Hero-Type Part 14

He gazes at me. "Be honest with me."

"I guess I miss it."

"OK. I can see that."

"Why did we stop going?"

He purses his lips like he's trying to remember how to make words.

"You know all about the priests who were molesting kids, right?"

"Duh." I have eyeb.a.l.l.s.

"I guess that really threw me."

"Father McKane doesn't do that stuff."

"Yeah, I know. But it's..." Oh, G.o.d. Here he goes. I can tell. His brain is going into overdrive and I won't understand anything he says.

He shakes his head and then his whole body shakes, like he's cold. He chews his bottom lip. And then he speaks. Slowly. With effort.

"I couldn't go and confess my sins and hear what is supposed to be the Word of G.o.d from men who are so flawed."

"But Father McKane doesn't-"

"He's just a man, Kevin. They're all just men. No better than you or me. Sometimes worse. And I just couldn't do it anymore. Do you understand?"

"But that's like judging all of them for what a few-"

"G.o.d, Kevin!" He makes a fist and his face goes red, but I'm not scared. He's not mad at me. He's mad at himself, for not being able to make me understand. "I'm not ... I'm not saying they all do it. I'm saying it made me-made me realize they're just men. Flawed. Messed up like the rest of us. I don't need or want what they have to offer. Can't you see that?"

He lets out a long, slow breath. His whole face is slack, as if it's exhausted from the effort of saying those words, of getting them in the right sequence.

"If you want to go, I won't stop you, Kevin. Maybe it was wrong for me to pull you out of church. But I thought I was doing the right thing."

"I guess sometimes I miss it, is all. I liked having someone tell me the right thing to do."

Dad leans across the table to hold my gaze. "Remember something: You can't look outside of yourself for power. Or favor. That only comes from within."

I digest that for a moment. Then-because he won't stop staring at me-I nod.

He relaxes a little. "Anything else on your mind?"

Yeah, Dad. Like, I need to know-were you a traitor to your country? Am I following in your footsteps? Oh, and Mom called and she wants me to move out to California. How about all of that, Dad?

But I just can't bring myself to do it.

Instead, I get up and give him a big hug. He stands there for a second, surprised, not moving. But then he wraps his arms around me and crushes me to him, and for a moment I'm little again and Mom's here and Jesse's crawling on the floor somewhere maybe. Just for that moment. It's a lie, but it's a short one, and maybe that's not so bad.

But after Dad goes to bed, I sit up and think about it. I do miss Ma.s.s, to some degree at least. I liked knowing that every week-whether I needed it or not-I was going to be drenched in all the ceremony and goofy pomp of the Ma.s.s. I sort of wish they still did them in Latin. That way it would be this totally alien experience ... but a good one. It's like you'd know that something good was happening to you but you wouldn't know the details. Which is sort of how I think about G.o.d, tell the truth.

But what I really miss, I guess, more than anything else is one sacrament in particular: penance and reconciliation. Non-Catholics just don't get it. They call it "confession" and they don't really glom on to the real meaning of it. It's not just about confessing your sins. It's about apologizing for them, telling G.o.d that you're sorry for not living up to expectations. And then you get forgiven for that.

That's all a lot more involved than just confessing.

So even though I used to have to stretch my imagination to come up with things worth confessing and even though it was nerve-wracking going up to Father McKane and talking about all the things I'd done, I always felt better afterward. You get it all off your chest, you get your penance, and all's right in the world.

Mom always hated the idea of me going to confession. "You're a child," she used to say. "Children haven't committed sins." But back then, Dad was hard-core religious, so I went. And I liked it. Mom didn't understand, but that was OK.

So the irony is that, tell the truth, I could really use a little penance and reconciliation right about now. I guess I could go to Ma.s.s on my own, but it would feel weird without Dad.

Instead, I just lay back on the sofa and stare up at the ceiling and tell G.o.d I'm sorry for all my sins and hope that he hears me and forgives me.

Chapter 22.

G.o.d Responds

Next day, lunchtime, I'm up on the catwalk again. I want to die. I really, really do. I figure G.o.d didn't get my message last night. Either that, or he did and the answer was "Go screw yourself."

See, this morning John Riordon got his turn on the morning announcements.

He's a lot more telegenic than I am, but you'd have to be a burn victim with Parkinson's not to be. Still-the minute the TV screen lit up and there was John Riordon wearing a jacket and tie and a little flag pin in his lapel, his hair swept back, his teeth shining white ... the minute I saw that image, my heart took on water and began to sink.

And then he opened his mouth and it only got worse.

"My father serves in the U.S. Army Reserve. Two months ago, he got an e-mail and he wouldn't talk about it for days. But it seems that some friends of his overseas had been ambushed and killed. Some of them lay in the sun for hours before they died. Don't they deserve our support?"

Every eye in the room swiveled to me for a second.

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to speak to you this morning, but I'm disappointed that it's even necessary. I don't understand why some people feel the need to prop themselves up by putting America down. Aren't we supposed to stand united, especially now, in a time of war? Why is it that some people think that the best time to ask questions and cause trouble is when things are the toughest?

"It's mystifying to me that this is even an issue. There are people in the world right now who are planning to kill all of us. I'm not making this up; we all know it's true. So why is it that when we're all in danger, when we're all of us-as a country-fighting for our lives ... why is it that now some people choose to undermine us? And choose to undermine the brave men and women who are fighting and dying to keep us all safe from harm? Such words, such ideas, are more than merely offensive. They're incendiary. They burn. You might as well set the flag on fire."

At that, every single person in the room gasped. Even me. For different reasons, though. I was thinking, I can't believe he's stooping so low. Everyone else, I'm sure, was imagining me with a can of lighter fluid, a match, Old Glory, and a devilish look on my face. No doubt while high-fiving Osama bin Laden.

"Wartime is not debate time," John went on. "This is the greatest, freest country in the world. We have freedom of speech, but also freedom not to speak. Freedom to stand by our troops as they risk their lives and not question what they're doing or why. Questioning them while they're in harm's way is the most vile, reprehensible thing we can do. We owe them our support. Not our ambivalence. And if we can't give them that, well..."

He took a deep breath.

"Well, then maybe we should just shut the h.e.l.l up."

All of South Brook High inhaled as one. "h.e.l.l" is pretty mild ... but not when spoken over the morning announcements. Maybe I should have dropped the f-bomb in my speech or something.

John smiled. "Thank you for this opportunity. And G.o.d bless America."

I heard some people murmur it back at him as Dr. Goethe came on the screen, but by then I was already in some kind of alternate reality. An alternate reality made up of the surface of my desk and my hands, which lay there, twined together, white-knuckled. I could already feel the cold fury ramping up around me all around me.

And I realized something. I thought, Oh, c.r.a.p. Oh, man, I made a mistake. A big mistake.

John is better at this than I am.

John is amazing at this. It doesn't matter that he's wrong. He's better.

I was dead.

But that wasn't even the worst part, believe it or not. I sat perfectly still through the rest of the announcements, totally silent, as if I could will myself invisible. Maybe even better than invisible. Maybe I could make myself...inhistoric. Sit quietly enough and people wouldn't just stop seeing me, but they would also totally forget I ever existed. That would be great.

No such luck, of course. The hallways on the way to first period were a smash-up derby for me-I was thrown into walls and lockers so many times (all "by accident," naturally) that my shoulders and arms and sides were throbbing and battered by the time I got to cla.s.s.

I kept my head down, but I could feel everyone looking at me.

That's how the day went. And that was bad enough. But the worst thing of all...

The absolute worst thing of all ...

Right before lunch.

Now, I'm not an idiot. I wasn't about to go to the cafeteria and suffer there. But on my way to the auditorium, I saw them.

Together.

Leah and John Riordon.

No, really. The two of them were standing in the hallway in this little nook created by a jutting wall from the office and the alcove for the elevator that only the kids in wheelchairs are allowed to use. They were just standing there, talking, only it was more than that, I could tell. She was leaning against the wall and he was leaning towards her, one palm against the same wall, leaning in, leaning.

G.o.d, it was so obvious!

She was smiling. He was smiling. He was still wearing his jacket, though he'd loosened the tie so that it hung around his neck like he'd just come home from a tough day of saving the world or something...

She laughed.

He laughed with her.

I made it into the auditorium and up the ladder in record time.

And, tell the truth, I'm thinking of not coming down. Or maybe going down the super-fast express.

I saved her life! I mean, seriously!

And what was all that c.r.a.p the other day about "I really admire what you're doing"? What the h.e.l.l was that?

My lunch is the usual junk because Dad never buys anything new, but I don't feel like eating anyway. I start pinching off pieces of bread, mashing them up into little b.a.l.l.s, and throwing them down on the stage.

How can Leah admire what I'm doing and then go off with that...

Duh. Don't be an idiot, Kross.

All you need to do is look in the mirror. Studly and clear skin trumps goofy and pizza-face any day of the week.

I chuck another PBJ ball onto the stage and am rewarded with a familiar voice saying, "Hey!"

It's Fam. Great. My secret spot is blown.

She scrambles up the ladder like she's been doing it her whole life, not rattled at all by the way it shakes and shimmies and spazzes. I count three times when she should fall but somehow doesn't. The catwalk jerks and sways as she makes her way over to me.

"I was wondering where you got off to," she says as she sits down next to me. "So, this is your place, huh?" She looks around like she's admiring the s.p.a.ce in my new apartment. "Not bad."

Well, I can never come here again. Great.

"At least you can't be seen with the America-hater."

I think this is the first time I've ever been alone with her. Why did she bother coming up?

Is she ... Is she looking for a new boyfriend?

Ugh. I don't want that. I mean, Fam is ... She's Fam. She's one of the guys. She's also so skinny that you could probably use her to snake a drain or something. She's got this cl.u.s.ter of pimples on her left temple that just never seems to go away, so she covers them with makeup, but you can still see the b.u.mps. Maybe if we dated, we would have matching zits or something.

"Poor Kross," she says. "They're really raking you over the coals, aren't they?"

"Looks like it." Ugh. Still wondering: Why is she here? What does she want?

"Maybe you should..." She tilts her head like she's trying to get the thoughts to line up. "Flip said last night that you should use the hero thing to your advantage?" She's not sure. "You never even talk about it. You need to, like, remind people that you saved Leah Muldoon from being raped and killed by that guy. That'll shut them up."

The idea that I'm the subject of Flip and Fam's pillow talk really creeps me out.

"No. That's not the way to do it. It shouldn't matter what I did. I want to convince people because I'm right, not because I'm some...'hero.'" But that's a lie-I don't want to talk about saving her life because I'm scared someone will ask a question that will lead to the truth.

She nods like she's glad I don't agree with her. Then again, it wasn't her idea-it was Flip's.

"I get it." She reaches out and pats my hand, once, then twice. Then...

Just...

Leaves...

It...