Fic: True Confessions (One-shot)
Title: True Confessions
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox. I just play in it.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,935.
A/N: Well this was supposed to be a quick one-a little one shot that I wanted to do before I delved into writing the island fic. Unfortunately moving and other real life junk got in the way of writing fic. That's just not cool...
Continuity: None! This is a one-shot.
A/N II: A huge thank you to Redlance for giving this the 'suck-check' for me. I couldn't have posted without you. You're awesome!
A/N III: This story kind of assumes that the McPherson's and the McQueen's are Irish Catholics. We never see them being religious or going to church, but that's because on American TV you never see any kind of religious affiliation (unless that's part of the character) so they come across as neutral as possible. So its possible that they are Catholic. It was easy enough for me because, being Catholic, its always a good time to poke a little fun.
True Confessions
‘This is it’, ‘Now or never’, and a hundred other motivational clichés jockeyed for position in Sam’s inner monologue.
She cursed her arm’s single-jointedness, because today she would-literally-pat herself on the back.
Today she’d had the greatest idea ever.
Her heart was thumping in her chest as it forced the blood through her circulatory system. She could hear it as it whooshed past her eardrums, and her breathing was unnaturally loud.
C’mon, Lily! She looked at her phone again. Nothing. She better not have chickened out.
Sam stood tucked around the corner of one of St. Michael’s many confessionals. It was the third Saturday of the month: priests from all around the diocese volunteered their efforts to hear the parishioners’ admissions of sin. If this worked, Sam would have plenty to confess next month.
Forgive me, Father, she chuckled to herself, but I’m about to sin. As if on cue, her cell phone vibrated in her hand.
Two words from Lily: 'All Clear.'
Yes! She moved without hesitation: stepping around the corner, slipping into the vacant confessional, and closing the door behind her.
Sam found and flipped on the switch for the light above the door, announcing that confessional #8 (according to the plague inside) was open for business.
She rubbed her hands together-evil genius style. Yeah, she’d outdone herself this time. This was going on the Sam’s Greatest Hits reel-no doubt about it.
Her advisor for the Zapruder had challenged her to come up with an idea to sell newspapers. Okay, maybe not sell them (since the Zapruder was free), but to have a sell out run.
She needed something really sensational. And this was it: an article detailing the sins and admissions of her fellow students-all anonymously, of course.
She even had a title for it: True Confessions. Now all she needed was the actual ‘confessions’.
Her phone buzzed again. Lily.
'We are so going to hell for this.'
Sam shook her head and typed back her reply.
'Chill, Lil, lol. Besides, I don’t think I believe in hell.'
'WTF? You mean I’m going to hell by myself? You suck!'
But she wasn’t done. 'OMG! I just said WTF in church! What R U doing to me?'
Sam stifled a laugh. Lily. So Catholic.
The door to the confessional opened and she heard the shuffling of fabric as the repentant sinner sat down. The confessional was two separate booths: one for the priest, and one for the parishioner-separated be a privacy screen through which one could be heard, but not seen.
There was a nervous clearing of the throat-this was a ‘he’-as they prepared to bare their soul.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Sam buried a snicker into her hand. Right on cue a text message popped up on her phone: 'Ryan Farabaugh'.
She remembered him. They’d had gym together in sixth grade. Oh: hadn’t he pelted her really hard in dodgeball that one time?
Extra Hail Mary’s for this prick.
Sam affected the deepest, raspiest voice she could, and added an Irish accent. “How long since your last confession?”
“Are you all right, Father?”
“Yes,” Sam coughed. “I have a cold. How long, my son?” she pressed.
“Two months,” he divulged.
High school kid? Going to confession every other month? Yeah, right.
Lying to a priest: more Hail Mary’s. This kid’s going to be here all day. “Confess your sins,” Sam coaxed-waiting with baited breath.
“Well--” he stammered, and cleared his throat again. “I lied to my parents and went to a party.”
“Mm hmm,” Sam nodded. Boring.
“I-I fought with my sister.”
C’mon, get to the good stuff. “Have you had...impure thoughts?” she asked.
“Yes, Father,” he admitted.
She went for the gold. “Do you pleasure yourself?” she asked, and clamped her hand over her mouth.
Silence, then: “Yes, Father.”
Her body trembled from the effort to keep from laughing. “How many times a week?” she managed to get out without cracking up. Tears were streaming from her eyes.
“About ten times,” Ryan confessed.
Sam sat up, surprised. “Really?”
“Never on Sunday!” the boy amended.
Jesus. That was twice a day. This kid needed a girlfriend.
“Do you masturbate about anyone in particular?”
“Um,” he answered, “Brooke McQueen.”
Ew! The hackles went up on the back of Sam’s neck.
“She’s a cheerleader,” Ryan volunteered-digging his grave deeper and deeper. “She’s so beautiful. And when I see her in that cheerleading uniform-with that half shirt--”
“That’s enough!” Sam interrupted. “For your penance do a hundred Hail Mary’s.”
“A hundred?” Ryan exclaimed.
“Do you want to make it two hundred?” Sam snapped back.
“N-No, sir! I mean: Father,” the boy replied. “Sorry, Father. Thank you!” More shuffling of fabric, and Sam heard the door open and close.
Jerk. The thought of him thinking of Brooke when he--
And her conscience-which had apparently gone AWOL-spoke up for the first time today-pointing out that if she sentenced Ryan a hundred Hail Mary’s for fantasizing about Brooke McQueen...
Shouldn’t she have some praying to do?
Shut up, she told her conscience.
The door opened again. Sam looked at her phone anxiously. Lily didn’t disappoint.
'Some old guy.'
Crap. She hadn’t really counted on hearing regular parishioners’ confessions.
She rolled her eyes and went though the motions-but soon found herself charmed by the adorable old man.
“I took an extra sip of the Communion wine last week,” he confided. Sam chuckled in her accented voice and told him she did too.
“And I have to confess that I may have had an impure thought or two regarding the Widow Dunnbauer when I saw her in that new spring hat.”
Sam smiled. He reminded her of Grandpa McPherson.
“And that Justin Fruehauf-that’s my neighbor-he keeps bringing that dog of his into my yard.
“And he never bags his poop!” the old man added.
“Oh no!” Sam laughed.
“It’s no laughing matter, Father...” Storm clouds gathered at the edge of his voice. “Because every time he does that,” he built up steam, “I want to take that dog turd and SMEAR IT ALL OVER HIS FAT MOUTH!”
Houston, we have a problem...!
“Isn’t that just like a kraut?” the old man spat-but Sam didn’t think he was actually still confessing at this point. “Two wars just wasn’t enough for them. Well he’s going to get W.W.III handed to him-and his little dog too!”
The kindly image of Grandpa Joe waved goodbye and popped like a bubble. From the opposite booth she could hear the quick, deep intakes from what must be the man’s oxygen tank. Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. “Um, maybe we should calm down,” she suggested. “Let’s think: what would Jesus do?”
“You tell me!” he retorted.
Oh yeah: she was the priest. She should know what Jesus would do. And the old man was ready to argue: “And let’s see him turn the other cheek when there’s dog crap on his sandals!”
“Take a breath!” Sam encouraged. He complied-taking long, slow draws from his oxygen tank.
Sam looked at the switch for the light over the door. Was there a third setting-like the registers at Target when they were out of change? On, off, and panic?
Or was there some kind of priest ‘Morse Code’? Maybe could she flash it on and off in quick intervals to let the other priests know that she had a psychopath in the booth?
“Forgive me, Father,” the Old Man wheezed. “I need to work on my temper a bit.”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. She had one hand on the doorknob-preparing to eject and abort the mission.
“Sorry for that crack about the Lord’s sandals,” he offered.
“It’s quite all right,” Sam replied. “For your penance, how about some ‘Hail Mary’s?”
“How many?”
“I don’t know,” Sam winced-realizing how very ‘unpriestlike’ that sounded. She just didn’t want to antagonize him. This crazy old coot was a powder keg. “Ten?”
A laugh from the adjoining booth. “I got off easy! Last week Father McReady had me do the entire Rosary!
“See you next week, Father!”
Not likely, Sam thought to herself as the door opened and shut.
She looked around the booth and pondered her escape. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all?
She was just about to flip the switch to the light when the door to the confessional opened again.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the gentle, beautiful voice-heralded by a trace of perfume that brought an unconscious smile to Sam’s face.
The phone buzzed in her hand, but it was completely unnecessary. Sam knew the moment she heard the voice-really, the moment she smelled the perfume. Because the perfume didn’t smell like it did in the store: all sterile right out of the bottle. The moment she put it on it was altered by her personal chemistry. It became less the signature fragrance and more a variation of her personal essence. Because everything in this world was defined by her-and through her.
Yes, Sam knew the moment she caught a whiff of that familiar scent just who had dropped into the booth beside her:
Brooke McQueen.
“Yes, my child?” Sam inquired.
“I wanted to come and see you today,” Brooke began, “I haven’t actually done anything-yet-but I’ve been very confused lately.”
“Confused?” Sam questioned. “How so?”
Brooke took a breath to respond, stopped, and regrouped. “My Father met someone. She’s...nice, actually. I didn’t like her at first, but I do now.
“Well, her and her daughter moved in with us about a year and a half ago...”
Sam felt more than heard Brooke’s voice trail off. “Go on,” she coaxed.
“I have feelings regarding the daughter,” Brooke confessed.
“Feelings?”
“Strong feelings,” Brooke elaborated.
It took a moment, but Sam finally understood-and thought a little self-preservation seemed prudent: “Remember, murder’s a mortal sin, my child. You’ll go straight to hell if you kill her!”
“No, i-it’s not like that,” Brooke corrected her. “Not anymore, anyway,” she admitted.
“I’m in love with her,” came the quiet admission.
“What?”
“I love her,” Brooke declared.
“You love me?” Sam repeated in disbelief. All pretense of her accent had fallen away.
“Sam...?” Brooke muttered, confusion in her voice. Then: “SAM!?”
Uh oh! Sam burst from the booth. She had no real exit strategy, but knew instinctively that being trapped in the cubicle was a bad idea. The doors slammed into each other as the blonde exited at the same time, and Brooke froze her with a glare. If that girl had laser eyes...
“Sam! What are you doing?”
“It’s not what you think!” the brunette pleaded.
“Lemme guess,” Brooke countered, “you snuck in here to hear people’s confessions for a Zapruder article?”
Sam was taken aback. “Okay, it is what you think. But--”
“Gah!” Brooke shouted, grabbing handfuls of her hair. “I HATE you!”
“Ladies, what is going on?”
Great. It was Father McReady-the head of the parish of St. Michael’s. “Yer in church! he reminded them in his thick Irish brogue.
Brooke smiled her fake saccharine smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Father,” she said, “Nellie Bly here was pretending to be a priest so she could report on people’s confessions for a newspaper article.”
Father McReady gasped, and clutched at his chest (purely for dramatic effect). “Miss McPherson! Is this true?”
“It is,” Sam acknowledged, “and that’s bad-I know. But right now there’s something much more important--”
“What could possibly be more important than--
“Brooke just told me that she--”
“I was telling that to a priest!” the blonde reminded her. “Not to you.”
“But I’m the one who heard it,” Sam reminded her. “It was fate!”
“Miss McPherson,” Father McReady admonished, “violating a priest’s sacred vow of confession is a very--”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Father, can we PLEASE discuss this later?” she begged. “I have to talk to--”
“We have nothing to talk about!” the blonde interrupted.
“The hell we don’t!”
“Miss McPherson!”
“Sorry!” she winced. “My bad.”
A few rows over, Ryan Farabaugh looked up after completing his thirty-seventh Hail Mary. “Waitaminute: it wasn’t really a priest? I don’t have to do a hundred--”
“Just finish yer penance, boy!” Sam yelled in her Irish accent.
Ryan returned to his prayers, chastised. Father McReady slapped his forehead.
Sam turned to the blonde. “Brooke, you said you loved me!”
“I lied!” the blonde retorted. “I couldn’t love you: you’re reprehensible!”
“Wow. Good word!” Sam said, impressed. “But I must have some redeeming qualities if the hottest girl in school’s in love with me.” She shot the blonde a sly grin.
“You must have been born with hair,” Brooke grumbled, “because I know there were three sixes on your scalp!”
“Actually they were nines,” Sam rebutted.
Brooke addressed the priest: “Father, does the church still have indulgences?” she queried. “Only: can I buy her into hell? I’ll use my college fund if I have to!”
Sam was aghast. “Sweetheart, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
“DON’T CALL ME SWEETHEART!!” Brooke growled.
“Both of you,” Father McReady pleaded, “we’re in church!”
“Brooke, you don’t understand: I love you too!”
“What...?” the replies came in unison from Brooke and the priest.
“I love you, Brooke,” Sam said it again. That marked two more times than she ever thought she would say it in real life.
Father McReady treaded cautiously: “You mean...in a sisterly way?”
“Um, I’m afraid not, Father,” Sam replied. “I mean in the ‘I’m in love with her’ way.” She looked at the hazel eyes locked on hers. “Like, in the ‘I want to get lost in her eyes and run my fingers through her hair and read her poetry’ kind of way.”
“Oh boy,” Father McReady said-but Sam was focused solely on Brooke. Was that a hint of a smile on that beautiful face?
If it was, it disappeared behind the walls the blonde erected. “You’re lying!” Brooke spat. “I’m going to end up in your damn article!”
“Miss McQueen!” Father McReady protested.
“No, I swear!” Sam vowed. “There is no article-not anymore. And I’m not lying. Not about this! Please believe me!”
Sam cast about the church in desperation. “Lily!” she shouted. “Where are you?”
“Miss McPherson, you’re in God's house!” Father McReady complained.
Where was Lily? “Tell Brooke how I feel about her!” she called out.
No response. “Okay,” she addressed the blonde, “Lily’s hiding because she’s afraid of going to hell. But she teases me about constantly!”
The phone buzzed in her hand. “Ah! Look here!” She handed the phone to Brooke. It was a text message: 'She does Brooke. She’s head over heels for you.'
“See?” Sam said, “Lily wouldn’t lie.”
“Sam, I--” And Sam could see it in her eyes. Her resolve was shaken. She was almost ready to trust her-to open herself up to her, but then--
“I don’t know how I can believe anything you say,” Brooke said. And Sam knew that it was the death knell. That-although it wasn’t true-it was the defense the blonde would use to keep herself isolated-to keep herself safe.
Sam was on the verge of panic. What could she do to convince her...?
There was only one thing to do. Sam dropped down to one knee before her. “Brooke, I swear on the soul of my father, Joseph McPherson, that I am one hundred percent, absolutely, certifiably crazy about you-and have been since the day we met.”
That did it. When Brooke smiled again Sam knew it was no ordinary smile. Then the blonde looked around, grinning sheepishly-seemingly becoming aware of their surroundings. “Maybe we should continue this conversation at home?”
“I’d like that,” Sam grinned. “I’d really, really like that.” She got to her feet and--
Father McReady cleared his throat: “Now where do you think yer goin’...?”
* * *
It was half past three. Sister Mary Catherine walked the church, cataloguing the flowers. Next week marked the last Sunday of the liturgical season, and they would transition the interior of the church-the colors changing to the greens of Ordinary Time. That meant changing the flowers as well.
Huh. There was someone here. Usually the church was empty at this time of day. The young lady kneeled in one of the pews and was just finishing up a Hail Mary as she approached.
The dark haired girl looked up. She smiled broadly and her eyes fell to her clipboard.
“Sister,” the girl asked, “can I borrow a pen? Mine ran out.”
“Certainly, child,” the nun complied, handing over her pen. It would be easy enough for her to fetch another from the church office.
The young lady made a mark on a sheet filled with small dashes. “Four hundred and thirty-seven,” she smiled. “Only three hundred and thirteen to go!” she beamed excitedly, and immediately launched into the next prayer.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...”
The nun did a quick calculation in her head (she’d had top marks in math at Saint Gregory’s Catholic School), and couldn’t believe it.
Father McReady entered the sacristy, and she made a beeline to intercept him. Surely it was her Christian duty to intervene on behalf of this young lady?
“Father McReady?” she broached.
The priest smiled. “Yes, Sister?”
“Father, that girl over there--” curiously his expression faltered, “is doing seven hundred and fifty Hail Mary’s for her penance. In all my years, I’ve never seen--
Father McReady forestalled any further debate with an upturned palm. “Believe me, Sister Mary Catherine: she got off easy.”
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy's sandbox. I just play in it.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,935.
A/N: Well this was supposed to be a quick one-a little one shot that I wanted to do before I delved into writing the island fic. Unfortunately moving and other real life junk got in the way of writing fic. That's just not cool...
Continuity: None! This is a one-shot.
A/N II: A huge thank you to Redlance for giving this the 'suck-check' for me. I couldn't have posted without you. You're awesome!
A/N III: This story kind of assumes that the McPherson's and the McQueen's are Irish Catholics. We never see them being religious or going to church, but that's because on American TV you never see any kind of religious affiliation (unless that's part of the character) so they come across as neutral as possible. So its possible that they are Catholic. It was easy enough for me because, being Catholic, its always a good time to poke a little fun.
True Confessions
‘This is it’, ‘Now or never’, and a hundred other motivational clichés jockeyed for position in Sam’s inner monologue.
She cursed her arm’s single-jointedness, because today she would-literally-pat herself on the back.
Today she’d had the greatest idea ever.
Her heart was thumping in her chest as it forced the blood through her circulatory system. She could hear it as it whooshed past her eardrums, and her breathing was unnaturally loud.
C’mon, Lily! She looked at her phone again. Nothing. She better not have chickened out.
Sam stood tucked around the corner of one of St. Michael’s many confessionals. It was the third Saturday of the month: priests from all around the diocese volunteered their efforts to hear the parishioners’ admissions of sin. If this worked, Sam would have plenty to confess next month.
Forgive me, Father, she chuckled to herself, but I’m about to sin. As if on cue, her cell phone vibrated in her hand.
Two words from Lily: 'All Clear.'
Yes! She moved without hesitation: stepping around the corner, slipping into the vacant confessional, and closing the door behind her.
Sam found and flipped on the switch for the light above the door, announcing that confessional #8 (according to the plague inside) was open for business.
She rubbed her hands together-evil genius style. Yeah, she’d outdone herself this time. This was going on the Sam’s Greatest Hits reel-no doubt about it.
Her advisor for the Zapruder had challenged her to come up with an idea to sell newspapers. Okay, maybe not sell them (since the Zapruder was free), but to have a sell out run.
She needed something really sensational. And this was it: an article detailing the sins and admissions of her fellow students-all anonymously, of course.
She even had a title for it: True Confessions. Now all she needed was the actual ‘confessions’.
Her phone buzzed again. Lily.
'We are so going to hell for this.'
Sam shook her head and typed back her reply.
'Chill, Lil, lol. Besides, I don’t think I believe in hell.'
'WTF? You mean I’m going to hell by myself? You suck!'
But she wasn’t done. 'OMG! I just said WTF in church! What R U doing to me?'
Sam stifled a laugh. Lily. So Catholic.
The door to the confessional opened and she heard the shuffling of fabric as the repentant sinner sat down. The confessional was two separate booths: one for the priest, and one for the parishioner-separated be a privacy screen through which one could be heard, but not seen.
There was a nervous clearing of the throat-this was a ‘he’-as they prepared to bare their soul.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Sam buried a snicker into her hand. Right on cue a text message popped up on her phone: 'Ryan Farabaugh'.
She remembered him. They’d had gym together in sixth grade. Oh: hadn’t he pelted her really hard in dodgeball that one time?
Extra Hail Mary’s for this prick.
Sam affected the deepest, raspiest voice she could, and added an Irish accent. “How long since your last confession?”
“Are you all right, Father?”
“Yes,” Sam coughed. “I have a cold. How long, my son?” she pressed.
“Two months,” he divulged.
High school kid? Going to confession every other month? Yeah, right.
Lying to a priest: more Hail Mary’s. This kid’s going to be here all day. “Confess your sins,” Sam coaxed-waiting with baited breath.
“Well--” he stammered, and cleared his throat again. “I lied to my parents and went to a party.”
“Mm hmm,” Sam nodded. Boring.
“I-I fought with my sister.”
C’mon, get to the good stuff. “Have you had...impure thoughts?” she asked.
“Yes, Father,” he admitted.
She went for the gold. “Do you pleasure yourself?” she asked, and clamped her hand over her mouth.
Silence, then: “Yes, Father.”
Her body trembled from the effort to keep from laughing. “How many times a week?” she managed to get out without cracking up. Tears were streaming from her eyes.
“About ten times,” Ryan confessed.
Sam sat up, surprised. “Really?”
“Never on Sunday!” the boy amended.
Jesus. That was twice a day. This kid needed a girlfriend.
“Do you masturbate about anyone in particular?”
“Um,” he answered, “Brooke McQueen.”
Ew! The hackles went up on the back of Sam’s neck.
“She’s a cheerleader,” Ryan volunteered-digging his grave deeper and deeper. “She’s so beautiful. And when I see her in that cheerleading uniform-with that half shirt--”
“That’s enough!” Sam interrupted. “For your penance do a hundred Hail Mary’s.”
“A hundred?” Ryan exclaimed.
“Do you want to make it two hundred?” Sam snapped back.
“N-No, sir! I mean: Father,” the boy replied. “Sorry, Father. Thank you!” More shuffling of fabric, and Sam heard the door open and close.
Jerk. The thought of him thinking of Brooke when he--
And her conscience-which had apparently gone AWOL-spoke up for the first time today-pointing out that if she sentenced Ryan a hundred Hail Mary’s for fantasizing about Brooke McQueen...
Shouldn’t she have some praying to do?
Shut up, she told her conscience.
The door opened again. Sam looked at her phone anxiously. Lily didn’t disappoint.
'Some old guy.'
Crap. She hadn’t really counted on hearing regular parishioners’ confessions.
She rolled her eyes and went though the motions-but soon found herself charmed by the adorable old man.
“I took an extra sip of the Communion wine last week,” he confided. Sam chuckled in her accented voice and told him she did too.
“And I have to confess that I may have had an impure thought or two regarding the Widow Dunnbauer when I saw her in that new spring hat.”
Sam smiled. He reminded her of Grandpa McPherson.
“And that Justin Fruehauf-that’s my neighbor-he keeps bringing that dog of his into my yard.
“And he never bags his poop!” the old man added.
“Oh no!” Sam laughed.
“It’s no laughing matter, Father...” Storm clouds gathered at the edge of his voice. “Because every time he does that,” he built up steam, “I want to take that dog turd and SMEAR IT ALL OVER HIS FAT MOUTH!”
Houston, we have a problem...!
“Isn’t that just like a kraut?” the old man spat-but Sam didn’t think he was actually still confessing at this point. “Two wars just wasn’t enough for them. Well he’s going to get W.W.III handed to him-and his little dog too!”
The kindly image of Grandpa Joe waved goodbye and popped like a bubble. From the opposite booth she could hear the quick, deep intakes from what must be the man’s oxygen tank. Sam swallowed the lump in her throat. “Um, maybe we should calm down,” she suggested. “Let’s think: what would Jesus do?”
“You tell me!” he retorted.
Oh yeah: she was the priest. She should know what Jesus would do. And the old man was ready to argue: “And let’s see him turn the other cheek when there’s dog crap on his sandals!”
“Take a breath!” Sam encouraged. He complied-taking long, slow draws from his oxygen tank.
Sam looked at the switch for the light over the door. Was there a third setting-like the registers at Target when they were out of change? On, off, and panic?
Or was there some kind of priest ‘Morse Code’? Maybe could she flash it on and off in quick intervals to let the other priests know that she had a psychopath in the booth?
“Forgive me, Father,” the Old Man wheezed. “I need to work on my temper a bit.”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. She had one hand on the doorknob-preparing to eject and abort the mission.
“Sorry for that crack about the Lord’s sandals,” he offered.
“It’s quite all right,” Sam replied. “For your penance, how about some ‘Hail Mary’s?”
“How many?”
“I don’t know,” Sam winced-realizing how very ‘unpriestlike’ that sounded. She just didn’t want to antagonize him. This crazy old coot was a powder keg. “Ten?”
A laugh from the adjoining booth. “I got off easy! Last week Father McReady had me do the entire Rosary!
“See you next week, Father!”
Not likely, Sam thought to herself as the door opened and shut.
She looked around the booth and pondered her escape. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all?
She was just about to flip the switch to the light when the door to the confessional opened again.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the gentle, beautiful voice-heralded by a trace of perfume that brought an unconscious smile to Sam’s face.
The phone buzzed in her hand, but it was completely unnecessary. Sam knew the moment she heard the voice-really, the moment she smelled the perfume. Because the perfume didn’t smell like it did in the store: all sterile right out of the bottle. The moment she put it on it was altered by her personal chemistry. It became less the signature fragrance and more a variation of her personal essence. Because everything in this world was defined by her-and through her.
Yes, Sam knew the moment she caught a whiff of that familiar scent just who had dropped into the booth beside her:
Brooke McQueen.
“Yes, my child?” Sam inquired.
“I wanted to come and see you today,” Brooke began, “I haven’t actually done anything-yet-but I’ve been very confused lately.”
“Confused?” Sam questioned. “How so?”
Brooke took a breath to respond, stopped, and regrouped. “My Father met someone. She’s...nice, actually. I didn’t like her at first, but I do now.
“Well, her and her daughter moved in with us about a year and a half ago...”
Sam felt more than heard Brooke’s voice trail off. “Go on,” she coaxed.
“I have feelings regarding the daughter,” Brooke confessed.
“Feelings?”
“Strong feelings,” Brooke elaborated.
It took a moment, but Sam finally understood-and thought a little self-preservation seemed prudent: “Remember, murder’s a mortal sin, my child. You’ll go straight to hell if you kill her!”
“No, i-it’s not like that,” Brooke corrected her. “Not anymore, anyway,” she admitted.
“I’m in love with her,” came the quiet admission.
“What?”
“I love her,” Brooke declared.
“You love me?” Sam repeated in disbelief. All pretense of her accent had fallen away.
“Sam...?” Brooke muttered, confusion in her voice. Then: “SAM!?”
Uh oh! Sam burst from the booth. She had no real exit strategy, but knew instinctively that being trapped in the cubicle was a bad idea. The doors slammed into each other as the blonde exited at the same time, and Brooke froze her with a glare. If that girl had laser eyes...
“Sam! What are you doing?”
“It’s not what you think!” the brunette pleaded.
“Lemme guess,” Brooke countered, “you snuck in here to hear people’s confessions for a Zapruder article?”
Sam was taken aback. “Okay, it is what you think. But--”
“Gah!” Brooke shouted, grabbing handfuls of her hair. “I HATE you!”
“Ladies, what is going on?”
Great. It was Father McReady-the head of the parish of St. Michael’s. “Yer in church! he reminded them in his thick Irish brogue.
Brooke smiled her fake saccharine smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Father,” she said, “Nellie Bly here was pretending to be a priest so she could report on people’s confessions for a newspaper article.”
Father McReady gasped, and clutched at his chest (purely for dramatic effect). “Miss McPherson! Is this true?”
“It is,” Sam acknowledged, “and that’s bad-I know. But right now there’s something much more important--”
“What could possibly be more important than--
“Brooke just told me that she--”
“I was telling that to a priest!” the blonde reminded her. “Not to you.”
“But I’m the one who heard it,” Sam reminded her. “It was fate!”
“Miss McPherson,” Father McReady admonished, “violating a priest’s sacred vow of confession is a very--”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Father, can we PLEASE discuss this later?” she begged. “I have to talk to--”
“We have nothing to talk about!” the blonde interrupted.
“The hell we don’t!”
“Miss McPherson!”
“Sorry!” she winced. “My bad.”
A few rows over, Ryan Farabaugh looked up after completing his thirty-seventh Hail Mary. “Waitaminute: it wasn’t really a priest? I don’t have to do a hundred--”
“Just finish yer penance, boy!” Sam yelled in her Irish accent.
Ryan returned to his prayers, chastised. Father McReady slapped his forehead.
Sam turned to the blonde. “Brooke, you said you loved me!”
“I lied!” the blonde retorted. “I couldn’t love you: you’re reprehensible!”
“Wow. Good word!” Sam said, impressed. “But I must have some redeeming qualities if the hottest girl in school’s in love with me.” She shot the blonde a sly grin.
“You must have been born with hair,” Brooke grumbled, “because I know there were three sixes on your scalp!”
“Actually they were nines,” Sam rebutted.
Brooke addressed the priest: “Father, does the church still have indulgences?” she queried. “Only: can I buy her into hell? I’ll use my college fund if I have to!”
Sam was aghast. “Sweetheart, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
“DON’T CALL ME SWEETHEART!!” Brooke growled.
“Both of you,” Father McReady pleaded, “we’re in church!”
“Brooke, you don’t understand: I love you too!”
“What...?” the replies came in unison from Brooke and the priest.
“I love you, Brooke,” Sam said it again. That marked two more times than she ever thought she would say it in real life.
Father McReady treaded cautiously: “You mean...in a sisterly way?”
“Um, I’m afraid not, Father,” Sam replied. “I mean in the ‘I’m in love with her’ way.” She looked at the hazel eyes locked on hers. “Like, in the ‘I want to get lost in her eyes and run my fingers through her hair and read her poetry’ kind of way.”
“Oh boy,” Father McReady said-but Sam was focused solely on Brooke. Was that a hint of a smile on that beautiful face?
If it was, it disappeared behind the walls the blonde erected. “You’re lying!” Brooke spat. “I’m going to end up in your damn article!”
“Miss McQueen!” Father McReady protested.
“No, I swear!” Sam vowed. “There is no article-not anymore. And I’m not lying. Not about this! Please believe me!”
Sam cast about the church in desperation. “Lily!” she shouted. “Where are you?”
“Miss McPherson, you’re in God's house!” Father McReady complained.
Where was Lily? “Tell Brooke how I feel about her!” she called out.
No response. “Okay,” she addressed the blonde, “Lily’s hiding because she’s afraid of going to hell. But she teases me about constantly!”
The phone buzzed in her hand. “Ah! Look here!” She handed the phone to Brooke. It was a text message: 'She does Brooke. She’s head over heels for you.'
“See?” Sam said, “Lily wouldn’t lie.”
“Sam, I--” And Sam could see it in her eyes. Her resolve was shaken. She was almost ready to trust her-to open herself up to her, but then--
“I don’t know how I can believe anything you say,” Brooke said. And Sam knew that it was the death knell. That-although it wasn’t true-it was the defense the blonde would use to keep herself isolated-to keep herself safe.
Sam was on the verge of panic. What could she do to convince her...?
There was only one thing to do. Sam dropped down to one knee before her. “Brooke, I swear on the soul of my father, Joseph McPherson, that I am one hundred percent, absolutely, certifiably crazy about you-and have been since the day we met.”
That did it. When Brooke smiled again Sam knew it was no ordinary smile. Then the blonde looked around, grinning sheepishly-seemingly becoming aware of their surroundings. “Maybe we should continue this conversation at home?”
“I’d like that,” Sam grinned. “I’d really, really like that.” She got to her feet and--
Father McReady cleared his throat: “Now where do you think yer goin’...?”
* * *
It was half past three. Sister Mary Catherine walked the church, cataloguing the flowers. Next week marked the last Sunday of the liturgical season, and they would transition the interior of the church-the colors changing to the greens of Ordinary Time. That meant changing the flowers as well.
Huh. There was someone here. Usually the church was empty at this time of day. The young lady kneeled in one of the pews and was just finishing up a Hail Mary as she approached.
The dark haired girl looked up. She smiled broadly and her eyes fell to her clipboard.
“Sister,” the girl asked, “can I borrow a pen? Mine ran out.”
“Certainly, child,” the nun complied, handing over her pen. It would be easy enough for her to fetch another from the church office.
The young lady made a mark on a sheet filled with small dashes. “Four hundred and thirty-seven,” she smiled. “Only three hundred and thirteen to go!” she beamed excitedly, and immediately launched into the next prayer.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...”
The nun did a quick calculation in her head (she’d had top marks in math at Saint Gregory’s Catholic School), and couldn’t believe it.
Father McReady entered the sacristy, and she made a beeline to intercept him. Surely it was her Christian duty to intervene on behalf of this young lady?
“Father McReady?” she broached.
The priest smiled. “Yes, Sister?”
“Father, that girl over there--” curiously his expression faltered, “is doing seven hundred and fifty Hail Mary’s for her penance. In all my years, I’ve never seen--
Father McReady forestalled any further debate with an upturned palm. “Believe me, Sister Mary Catherine: she got off easy.”