Page 11 of No Merciful Corruption

“Yes! Sorry.” I clear my throat and start reading from my index card. “I have chosen the name Victoria, in honor of Saint Victoria, the martyr of Códorba. Her feast day is November 17th. This name is special to me because⁠—”

A loud creaking noise momentarily distracts me. I look up and find Mom at the front of the church and almost smile. Mom startles when I make eye contact and pauses by the church doors. Hands folded in front of her and shoulders slightly slumped, she quickly pulls herself together with a raised chin and firm upper lip. There’s sympathy in her gaze when she shakes her head at me and suddenly, I forget why I even cared so much to begin with.

This name is special to me because I chose it for my father, whose middle name is Victor.

“Because…I liked it.” I crumble up the index card and descend from the podium.

After everyone takes turns announcing their names, we line up with our sponsors who walk us down the aisle to Father Mark. He anoints our foreheads and when the ceremony is over, Principal Cuomo insists on taking a hundred photos for the school newspaper. Lyss breaks alphabetical order to come find me. She quietly slips her hand into mine and squeezes and I know she saw it too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. I didn’t expect much from him anyway.”

The next hour is spent taking photos around the church. Us with our sponsors, teachers, and Father Mark. Vinny Esposito is the only one in our class with an iPhone so he takes a photo of us by the baptismal font. Time passes and the crowd gets smaller and smaller. Students and their families filter out of the church and into the vestibule and then from the vestibule to the front steps. Mom impatiently checks her phone while Lyss and I watch on in silence.

“He’s not coming.” I tell her.

“That’s not true. He’s just running a little late and⁠—”

“A little late? Mom, the ceremony is over!”

“Dahlia,” Giovana’s tone is at once firm and gentle. “Lower your voice.”

“What for? God already knows what I’m thinking. Makes no difference if He hears it too.”

“Dee…” Lyss sighs.

“I’m leaving. We look ridiculous just waiting here when almost everyone is gone. Look around you!” I gesture to the empty church and few stragglers hanging around outside waiting for their rides home. As if on cue, Lyss’s dad pulls up across the street, having brought his car around from where he was parked on Linden Street. All four of her brothers are packed into the back seat but they still made sure to leave room for her. “Everyone is going home. They have actual families that care about them.”

Mom’s cheeks color. “You aren’t being fair. You have a family—I’m your family.”

“We are not a family. I’m a fatherless child and you’re a husbandless wife. A real family is what Alyssa and Giovana have. Look,” I tell her. “Ronan is here, the boys are here. They showed up for Lyss because they actually care about her.”

“And what about me?” She demands. “Don’t I care about you? Am I not enough for you?”

“No!”

I hate today. I hate this church, this robe, and the stupid angel pinned to my chest. I rip it off and toss it to the floor as I storm out of the vestibule and down the church’s front steps.

“Dahlia!” Mom calls after me.

I spin around, equal parts furious and heartbroken. “When are you going to realize that he doesn’t love us? He doesn’t want to be with us. If he did, he would try harder!”

“You are not going to make a scene, nos están mirando⁠—”

“Who cares if they’re looking! Who cares if they’re listening? No!” she tries reaching for me and I smack her hand away. “I’m tired of living like this.”

Mom lets out an exasperated breath and I can’t tell if she’s about to cry or scream. “I don’t know what you want from me, Dahlia. I’m sorry he isn’t here. He said he would be and I’m sorry he isn’t.”

“You did a real good job picking my father. Maybe I’ll get lucky one day and marry a man just like him.”

“¡Cállate, ya!” She exclaims then looks over. “Giovana, Alyssa, we’re leaving. We’ll see you Monday.”

Giovana presses her lips together. “All right…”

“No, I’m not leaving. You said he’d come right? Why don’t we stay and see how long it takes him.”

Maybe it’s cruel of me to subject her to this humiliation on the front steps of our neighborhood church. Maybe one day I’ll feel bad about it and when I’m a grown-up, I’ll have to ask for her forgiveness. But not now. Now, she’s just an easy target. The punching bag I get to hit because the person I really want to be angry with isn’t here and she will unjustly suffer for it.