So Mary finds herself in quite the kosher pickle. She can tell the truth and be outcast forever and maybe even stoned to death, or she can transmogrify her titillacious transgression into a God-injected miracle, and all it’s gonna take is a little white lie.
Oh my goodness, Joey, this floaty, dreamboaty angelicious cherub slipped a magical roofie into my goat’s milk and diddled me a ripe prophecy square in the burning bush.
And what could Joey say? He hadn’t caught her in the act with her hand in the nookie jar. That would have been a little more difficult to explain.
That wasn’t a Roman soldier, my love. I was milking our bull.
And Joey wasn’t the only one who gobbled up that tasty Whopper with secret sauce. The whole damn world fell for it.
Imagine a dude trying that nowadays with his old lady.
No, sweetums, this ain’t stripper glitter. It’s angel dust.
Yeah, right.
CHAPTER 3
The following morning, I’m in the front seat of the Prison van again with Mother Mary. Groundings don’t apply when there’s God’s work to do. My ears are still ringing from the thirty-minute tongue lashing she gave me on blasphemy and religious tolerance. I guess typing up and emailing her my Virgin Mary dissertation from the Prison computer in the middle of the night while still under the herbalicious influence of my spiritual mentor, Buddha Bambalacha, wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Wait till she finds out I also emailed copies to Sister Elizabeth and Monsignor Dobry. Mount St. Mary is gonna erupt big-time.
Mother Mary is driving rationally today due to delicate cargo. Eight Little Ones and one Big One (a fellow nun). The Little Ones are squawking like crows on a dumpster, and I can tell their giggling and jiggling is grinding on Mother Mary’s last nerve. Her face is red like a stick of dynamite.
I flip around and jam my head between the seats. “Don’t mess with Mother Mary, fellas! This ain’t her first time at the rodeo.”
They gawk at me and clam up pronto.
Mother Mary relaxes her death grip on the steering wheel and flashes me a sideways smirk. “You do a very good Faye Dunaway, Cricket.”
“Thank you, Mother Mommie Dearest.”
Mother Mary chuckles.
I’m embarrassed to admit where we’re going, but I might as well on account of we’ll be there in a few min-utes. Prison kids get their clothes at the Salvation Army.
It ain’t as bad as it sounds. The only time it really frosts my jewels is when the donation dumpster is overloaded, ’cause it reminds me that I’m stepping out in other people’s garbage. This probably sounds whiny, but it kinda makes ya feel like a piece of trash when you see a pant leg from your future wardrobe dangling out of a Hefty Cinch Sak on the side of the road.
The worst part is that the store is conveniently located dead-ass in the middle of Main Street. I mean, why not string up a few Hollywood spotlights and blast some big band music from the rooftop while you’re at it. And do you think Mother Mary Makeafoolofus would ever consider driving around back and using the rear entrance? Hell, no. Climbing out of that overloaded van with its giant Orphans-R-Us insignia on the side is a prime Saturday-morning fundraising photo op. Mother Mary Moolah intentionally sashays our Raggedy Andy asses up and down the concrete catwalk to drum up donations and bake sale volunteers. People gawk at us like we’re wearing orange jumpsuits and might break free from our chains and pillage the village. Man, it sucks.
The enormous red and white sign comes into view. As do the bright orange cones reserving our parking spot. Jesus, you’d think we were escorting Madonna to a Rodeo Drive boutique. The Little Ones start bouncing and squealing and elbowing each other in the ribs. They don’t realize this ain’t Nordstrom for Orphans.
Mother Mary is greeted by a cheery woman in a bright red pantsuit. She looks like a mutant beefsteak tomato that just won first prize in the freaky fruit competition at the Fryeburg Fair.
I hop out and slide the side door open. Then I slip my hood off. As much as I’d like to hide my head in a trash can right about now, this sidewalk is the one place I never wear my hood. I know that probably sounds ass-backwards, but I ain’t gonna give the glaring townie bastards the satisfaction. Fuck ’em. You wanna eyeball me, you’re gonna have to do it straight into my eyeballs, asshole. Plus, this shitty feeling vise-grips my nuts when I think about hiding my face while I’m walking the Little Ones into the thrift store. There’s something about the Little Ones being all antsy and chipper and not the least bit embarrassed about scoring new duds at the Salvation Army that wrenches my throat a guilt-choking mischief. I’m not sure why. Mother Mary Militant strutting her giant ass up that sidewalk with her chin so high, just begging someone to mess with her, might have something to do with it, though.
As soon as we pass through the double doors, the Little Ones scatter like it’s a video arcade. Mother Mary and Sister Sarah pull out their shopping lists and start systematically scouring the aisles for utilitarian bargains. Practicality always triumphs over fashion, even when cool only costs fifty cents more than nerdy. I mean, I get where they’re coming from. Maine winters are bitter and long, and skinny jeans and canvas high-tops don’t cut it in a ten-foot snowbank. Not that it stops the outside kids from wearing them.
The Little Ones scurry back and forth from rack to nun, presenting their dudsy discoveries. They aren’t allowed into the fitting room until their selections are inspected and approved by the Nuns of No Mercy. One good thing about fashion these days is that new clothes are supposed to look shitty and stitched-up, so you could do worse than getting your crap at Ragnation HarmMe.
Gregory Bullivant runs up to Sister Sarah wearing a green windbreaker that’s so thin, it wouldn’t break the wind from a frog fart. She shakes her head. Charlie waves a pair of bloodstained army fatigues in the air. No dice. Andrew holds up a Black Sabbath T-shirt. That one warrants a finger jab.
If the Little Ones fail to locate acceptable apparel, Mother Mary will do the honors, and that is something to be avoided at all costs—unless you want to show up at school wearing wool hiker pants, grandpa suspenders, rubber trucker boots, and an orange XXL sweater that looks like it was knit by a blind Parkinson’s granny at the senior center. Orange is great for alerting vehicular traffic in a snowstorm, but it’s also highly effective at alerting ragtime traffic in a schoolyard shitstorm. Nice highwaters, Salivating Arnie. Sexy flannel, Lumber Jack. Nice pants, SpongeSlob. Groovy red sweater, Santa Menopause. Although I gotta admit, some of it’s funny. I never get into fights over clothing. That’s just regular schoolyard ribbing.
I stroll over to the Undies Emporium, where Charlie, Aaron, and Sam are rummaging through a mountain of tightie-whities beneath a huge blue sign that reads CHILDREN’S UNDERWHERE. The store’s crack sales team has the entire underwear department color-coded. I’d love to meet the marketing guru who chose chocolate brown for XXL boxers.
I slip a pair of Batman briefs onto my head. “Hey, guys. Do these Underoos make my ass look fat?”
The Little Ones blow a laugh gasket.
Gregory sprints over holding up a sweatshirt with an enormous New England Patriots logo on the back. “Check this out.”
“Mother Mary will never let you get that, stupid,” Sam says. “The sleeves are chopped off.”
“I know. Just like how Coach Belichick wears his,” Gregory says.
“There’s no way,” Charlie says.
“Hey, Greg, maybe Sister Cricket can sew some sleeves on for you,” Sam says.
They all crack up.
“Very funny, Sammy.” I yank the underwear off my head and throw them at him.
One of my chores at the Prison is sewing up tears and snares in the Little Ones’ hand-me-downs. The nuns taught me how, and it ain’t as fruity as it sounds. It’s cool, actually. Relaxing. Taking something that would have been tossed in the trash and zipzapping it right as rain. Most of the time I fix it so you can’t even see where the tear was. The trick is to work the needle fr
om the inside so the scar’s on the flipside of what everyone sees. Like in life.
I wander around, killing time until my fitting room duty starts. That’s why I’m here—to monitor the changing rooms. Nuns ain’t keen on I-Spying XS dingles swaying in the breeze like picnic frankfurters, so I’m a permanent participant in the Saturday shopping extravaganzas. There’s forty-seven Little Ones at the Prison, and the van only carries eight at a time, so we come here a lot.
I wonder what Wynona would think if she knew I got my clothes at the Salvation Army. I wonder if stuff like that matters to her.
Charlie Brittlebones runs up to me with an armful of attire. Brittlebones ain’t his real name, but that’s what it feels like when he bumps into you.
“Sister Sarah okayed me to try on all these, but I can’t go in unless you’re with me.”
I slap Charlie on the back. “Let’s do it, dude.”
Charlie reminds me of me when I was little. Well, one tiny sliver of me. The sliver who pretended to be happy to keep the peace. He’s got the same nervous smile. Like his teeth are made of glass and his lips are laminate.
“Look what she’s letting me try on.” He yanks out a pair of green painter pants. “They look like army pants.”
“Cool.”
“And check out this sweater. It ain’t got no rabbits or ducks or snowflakes or nothing on it. It’s like the ones you wear, Cricket.”
“I like it. I should see if they got one in my size.”
Charlie smiles wide and glassy.
I grab his shoulders and steer him toward the changing rooms so he doesn’t see my eyes getting damp. I must be allergic to wool or something.
CHAPTER 4
I only got a three-day suspension for my Football Bully Fish Tank Fiasco, so I’m in English class bright and early Thursday morning. Moxie Lord—mole-nosed, broom-humping Good Witch wannabe—is dishing out a humdinger of a writing assignment. The ASS ignment is to draft a letter to someone we have a beef with but ain’t never had the nads to tell.
“The letters are not going to be delivered, so you can write whatever you want.” Moxie whisper-growls the word whatever like she’s some highfalutin’ street corner candy bar. Oh Henry! Sounds like she wants to Butterfinger my Thingamajig. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if her titillating tone hadn’t tickled me a mischievous fancy in the you-know-what.
“Your letter can be to anyone,” Moxie says. “A parent, friend, relative. Even the president of the United States.”
I raise my hand from the back row.
Moxie flips me her usual Drop your hood if you expect to be called on finger twirl.
I flick my hood off. “What about teachers?”
Mademoiselle Moxie peers over her granny glasses and squirts me a slippery hiss. “Even teachers.” Actually, it’s more like Eeehhven teeecherrrrsssss, Hangzlow Studmuffin. It’s possible I imagined the Hangzlow Studmuffin part, but not the slurpy mattress-tumbling tone. Lambikins Lord wants me baaaad. She strolls to the front of the class and starts writing on the blackboard. “These are just ideas to help you get started. Dear Aunt Beatrice: About you chaperoning the school dance . . . Dear Uncle Garlic: About your breath . . .” Some of the girls giggle.
Foxy Moxie is sexy in a hippie fruitcake way. I’ve imagined myself getting high with her on more than one occasion, and I’ve imagined other things, too. She has kinda big boobs, but it’s hard to tell for sure because they’re beaucoup saggy. She wears droopy tops and lacy bras, and she leans over a lot when she makes corrections. She’s got a Milky Way of freckles on her happytime tatas, and, I tell ya, freckles on boobs are freaky—like maybe she should go to the doctor and get a bazongagram.
Sometimes in the winter when the heaters aren’t working good, Moxie’s funbag bulbs poke through her flowery tops right in the bud of a daisy or the eye of a black-eyed Susan. That cracks me up. Like she’s springtime blooming just for me. I haven’t had sex yet, but somehow I know Foxy Moxie screams a lot during sex, and she definitely prefers the top. Well, at least with me she does.
Moxie taps the blackboard with the tip of her chalk. “Dear Dad: About me getting my own car . . . Dear Coach Martin: About me starting in the game on Saturday . . . Dear Little Brother: About you reading my diary . . .”
I start thinking about who to address my letter to. It’s obvious this stupid assignment is nothing more than a trap to lure kids into skinny-dipping personal feelings they wouldn’t otherwise flash, so I’m pounding my mind muscle for something that will knock her lamebrained, acid-induced subterfuge off her medulla hippopotamus. I start scribbling possibilities.
Heil Hitler,
You rock! I wish you hadn’t checked out early so we could hang out and rap about old times. Stay up way past our bedtime eating buttered schnitzel-corn, drinking Manischewitz, and watching old movies like Ben-Hur and Fiddler on the Roof. I miss you.
Azzfartz,
Cricket
No, too political.
And revealing.
Dear Principal LaChance,
If you went missing, would they put your picture on fruitcake cartons?
Curiously,
Cricket
No, too sexual.
And revealing.
Dear Attorney General Lynchmynuts,
My baby brother was killed when I was eight. And it’s all my fault.
Sorry,
Cricket
No, too personal.
And revealing.
Aha. I’ve got it. If this don’t scrunch her tie-dyed Depends into a knot, nothing will.
Dear Life,
You SUCK!
I want out.
See you on the flipside.
Sincerely,
Cricket
On my way out of class, I stealthily slide my letter onto Moxie’s desk like it’s a ticking time bomb, which in a way it is. Should make for some interesting fireworks tomorrow.
CHAPTER 5
That evening, I head to the Prison kitchen for cooking duty. A bunch of Little Ones are already there, chopping, peeling, mixing, and measuring. A few are pummeling lumps of dough like miniature punching bags. The place always makes me think of Santa’s workshop, except Mother Mary Merriment wears black.
I do a lot of cooking at the Prison. That probably sounds faggy, but it’s actually okay. We make everything from scratch and I’ve cooked with the nuns almost every day since I was nine, so I know how to make tons of different dishes. Caretaker teases me, saying I’ll make a good wife someday.
Tonight we’re making lasagna, mashed potatoes, sourdough bread, and spaghetti sauce. The spaghetti sauce is dual purpose since it also goes in the lasagna. We’re killing two birds with one stone, as Sister Sarah likes to say. We kill a lot of birds with very few stones here at the Naskeag Home for the Criminally Stingy.
We do what I call hibernation cooking. That’s when you prepare huge quantities of food and freeze it for later. Probably like they do in the army or in real prisons, except the food we make here tastes good. I read a book about World War II where they referred to their eats as “shit on a shingle.” I don’t think I’d survive very long in the army if that’s what I had to eat every day. I like to eat. It’s one of my favorite things to do.
Feeding forty-seven Little Mouths (plus my Big Mouth) three squares a day is a lot of work, so no one’s excused from kitchen duty. Age doesn’t matter. I’m seventeen and the youngest kid is five, but everyone pitches in. The nuns have a simple rule when it comes to kitchen duty: You eat, you cook.
Sister Gwendolyn spots me when I enter the kitchen and claps her hands to get my attention. “Cricket, we need you on cooktop right away. The lasagna noodles are ready, so I need you to brown the beef while the boys chop the rest of the ingredients for the sauce. I’m going to the basement for more tomato paste.”
I salute Sister G and head to the sink to wash my hands. Behind me, Sam and Archie are peeling potatoes and arguing.
“I do not.”
“You d
o so.”
“No I don’t.”
“Do so, you stupid liar.”
“You’re the stupid liar.”
I dry my hands and turn around. “What’s the problem, boys?”
“Sam told this girl I like that I talk in my sleep,” Archie barks.
“Well, you do!” Sam yells.
“I do not, ass-breath!” Archie yells back.
I laugh. “Ass-breath?”
All the boys laugh, except Sam. Archie’s laughing the hardest.
“Yeah, ass-breath,” Archie says loudly. “’Cause his breath smells like fat, stinky nun ass.”
The Little Ones howl.
Sam grabs an enormous half-peeled spud and slams Archie in the forehead, sending him flying backwards off his stool.
Archie jumps up and grabs the closest cooking utensil, a huge wooden spoon, then smacks Sam on the back of the head.
Sam screams and charges Archie.
They wrestle to the ground like a pair of wild hyenas.
I grip their shirts and pull them apart. They keep swinging, so I use my pissed-off voice to get their attention. “Knock it off!”