Amelia

Patented brown leather shoes squeaked down the hallway in a grating tone overshadowing the swish, swish of vestments. The offensive shoes drew Christine’s attention- ugly and dinged up. They were mottled from years of wear in rain or shine of the rapid swings in Ohio weather- having splashed through slush outside on the sidewalk flanking the church while shaking hands lingeringly with wealthy parishioners or the mud of field day before school blessedly let out.

The hideous shoes hidden under bleached and pure white robes halted in front of one of the doors in the hall. Christine lifted her gaze to his face- as mottled and unsightly as the shoes. He was ten paces from her, so she could almost hear his ragged breathing as he leaned into a classroom peering at young girls- some studiously bent over their math books, some passing notes but none noticing his greedy eyes pouring into them.

Father Nicholas unsettled her, though everyone else enjoyed his “jolly’ nature. It’s almost like the parish tried to conflate him with his name- saint; Saint Nicholas- a harmless, joyful and Santa-like figure. Glowing with all the good nature and disarming warmth of Christmas lights. But Christine knew. Christine always knew.

I guess it doesn’t matter how knee-length the skirts are… Christine sighed, as Father Nicholas stared for a moment longer at the girls.

Father Nicholas was preparing to be ordained as a bishop soon. The entire school was abuzz with excitement. They had going away presentations from the elementary students and the middle school hosted a luncheon. Christine, in all her sixth-grade awkwardness had stayed back in the kitchen during said luncheon. She liked staying out of the way, being invisible. She had heard the word wallflower once, but never understood its meaning. Her grandmother used it as a strange term of endearment but Christine’s desire to be unseen was about practicality and safety. The teachers never yelled, her parents never lectured, the other kids rarely bullied and well… she had never received any unwanted male attention.

She snapped back to the present as the priest, satisfied with his visual groping, continued on in Christine’s direction. She refocused her eyes away from the shoes, the face, into her locker. He said nothing. He did not ask why she was in the hall, did not ask why she was not in class. Christine never got into any trouble, so no one ever asked.

She sighed again, her most typical sound. It was her sound of relief, her sound of frustration. It seemed she almost communicated exclusively in exhalations. Her own language. It wasn’t as though she had much to say anyway.

She picked up her messenger bag and headed down the long hallway towards Sister Thompson’s classroom. Sitting near the very end, tucked out of the way, it had beautiful arched windows that overlooked the courtyard. It was her favorite class not just for the view, perfect for daydreaming, but for being the temple of her favorite subject- science.

Science simply made sense. It was straightforward and sensical. There were no hidden meanings, no agendas. Nothing other than direct conquest for truth and understanding. It seemed like science was all that made sense to Christine. It was clean and clear but left room for so much discovery, creativity in problem solving. Christine often enjoyed taking “lab notes” on a Goodwill-found vintage recorder. All the best scientists in her favorite television shows and movies recorded their experiments on tape recorders. She never went anywhere without it, a journal, a pencil and a small magnifying glass that her grandparents had ordered out of the back of a magazine- all stuffed into her pockets.

Christine’s slight smile turned into a frown as she entered the room. A white banner and paint were set out along the length of the room. It was clear that no science would be had today.

“Alright class, quiet down.” The nun in the corner said in her voice that tinkled like wind chimes. The mild roar of all the students continued. “QUIET,” yelled Harriet, the sound seeming to radiate up and out from her barely dress-code kitten heels, up her scrawny legs stuffed into navy knee socks and out of her massive mouth. Harriet was always seen; Harriet was never quiet.

“Thank you, Harriet,” said Sister Thompson clearing her throat. “Today we will be making a banner for Father Nicholas’ last mass tomorrow. Instead of attending classes in rotation today, everyone will be staying in their first period classroom to complete projects for tomorrow.” She doesn’t seem particularly happy about it, thought Christine. Sister Thompson’s voice briefly lost the usual chime tone and fell flat for a word or two. No one else seemed to notice.

Sister Thompson began passing out paints and grouped the girls in threes. Christine sighed when she was put into a section with Harriet and Heidi. The double H’s as many called them in school. They matched in hair bows and obnoxious attitudes- filling up every space they existed in. Always causing trouble, they were usually separated before they could start a plot to super glue a nun’s habit to her head or start their next bit of lies that would inevitably make the rounds through the school and into the church’s membership at large. As usual, Christine always thought it did not seem like a very “Christian” thing to do, but “Christian” ways of being and acting did not seem abundant in this school between the gossip and nuns fondly reminiscing the days of corporal punishment gone by.

Christine didn’t like the idea of being locked in with the Double H’s because being grouped together with them meant a spotlight on her by association. Edging away from their bickering over using lilac or dark purple on the border, Christine began laying out paints.

An hour passed with Christine fighting a headache from the terror of H and H’s friendly-fire and lunch was announced. It was a slightly warm spring day, so Christine slid on her favorite sky-blue cardigan and slipped out to the courtyard to read her newest copy of Scientific American, which her grandfather always let her read first when it came in. Opening her little brown bag with the lunch packed by her grandmother, she smiled as her daily note fluttered to the ground. Her grandmother had been a poet in another life before having a family and this was the only time she ever liberated her mind and let lose her skills again. Christine sat in the sun soaking up the warmth of the sun and her grandmother’s beautiful haiku.

A cleaning company bustled in and out of the Church’s gaping doors, which deviated from the its usual litany of widows that cleaned the church every Monday between morning mass and afternoon rosary. They are pulling out all the stops I suppose, Christine mused. This “final mass” event perplexed Christine. It seems like so many people idolized and venerated priests as if he, himself was God. Although religion class did highlight how they were messengers on Earth of God, personified Jesus himself during mass and on and on the book had droned about priests seemingly being the center of religious life. She mulled this over in her brain for only a few moments before a loud banging broke her concentration.

A ladder had been dropped and its flexible metal caused it to bounce against one of the Church’s old wooden doors. It left a very clear dent that was visible even from where Christine sat in the courtyard 25 feet away. The cleaner, a clean-cut looking young man in his early twenties looked distraught while staring down at the damage with mouth agape.

Father Nicholas had emerged from the school’s front entrance and was crossing the corner of the parking lot to the front door where the man stood. “Father, I’m so sorry! We have insurance that will cover the damage. I feel just awful, I know Mrs. Packen has been so excited and thorough. She won’t be happy about this.”

The anxiety radiated from the man as Father Nicholas paced a hand on his shoulder. “It’s my day Benjamin, yes. Mistakes are human and having grace to gift others is itself a gift unto the person extending forgiveness”. That barely made any sense. Father Nicholas always had some profound and old-timey words to offer up. They somehow seemed to consistently flatter his own pious nature while masquerading as a proverb. Christine found it embarrassing to listen to, but others simply soaked it in as if the words themselves were, in fact, biblical. She had realized years ago that the god of the bible and Father Nicholas himself were not too different. That was when belief left her and science became her religion.

This entire day felt so over-stimulating to her. She reached into the pockets she had sewn into her skirt and traced the outline of her magnifying glass, which always brought comfort.

Father Nicholas hesitated in the door after relaying his “words of wisdom” and extending his “forgiveness” to the young man. He glanced briefly at the ladder, as if contemplating picking it up and offering assistance but instead smirked and disappeared into the darkness of the Church’s foyer dipping his hands into the holy water fount as he went.

This is simply the way of things. He was who he was- which was deeply irritating. His upcoming ordination baffled her. Another of Christine’s sighs dropped from her lips heavily and she returned into the building, already missing the empty courtyard and dreading the vividly decorated and loud hallway.

The school day proceeded with more preparations and some students in Christine’s class were designated to write a farewell speech as well as circulate a card to be signed. Christine had conveniently disappeared to the bathroom as the card approached her desk from a few desk-tops away. The double H’s arguing was a welcome distraction as she slipped into the hall and headed for the stairwell. It would be good to splash some water on her face anyway.

Christine descended the stairs to the quiet bottom floor where the only bathroom was situated at the end of the hallway. She passed empty elementary classes that always seemed eerie in their silence when the younger kids were out to recess- stretching their legs and letting out their pent-up energy. Christine soaked up the silence, which recharged her energy. Lost in thought- she walked until suddenly a small sound startled her. The bottom floor should be completely empty.

Frozen in fear for a moment, Christine slowly turned her head to see movement through a small glass window that peered into one of the rooms. What was that? A whimper? A cry? It had sounded like a small dog or... a child.

Christine wondered if a student had gotten locked in one of the rooms by accident when the classes had let out to recess. It was possible one of them was being silly and hiding to cause a little mischief. But that blanketed Christine’s real gut-feeling. She knew. She always knew.

Her feet carried her towards the door even though her brain screamed for her to turn around. It wasn’t her business. She herself was a kid, what would she do confronting…

And there he was. The priest loomed over a girl who Christine recognized from a second-grade class. She seemed doll-like, almost unreal in his shadow. The lights were off in the room but Christine could see everything from the daylight trickling in through the blinds. “Do I get a little going-away present?” Father Nicholas prodded the girl. “Aren’t you going to miss me?”

Christine was frozen in horror. This isn’t real. It felt like she was watching a movie. Reflexively she reached for her magnifying glass for comfort but instead grazed her tape recorder. Reluctantly, she took a deep breath and pulled it from her skirt pocket before hitting record.

I’m just a kid. I can’t intervene. He might hurt me. He might hurt her worse. He might get me into trouble. Someone needs to stop him.

But Christine continued to simply record. “Just come over, Amelia. I’ll make you feel better- you look upset. It’s my last day; don’t you want to send me off with something special? Something to celebrate our time together? I will miss our afternoons of your “counseling”. You were so troubled but you’ve made so much progress. Aren’t you glad your mommy and daddy sent you to see me? They say you’re so quiet and so calm now.”

The blonde, pale little girl stepped forward, her gray empty eyes still blankly staring at the floor. “That’s a good girl. Now let me untuck your little shirt….” Father Nicholas maintained his baby-talk voice in a way that made Christine physically ill. Her mind went blank, trying to cope with what she was hearing… what she was seeing…. what was happening. He lifted the girl up onto one of the small desks and gently pushed the hem of her skirt back. “You look so pretty in your little skirt. Now lift your arms up for me, let me help you. I want to see how pretty you are all over.”

Christine cracked. She dropped the recorder from her shaky hands.

As Father Nicholas whipped his head towards the door, Christine had dropped to her knees to quickly collect her recorder. She heard him hurriedly shuffle around in the room telling the probably terrified Amelia to get dressed because what she was doing was inappropriate, likely in case anyone was listening. His squeaky, offensive brown shoes sounded aggressive as they came towards the door. Christine, scrambled down the hall to the place where the lockers met a corner. A small gap between the lockers and a statue of St. Francis seemed to swallow Christine whole as she launched herself into its depths just as the metal door handle down the hall rattled and hinges squeaked.

Christine could almost sense Father Nicholas look around, peering out and assessing the hall. She listened to him herd Amelia out of the classroom and towards the door that opened to the playground, away from her hiding place.

I knew he was gross, but this?

Christine hit the button on the tape that she had forgotten was still recording and sat shivering in silence for what could have been hours or minutes until the bell rang. Students flooded into the hall and she slipped away unnoticed back to her classroom where she knew she would have to lie to Sister Thompson about awful nausea and vomiting that would explain her absence and get her sent home for the last period of the day.

Later, in her room Christine sat and stared at her recorder. It used to be her prized possession and now seemed like her enemy. It presently seemed to have a voice of its own, not only parroting others. It debated her, begged to liberate its contents. The clock ticked, the only real sound. The recorder was silent against its protests.

Christine climbed into her bed and put the recorder under her pillow. Her quilt cocooned her but no comfort came. Even the smell of her grandparent’s home- burning wood from the wood stove and vinegar from Grandma’s homemade cleaning supplies could not soothe her. Her mind returned again and again to Amelia’s blank face- gauntly staring at the floor. Father Nicholas’ baby-voice and mottled face hanging over the girl, his rough hands gripping her chubby leg. Christine felt nauseous still. She hugged her stuffed horse and that reminded her again, that she herself was only a child.

Christine waited for sleep, but it never came. The rigid form of the recorder pressing into the base of her skull through the pillow.

The sun spilled through the window and Christine could smell eggs. Pots, pans and cupboard doors banged in a cacophony as her grandmother whirled in the kitchen like a tornado of utensils and coffee. But Christine hid her head under her blanket. What if I pretended, I was still sick? I could say I was still nauseous.

The idea of seeing Father Nicholas up at the altar in all his seeming purity, the idea of seeing Amelia’s drooping head over the pew was almost more than Christine could bear.

Amelia.

Christine got up. She put her feet on the wood floor letting the cold in.

She pulled her coat over her hastily thrown-own uniform and stuffed her feet into boots. She did not brush her teeth or wash her face but put her recorder in her pocket and let her feet carry her the half mile to school. Her beat hard but her brain felt almost entirely vacant, which was incredibly unusual.

In what felt like only a blink she stood at the mouth of the Church that now only radiated evil. Barely hesitating, she envisioned shedding her power of invisibility and felt it drop from her like an outgrown coat. She crossed the threshold and did not dip her hand into the holy water. Stealing away up the spiral stairs to the choir loft, just before the choir girls arrived, she snagged a microphone from a stand and hid away in the closet. Her head was still swimming and mostly empty, barely registering and yet fully embodying what she was about to do.

The congregation’s milling-about hushed as the choir sang its processional hymn. Christine envisioned the scene outside the door- Father Nicholas parading down the aisle towards his bright future. Her heart pounded but a smile settled on her lips, as silence descend when he presumedly reached the altar and went about setting the cross into its stand. She flicked on the microphone and held the recorder between it and her heart.

She pressed play.