Harley's Ninth by Cat Bauer

Author:Cat Bauer [Bauer, Cat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-48583-0
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2007-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

We walk, our bodies heavy with the soot of Peppy and Roger. We are over by the Catholic church, and there is a part of me that wants to dash inside and wash myself off with holy water even though I am not religious.

“Your wrist okay?” Sean asks, and he sounds drained.

“Yes. It was only a nick.” This is the truth; I licked my wound clean like a fastidious cat. My heart, however, is another matter. I hesitate, then ask: “All those things Roger said about my mother. Are they true?”

Sean does not look at me. “Harley, I don't want to drag this out. As I said, what's past is past.”

“But Sean! You said I was an accident and Carla was a manipulation. It sounds to me like I was a manipulation, too.”

“Yeah, it does, doesn't it?” Sean's voice has a bitter edge, and I think Roger's words have hurt him more than he let on. “Sorry, Harley, but the way I deal with people like that is to cut them out of my life.”

“People like that? Those are my parents!” My voice quivers, and I think I am going to cry. “It's a little hard to cut them out of my life.” I look at Sean, but all I see is a wall where his eyes used to be. Instead of offering comfort, he has retreated inside himself and left me alone on the street. At that moment, the bell in the church tower chimes four times, as if it is beckoning me inside. “I'm going to stop in the church for a minute. I just want to light a candle.” I do not wait to hear his reply; instead, I dart up the sidewalk in front of the church and blink away my tears.

I dash up the staircase that sprawls like a billowy skirt around the outside of the church. I push on the huge wooden door. It does not open. I push harder. Nothing. I throw all my weight against it, and a little sob flees from my mouth. It is locked.

“I thought churches were always supposed to be open.” Sean has come up behind me. He has lightened his voice.

I do not look at him. “I thought so, too.” I push against the door one more time, just to be sure. I feel like giving it a kick, but I restrain myself.

At that moment, a priest in a brown robe comes rushing around the corner. He has long, wavy, golden-brown hair and trendy eyeglasses. As he mounts the steps, I see he is wearing sandals and jeans underneath his habit, and I wonder why we did not have priests like this when I was growing up.

“Hello! Can I help you?” He has an accent—I am not sure from where—and is slender as a branch of a willow tree.

I erase the sadness from my voice and force myself to sound normal. “We just wanted to light a candle. We grew up in this town,” I say, as if that entitled us to special perks.

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