Page 10 of No Merciful Corruption

“Why does Lisa always get to wear the cool stuff?” Lyss laments.

“Did you see what Sofia’s wearing?” I ask.

My friend gasps. “No, what?”

“A bright red bandage dress and a pair of high tops she bought at PayLess.” I purse my lips. “I look like a Bride of Christ.”

Lyss flails her arms around, drawing attention to the frilly monstrosity under her confirmation robe. “I look like a Bride of Chucky. We’re in this together.”

I manage a smile but am too distracted by the traffic. One by one, each family in the neighborhood arrives, all of them in varying states of disarray. Babies are missing their crosses, grumpy pre-teen boys refuse to button their blazers, and girls exchange lipsticks and compacts as they touch up their makeup. Our classmates file into the church in alphabetical order by last name and Lyss tries to sneak in front of me but Mrs. Arden remands her to the front.

“Couldn’t my parents have put Rinaldi on my birth certificate first?” She mutters under her breath.

I’m toward the end of the line. Fifty kids are receiving confirmation this year and there are only a dozen or so kids behind me. As the procession begins, I hover near the church doors as long as I can, hoping and praying that a familiar car will appear on Central Avenue but it never does.

Nina Peretti turns around and uses her candle to light mine. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “My dad is late all the time.”

“But he still shows up.” Once my candle is lit, I turn to help Kosta Romas with his. “Which is more than I can say about mine.”

Kosta shrugs. “My dad’s dead.”

Nina says, “And your mom got real good insurance money out of it!”

Kosta nods in earnest and tips his candle toward Matthew Rodriguez.

“My dad’s back from jail,” Matthew adds nonchalantly.

All our voices overlap.

“What?” I utter in disbelief.

“Since when?” Nina asks.

“That’s cool.” Kosta smiles.

Matthew shrugs in response. “Came back yesterday. It was…kind of nice.” A modest smile grazes his lips. “We all got breakfast together this morning and then he helped me put on my tie.”

By now we’ve all zipped up our confirmation robes but I can imagine what Matthew Rodriguez looks like under his. Dapper, if not a little insecure in clothes his grandmother likely tailored for him. And a tie his dad helped him with this afternoon.

Envy burns a hole through my chest and settles like a weight in my stomach. I turn around and follow the procession through the church, intent on abandoning all hope of his arrival.

The ceremony is endless. Nina and I end up flipping through the hymnal and make a game out of finding curse words because sometimes, kids use a black pen to alter the letters. All fifty kids go up to the altar to announce their saint name and the reason behind their choice. We’re a predominantly Hispanic church with a solid cluster of Italians, some Irish, and a sprinkle of Polish and Albanian. The four of us take tallies on the most common confirmation names.

Maria wins by a landslide among the Hispanic, Italian, and Polish girls. To no one’s surprise, Francis is a top contender for the Italian boys but we’re surprised by the number of Polish and Albanian boys who choose Thomas. Matthias is the second runner up. All the Irish boys choose John and the Irish girls choose Agnes.

When it’s my turn to go up to the podium, I feel the overwhelming urge to yank my angel up and rip her into a million pieces. But Father Mark watches me expectantly with a warm smile on his face and I know that if I embarrass the nicest priest to have ever lived, God will strike me dead right here.

“Do you have your index card?” He asks.

I nod and pull it out of my robe pocket. Before I ascend to the altar I stop to bow before the tabernacle and Father Mark helps me onto the podium. This is really silly when you think about it…asking a bunch of 13-year-olds to get on stage and talk in front of a few hundred people. It’s a miracle no one’s passed out yet, although, Evelyn Diaz came pretty close.

I place my index card on the podium and adjust the microphone so I can reach it when I speak. Just as I lift my gaze, I spot my mom in the crowd. She has her phone pressed up against her ear as she walks to the back of the church. She looks out the window before stepping outside and I think I see her wave at someone but the door closes behind her. And then I feel it; blossoming in the pit of my stomach where the dread and envy once lived.

Hope. Relief.

He made it. Late, but he still made it.

“Dahlia?” Father Mark frowns. “Is the mic okay?”