I tell people I'm Catholic, when they ask. It's easier than the explanations and the embarrassment. I'm Catholic is easier than my family is part of an alternative religion, mostly because it saves me from having people think Mamma sacrifices goats in her spare time.
I watched a video once on how to become the Pope. Be part of a big group, then a smaller one, smaller, smaller, until you vote yourself into infinite salvation. I could never be Pope-- Only half a man, never went to college, not even Catholic. I guess I don't need to be, where I'm going. I've already got the salvation I need.
I told him I can't do it. Confirmation, I mean.
Thinking about the church sent my stomach into knots. I couldn't look at the altar. I threw up after every sermon, legs falling from my mouth. Mamma took me to a doctor, had me sit down with the Reverend, put me in summer camp. Nothing worked. I was a broken fantoccio with no respect for the faith. That's what the thing on the wall said, anyway.
So eventually, I told Reverend Mori I can't do it. I shook, I cried, I broke down in his office. He told me You'll come to your senses.
I was confirmed as Niccolò. My grandfather's name.
Joan was the first to know after I was baptized. I was freshly eight, sobbing on the playground and scratching at my skin. She sat down next to me, asked me if it hurt. It did. More than anything. It was nails under my flesh, fangs punching a million holes into my muscles, blood running black with venom.
She put her hand on my forehead, and the pain faded around her touch. I asked her how she did it.
Did what?
In the next moment, I couldn't remember why I was crying, or why my tan skin was red. Joan got me out of the sun, and we crushed spiders crawling up the big tree in the corner of the yard.
I stopped going to Mass when I was fourteen and a half. I crashed on the couch after school, and missed the Wednesday service. After that, Dad started asking if I wanted to go bowling, or fishing, or see the bogs. I was just slacking off at first. I didn't realize until I was moving out that my church clothes had dust on them.
There's an ache crawling its way through my stomach. I haven't taken communion in forever. The people around me can tell, they always can. I show up to church once a year, for the 8th, and I've always turned it down when it comes around. It felt too intense. It made my reality feel too real. I had too much trouble with it as a kid. Mamma cried about it every week when I turned my nose up at it.
I hold it in my hand, trying to ignore its weight. It went dead still when I picked it up. They always do, and only with me. Someone squeals a few rows away- a young child, someone just as inexperienced as I am.
It stares at me. I stare back. My heart beats in my ears.
I put it to my lips and it crawls into my mouth, down my throat without a fight.
I swallow, breathless. I'm coughing and spluttering, one hand clutching my stomach and the other over my mouth. I end up on the ground, on my knees.
When I can finally speak, I draw the eight points across my heart. Grazie di cuore.
I stand, and Mori is staring at me. I push past him and stumble out.
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