Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy by Wendelin Van Draanen
But standing there, I wished that it would all just go away. That I could walk around school not worrying about what plan Heather’s concocting to embarrass me. That we could both just live in our own little pockets of the world and forget about each other.
So I take a deep breath, put my hand out, and say, “Good game, Heather,” and in my heart I know—I mean it.
And what does she do? She spits on me. Splat, right in my face.
Now, that’s too much, even for Mr. Vince. While everyone else is sucking in air and covering their mouths, he yanks her out of line and drags her off for a good talking-to.
Dot and Marissa huddle in and say, “I don’t believe it!” and you can tell that Dot’s dying to tackle Heather and choke the saliva out of her.
Ms. Rothhammer calls, “Let’s go girls, back to the locker room!” but the three of us stay put while I wipe spit off my face. And it’s funny. I’m still not feeling scared or mad or wanting to get back like I would’ve even a few hours ago. What I’m feeling is sorry. Not for myself. No, for the first time in my life, I’m feeling sorry for Heather Acosta.
* * *
The last thing I felt like doing was putting in my two hours at St. Mary’s. I wanted to hang out with Dot and Marissa and talk about the game! And it wasn’t until we were about halfway to the mall that I started thinking that maybe I could do both. “Hey! You guys want to come help me stuff envelopes for the Sisters of Mercy?”
Dot says, “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got to help Sister Bernice mail out fliers for their shows. C’mon! It’ll be fun.”
They look at each other and shrug. Marissa says, “They won’t care?”
“Heck, no!”
When we get to the mall, Dot calls her mom, and then we’re off to the church to find Sister Bernice.
I spot Father Mayhew walking along the parish hall with Gregory, so I run up to him and say, “Father Mayhew! Have you seen Sister Bernice?”
He smiles at me and says, “Afternoon, lass,” and right away, Gregory tries to give me his carrot.
I scratch him behind the ears and say, “No, thanks, boy,” but somehow I wind up with this slobbery carrot in my hand and Gregory in front of me, wagging and panting.
Father Mayhew laughs and says, “Toss it for him, lass. It’s all right.”
So I toss it, and as Gregory goes charging off to retrieve it, I look around for someplace to wipe my hand. Father Mayhew says, “I believe the Sisters are in their motor home—right over by the parish hall.”
Before I’ve had a chance to clean off my hand, Gregory’s back trying to get me to throw it again. I try to ignore him, and say to Father Mayhew, “I brought a couple of friends to help. You don’t mind, do you?”
Father Mayhew smiles and waves at Marissa and Dot, standing a little ways down the sidewalk. “I’m sure the Sisters will be delighted.”
Well, there’s that carrot stump in my hand again, only this time it’s got a big goopy strand of slobber on it which runs between my fingers and onto the back of my hand. I throw the stupid carrot and try wiping the slobber off on the grass, but all that really does is coat my hand with grass clippings.
Father Mayhew says, “I’m sorry about that, lass,” but I don’t want to stand there and discuss it while ol’ Bunny Breath digs his stump out of the bushes. I just say, “That’s okay,” then hightail my tarred and turfed hand back to Marissa and Dot.
The three of us go charging over to the parish hall, but kind of sputter to a stop when we see the Sisters of Mercy’s motor home.
I don’t know how I’d never noticed it before. The thing’s like a whale on wheels. It’s white with purple stripes going around it, and propped over the parish hall lawn is an awning that could shade half a beach. And sitting in a lawn chair with a cellular phone to her ear is Sister Bernice.
She gives us a great big smile, holds up a finger, and says into the phone, “Wonderful. I’ll look forward to meeting you at ten … um-hm, you, too. God bless,” and then punches the OFF button.
She motions us closer. “Sammy! What’s this? Has our Good Shepherd brought me a flock?”
“If it’s okay with you.”
She laughs and says, “It’s more than okay! We’ve got so much to do before Thursday, I’ve got to laugh to keep from crying.” She gathers some papers from a table. “In this business, timing is everything, and unfortunately, everything has to happen all at once.” She smiles and looks off at the sky and sings, “But I … yi yi, I’m a believer,” and even in the wide-open spaces of the parish hall lawn her voice sounds big and full and powerful.
She grins at us. “So, my little lambs, let’s get you stuffin’ and stampin’.”
We follow her to the motor-home door, only she turns around and says, “Wait right here, okay? We’ll be doing this at the parish hall, I just need to get the supplies.”
I say, “Um, Sister Bernice? You know Father Mayhew’s dog?”
She laughs, “Ol’ Growler-yowler? Why, sure.”
“Well, he made me throw his carrot and—”
“He made you throw his carrot? You got that close to him?”
I laugh and say, “Yeah. For some reason he likes me.” I hold up my hand. “Anyhow, it was really slobbery and I’d like to wash this, if you wouldn’t mind?”
She stands at the base of the steps and frowns for a minute, looking at my hand. Then she breaks into a smile and says, “Well, that certainly could use a little soap and water.” She pulls a key from the sleeve of her habit and brings her voice way down when she says, “My Sisters like the solace of their own quarters, so try not to disturb them, okay?”
I nod, so she unlocks the door and steps inside.
Now, I’d never been inside a motor home before. Not even a little one. And I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw. There was a living room—an actual living room, with couches and a coffee table and a television. And the furniture was all this kind of puffy velour with a soft pink and white pattern like the sky in the background of an oil painting.
To the left of the living room was a dining room booth, and across from that was the kitchen. And I’m talking kitchen. Four-burner stove, refrigerator, microwave, overhead cabinets—the works. And humming away in the kitchen, placing vegetables from the refrigerator into the sink, is Sister Clarice.
So I’m checking all this out when Sister Abigail calls, “Bernie, I’ve got those faxes sent. Do you—” She sees me and says, “Well, what have we here?” only she’s kind of glaring at Sister Bernice and I can tell that I’m intruding.
Bernice says, “You remember Sammy, don’t you?”
I hurry up and say, “I’m sorry, I just need to wash my hands before we start stuffing envelopes.”
Abby flips down the screen of a computer, shuts off the power to a printer, and comes up from the passenger seat. “They don’t have a basin at the hall?”
Bernice says, “Lighten up a little, Sister. Sammy’s not the one that tried to break in the other night. She just wants to wash her hands.”
Clarice smiles at me from over at the sink. “Nice to see you again, Sammy. I’ll be done here in just a minute. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Now, I don’t want to sit on one of the couches—they look too puffy for someone with dog slobber on her hands. So I sit on the edge of the dining room booth and watch Clarice. She shakes the water off a freshly washed beet and carrot and puts them in a blender, tops and all. She adds a bowl of papaya slices, then cracks an egg on top of them, but instead of putting the shell in the garbage, she puts it in the blender, too. Then she covers the whole mess with pineapple juice, puts on the lid and vrooom! She whips it up.
And in about thirty seconds she’s got this pink drink that looks more like a strawberry milk shake than a compost concoction. She holds up the pitcher. “Would you like a taste?”
I smile and shake my head, but she pours a little in a glass anyway and says, “Go on, it’s good.”
Well, w
And it doesn’t taste anything like weeds and beets. It’s good. So I say, “Hey, that’s amazing!”
Sister Clarice pulls a face at Bernice and Abby. “Told you so.”
Bernice laughs and says to Abigail, “Lord, have mercy, she’s a brave one.” She takes the glass from me and swishes the drink around. “Sister’s been trying to get us to try this all week.” She raises the glass in the air and says, “May the Lord protect and keep me,” then downs the drink, smacks her lips, and says, “Aah!” Her eyes pop wide open. “Say, that is good!”
After Abigail finally breaks down and tastes it, Clarice clears out the sink and says, “It’s all yours, Sammy.”
While I’m scrubbing up, Abigail goes back to the front of the motor home, Clarice sits in the living room to finish her drink, and Bernice ducks into the bathroom. When I’m done, I grab a paper towel from the roll and dry my hands, and when I look around, well, there’s no trash can. So I pop open the cabinet under the sink because that’s where everyone keeps their trash can, only there isn’t one—just pipes and soap and scrub brushes. I start to open another cabinet, only Clarice jumps up and says, “Right over here, dear,” and holds out a wastebasket.
I throw out the paper towel and stand around for a minute, but without Bernice there, I feel really awkward so I go to the door and say, “I’ll just wait for Sister Bernice outside.”
Marissa and Dot are sitting on the lawn, and when they see me coming, Dot says, “What took so long? Where’s Sister Bernice?”
“Sorry. Sister Clarice was cleaning vegetables in the sink. I had to wait.”
Marissa hitches her thumb at the NunMobile and says, “My uncle has one of those. They’re amazing. The kitchen table turns into a bed, and there’s a loft above the driver’s seat. There are compartments everywhere—even under the benches and the furniture. My uncle’s has a TV in it, too—right between the front seats. It is so cool.”
Just then Bernice comes walking down the steps with a big box. “You angels ready to help in the service of the Lord?”
We follow her over to the parish hall, and when we push through the front door, who do we see? Brother Phil sitting at a table with his face in his hands. And near him, back against the wall, are Father Mayhew, Sister Josephine, and Mary Margaret.
And we stop cold, because across the table from Phil is Officer Borsch.
You can tell from the way Officer Borsch is pacing back and forth that he’s not there discussing the merits of using a crosswalk. He’s there to beat a confession out of Brother Phil.
When Officer Borsch sees me standing in the doorway, he stops pacing and sits down. And for a second it looks like he’s going to bury his face in his hands, but he doesn’t. He just sighs and says to Father Mayhew, “We’re not getting anywhere.” He wags his head over at us. “And now we’ve got company. Maybe we should go down to the station.”
Father Mayhew shakes his head. “The station? Is that really necessary?” He takes a step closer and says to Phil, “Son, you swear you didn’t take the chalices or the cross, but you have no explanation as to why you were going through the drawers in the sacristy this afternoon. What am I supposed to think?”
Phil shoves back from the table. “You want to know why? I’ll tell you why! Thanks to you, I’ll probably never be ordained. Thanks to you, I …” He closes his eyes tight, and says real slowly, “I just wanted to try on the vestments. I just wanted to see what it felt like.”
Father Mayhew runs his complicated eyes over him a minute. Then he says as gently as he can, “Son, you’re just not ready. Maybe someday you will be, but you’re not now. And if what you say is true, wanting to play dress-up in a priest’s clothing just serves to convince me that you have a lot of work to do before your ordination.”
After a minute of nobody saying anything, Officer Borsch and Father Mayhew go out one door and the Sisters and Brother Phil go out another. After they’re gone, Sister Bernice shakes her head a bit and mumbles, “There’s bitter blood running through this place.” She gives us a half-hearted smile. “We’ve got a lot of work to do ourselves, girls. Let’s get to it.”
She sets up a little assembly line for us and when she’s sure we know what we’re doing, she says, “Just bring ’em along to the motor home when you’re done. And girls? Keep in mind that the Lord works in mysterious ways. He’ll find a way to help my Brothers and Sisters exorcise whatever demons possess them. Have faith.”
After she leaves, we stuff envelopes for a little while without saying much, but pretty soon Marissa and Dot are back to talking about the game and how we’re going to shut out Mr. Vince’s team on Wednesday.
I’m talking about it, too, only part of my brain’s not thinking about softball. It’s tingling and twitching, brooding about Brothers and Sisters. And it seems that the more I get to know the Family of St. Mary’s Church, the harder it is for me to tell which ones are the saints.
And which ones are sinners.
Sometime between us stuffing envelopes and me serving sandwiches at the soup kitchen, I guess God decided the church needed a good washing. At first I thought it was going to be the usual move-along-a-little-faster kind of rain, but it wasn’t. It was a downpour.
About halfway into serving sandwiches, people started cramming into the soup kitchen, wanting to eat their food inside. But there isn’t very much room, and Mary Margaret finally had to say, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move along. We just don’t have the facilities to shelter you.”
So they shuffled back outside, and most of them just disappeared—probably over to the mall to dry out a bit. But you could see a handful of them hanging out under a tree, putting newspapers across their strollers and carts, trying to keep all their stuff dry.
And just as I’m thinking that we’re done for the day, Holly comes dripping in. Her hair’s matted flat against her head, her sweatshirt’s soaked clear through, and her hightops squish when she walks.
Now, if this had been Marissa or Dot, I would’ve taken one look and started cracking up. I mean, she looks like a wet whippet ready to shake out and soak the walls.
But she’s not Marissa or Dot, and she can’t just shake herself dry. And I don’t laugh. I don’t even smile. I just whisper, “You want me to try to get you some dry clothes?”
She takes her sandwich. “It’s just water.” Then she turns and whispers over her shoulder, “Don’t get any bright ideas. I’m fine.”
Well, I don’t have any bright ideas. I want to tell someone about Holly, but looking around, well, Josephine’s a Sister and all, but she doesn’t seem too sisterly. And Mary Margaret’s nice, but she’d wind up doing the same thing Father Mayhew would do if I told him: call the police. And in no time they’d haul Holly back to civilization where she’d be nice and warm on the outside, and miserable on the inside.
So I didn’t tell them. I just headed home in the rain. And when I got past Mrs. Graybill and popped into the apartment, the first thing Grams says is, “Oh, thank heavens! I was getting worried.”
I almost told Grams right then and there, but she waves me straight into the bathroom. “Go on, Samantha—get out of those clothes! You’re going to catch your death of cold.”
So I went into the bathroom, and standing there in front of the mirror, dripping, well, I looked like a wet whippet in squeaky high-tops needing to take a good shake all over the walls. After staring at myself for a minute, I wrestled out of my backpack and checked to make sure my mitt hadn’t gotten wet, then I peeled off my clothes and jumped in the shower.
That night I dreamt about softball. Only it wasn’t a regular softball game—we were playing in the pouring rain. And when it was my turn to bat, instead of Anita, Debbie, and Tenille being the outfield, it’s the Sisters of Mercy, and they’re in habits and cleats, waving their gloves in the air, singing, “T
* * *
It rained all night. And by the time I was ready to leave for school, it was still raining, so when Grams hands me her big old black umbrella, I take it. I fly down the fire-escape stairs like Mary Poppins from a rooftop, cut across Broadway to Maynard’s Market, run all the way down to Cook Street, and before you know it, I’m sloshing my way up the school steps.
In homeroom the kids take one look at my umbrella and start teasing me, saying, “What is that thing? A tent?” because it’s big enough to keep a gorilla dry. I just laugh and put it against the wall next to all their collapsible jobbies, and in between classes, I stay nice and dry while their umbrellas turn inside out in the wind.
It finally quit raining around lunchtime, but the patio tables were too soggy to eat at so we all wound up piling into the cafeteria. Between classes kids would yell through the rain, “You were awesome yesterday, Marissa!” and she’d smile and wave, “Thanks!” But at lunch, she got mobbed. All the seventh graders wanted to tell her what a great pitcher she was and how she was going to be the first seventh-grade pitcher ever to win the Junior Sluggers’ Cup and how she’d go down in the Softball Hall of Fame and stuff like that. She was being real nice about it, saying it was a team effort and everyone played well, but you could tell that she was happy to be the star.
Then, when Danny Urbanski came over and sat with us, well, I thought Marissa was going to pop. Danny’s cute, but to Marissa, being near him’s like being on a runaway train. Her hands shake and her heart races and she thinks she’s going to die. And I swear, if he’s even halfway nice to her, she picks me off the ground and twirls me through the air.