The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [119]
Not adding that the real reason she hasn’t applied is that she can’t imagine telling her aunt, who would, she knows, see it as only one more example of Linda getting the jump on her, trying to be better than the cousins.
“You know there are scholarships,” Mr. K. says.
She nods.
“It’s only the end of January,” he says. “Admittedly, it’s too late for a formal application, but I know some people and so does Mr. Hanson. We could make some calls. I could walk you through this.”
Linda, embarrassed, looks over at Donny T. Will he be applying to college? Will he become a thief, a gambler, a banker? She doesn’t even know where Thomas has applied. She has made the subject more or less taboo.
“Everything all right at home?” Mr. K. asks.
Everything is just ducky at home, she thinks.
“Do me a favor, OK?” he asks. “Promise me you’ll come by my classroom and take a look at some college catalogues I have. You’re familiar with Tufts? B.U.?”
She nods.
He catches sight of the cross. “B.C.?” he asks. The Catholic college.
She nods again, seeing little alternative but to agree.
“This afternoon? Are you free eighth period?”
“I am.”
“Good. We’ll do it then.”
“All right.”
He unfolds himself from the bench. “What do you have this semester? Twentieth century?”
“Yes.”
“From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State / And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.”
Linda smiles. “Randall Jarrell,” she says.
______
She catches the bus that stops just beyond the student parking lot. The driver narrows his eyes at her as she gets on.
“I’m sick,” she says. “I’m not skipping.”
She rides along Main Street to Spring to Fitzpatrick to Nantasket Avenue, thinking it might just be possible to do this thing and get back in time for her appointment with Mr. K. She knows that if she dwells on what she is about to do, she’ll lose her nerve, and so she doesn’t. But her errand feels urgent nevertheless.
All around her, the world is melting. Sparkling and dripping and breaking and sending huge chunks of ice from rooftops, ropes of ice from telephone poles, fantastical icicles from gutters. The bus is overheated, and she opens her peacoat. She has two classes before eighth period and will have to come up with a plausible reason for her absence. Perhaps she can use Mr. K. as an excuse.
She gets off at the stop closest to St. Ann’s. The rectory is beside the church. If it weren’t for the sense of urgency, she would turn around and go back to the school. She forces herself to keep moving forward, even as she knows her request is likely to be met with derision. This is the boldest thing she’s done since jumping into the ocean.
She walks up the stone steps and knocks at the heavy wooden door.
A young priest answers it. She has seen him before, from the pews at church, but now, up close, she notices that he looks like Eddie Garrity. His collar is askew, and he is holding a dinner napkin.
“Will you hear my confession?” she asks.
The priest is startled by her request. “Confessions are heard on Saturday afternoon,” he says, not unkindly. Perhaps he is a cousin of Eddie’s, with his pink-gold hair and skinny frame. The good cousin. “This isn’t Saturday,” he reminds her.
“I know,” she says, “but I have to do this now.”
“I’m having my lunch,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” she says and nearly leaves it at that. Maybe it’s a sin to want more than she is entitled to, she thinks.
“I’ll wait,” she says.
The young priest slowly brings his napkin to his lips. “Come in,” he says.
She steps into a dark paneled hall. Electric sconces provide the only light. It might not even be day outside. From a room beyond, she can hear the scrape of cutlery against dishes. A voice speaking.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says.
“Will they be worried?”
“No.”
“What year are you?”
“A senior.”
“If we do this, you’ll go back to school?