Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters by Natalie Standiford

Author:Natalie Standiford
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Scholastic
Published: 2010-08-21T04:00:00+00:00

I took my drawing paper and pens upstairs to Norrie’s room, the Tower of Evil. I like to have an occasional smoke while I work. At first she tried to say “No smoking in my room,” but I countered with “Sully always let me,” and she dropped it. She had just inherited the room from Sully and I guess she didn’t feel complete ownership over it yet. It drives Norrie crazy when I smoke, which makes it more fun for me.

I was working on my icon for Joan of Arc. I drew her tied to a stake, staring at the sky, waiting for God to save her. Which he wasn’t going to do.

She was such a badass. She wasn’t one of those passive victim saints who just suffered—getting raped, beheaded, eyes gouged out, all that. She was a girl of action. She fought to change the world against crazy odds. She was seventeen years old—my age, Norrie’s age, Hannah Montana’s age—when she grabbed a sword and led grown men into battle against the English. In 1429. That’s a badass.

When they were deciding whether or not to make her a saint (400 years after she died), some anti-Joan Church people said she shouldn’t be a saint because she wasn’t a martyr—because she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live and she came right out and said so. I don’t care if she was an actual saint or not. To me, that’s a technicality. The fact that she wanted to live instead of voluntarily jumping into the fire (like the tooth queen, St. Apollonia) only makes me admire her more.

She was passionate. She said what she thought. She held nothing back. That’s what made her great.

Norrie got up and looked over my shoulder. “Is Bridget doing St. Brigid?”

“Of course,” I said, coloring the flames orange. “Even though St. Brigid was a lame-o.”

“Milkmaids, cows, and illegitimate children. What’s not to like?”

“You mean there are children whose parents aren’t married?” I said sarcastically. “How is that possible? I thought you had to get married before the stork started dropping off babies.”

“I like St. Brigid,” Norrie said.

“You would.”

“She was pretty.”

“Exactly.” St. Brigid’s father tried to marry her to a young bard but she wanted to keep her virginity, so she prayed to God to take her beauty away. (Much like St. Uncumber. So many of the female saints were obsessed with their virginity.) The prayer was answered, though her beauty returned after she took her vows and became a nun. Why? What good did it do her then? So she’d look good in her stained-glass saint pictures? Everybody likes the pretty saints the best.

“I doubt St. Joan wore that much eyeliner,” Norrie said.

“Fuck off.”

“If you’re going to barge in on me and use my room as a smokatorium, then you’ll have to take my opinions along with it.”

“Fine. I’ll go back to my room,” I said, but I didn’t move. We were quiet for a while. She went back to reading in her window seat.

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