I’m making dinner rolls that don’t taste like paste!” This is part of Easter in our family; Grandma and Uncle Will constantly argue about whose heritage is superior—his Irish or her German.

  “Maybe you can freeze leftovers fo
r us,” Mom says. “I’m sorry, but I’m sick.”

  Mom’s story is shifting from being “tired” to being “sick,” because being tired is never an excuse for Grandma. She’d tell Mom to load up on coffee and get in the car.

  “Do you have a fever?” Grandma leans closer and inspects Mom’s face.

  Luke puts his hand on Mom’s forehead. “She feels fine to me.”

  “I think I’m coming down with something that will hit later.” Mom waves Luke’s hand away. “These bugs always start with being tired.”

  “Mary, does her forehead feel warm to you?”

  I put my hand against Mom’s forehead. Of course it’s completely normal, but I don’t know what to say. Lying is a sin, but if I tell the truth, Grandma will get mad at Mom, and then Mom will get mad at me. She’ll either have to drive to St. Paul or turn her truth-stretching to an outright lie. As far as I know, she flat-out lied only once, and it backfired. Mom didn’t want to go to a family baby shower, so she told Grandma she had to work. Grandma found out and didn’t speak to Mom for two months. She sent Mom a birthday card and wrote, “I hope you have a happy birthday and that is not a lie because I don’t lie to family. XOXO. Love you!”

  Finally I say, “I don’t know. My hand is too cold.”

  When Grandma swipes at her bangs, she leaves a trail of flour across her forehead. “When are we going to see you? You said you’ll be working weekends at the station all spring, and if you move to North Dakota right after school ends, it’ll be months before we have a real visit.”

  “Months?” Luke shouts. “No way!”

  “We’ll work something out,” Mom says.

  I offer a compromise. “Maybe we can spend some time in St. Paul on our way to North Dakota.”

  “Great idea!” Mom says.

  “I certainly hope so.” Grandma sighs. “I’m crushed—absolutely crushed—that we can’t be together. Since you didn’t have a First Communion party for Luke, which also crushed me, by the way, I was looking forward to taking him to Easter mass and witnessing him get Communion on the Holiest Day of the Year.”