Chapter 12 Good Friday
GOOD FRIDAY
On Thursday, a few minutes after the end of Hannah’s AP Literature exam, the bell signals for late-morning assembly. Hannah files into the gym amongst hordes of people and spots Wally sitting a dozen rows up in the bleachers, patting the empty seat next to him.
“Last school Mass,” he says when she reaches him.
“Can’t say I’m bummed about it,” Hannah says.
Father Simon closes his eyes as he walks in during the procession. The music group sings one of their favorite contemporary Christian songs, but very few people near Hannah sing along. Wally stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes glazed over and mind elsewhere.
Hannah listens to the readings with mild interest, but mostly she counts the number of juniors across the gym who have their eyes closed. She picks out Joanie sitting on the end of a row, fiddling with the split ends of her hair.
Then the music group sings the “Alleluia,” and Father Simon steps up to the portable wooden lectern to proclaim the Gospel reading.
Hannah choruses “Amen” with the rest of the living bodies in the gym, and then Father Simon tucks the liturgical book away and places his hands firmly on the edges of the lectern.
“Good morning,” he says in his robust voice.
“Good morning,” the hundreds of people respond dutifully.
“I had originally prepared a homily that honors our senior class friends, since this is their last all-school Mass at St. Mary’s”—Father Simon looks over toward them and smiles courteously—“but yesterday, something happened that stirred my heart. I feel I can no longer ignore an issue that has come to the forefront of our national conversation, an issue which begs us to meet it with compassionate—but firm—truth. And then I realized, seniors, that this was the perfect thing to talk about in my homily today, because it exemplifies the hard questions you will face as you leave St. Mary’s and go out to meet the world as faithful, educated, Catholic adults.
This is the first of many times that you will be tested in your faith, and in your understanding of morality, as you attempt to balance God’s eternal truth with the reality of the world we live in.
“Yesterday,” Father Simon says bracingly, “the president made a statement that challenges our beliefs about what’s right and what’s wrong, and about the kind of culture we want to promote in our country.”
Hannah’s heart stops.
No no no no no—
Then her heart starts sprinting away, and her palms get clammy, and her armpits are drenched with sweat, and her face is searing red, and she’s dizzy, and she has to remind herself to breathe—
“Yesterday, our president stated that he supports ‘same-sex marriage.’”
Across the gym, Joanie’s back goes rigid. A rustling undercurrent sweeps through the student body, and suddenly everyone seems to be unusually alert and engaged. Father Simon clearly notices the shift, and Hannah knows he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth.
“Students, I know you know, from your theology classes and your interactions with our faith community, that marriage is an ordained act between one man and one woman. The sacrament of holy matrimony is one of the most precious gifts our God has given us—as old as Adam and Eve, yet constantly renewed and reflected by Christ’s love for His bride, the Church.
The sexual union that takes place within marriage leads to increased love between partners and, with God’s blessing, to life.
This is why we celebrate, honor, and fiercely protect this sacrament.
Politicians, movie stars, and drag queens can beat their heads against the wall all they want, but there is no overturning God’s original design for mankind.
You know this. Or at least, I pray you do.
But the truly insidious thing about statements like yesterday’s is that they trick you, just as the serpent did, into thinking God doesn’t know what He’s doing, and that perhaps we know better!
Are we truly supposed to believe that Christ has nothing bigger in store for our homosexual brothers and sisters?
That they might as well give up their principles and convictions to settle for something less than?
We all have our crosses to carry, but it is a LIE that Christ wants any of His children to settle for a life of sin!
It is a lie that He cannot renew you, cannot fulfill you, cannot call you to a life of chastity in the Church! Our God is a loving God, and He—”
BANG. STOMP. BANG.
Hannah jerks her head up.
A resounding, thundering crash—a commotion across the gym—
STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.
Ms. Carpenter is storming down the bleachers, heels pounding, hair flying, entire being crackling with rage—
Students are rustling, craning their necks—
Faculty are getting to their feet, worried that something is wrong—
Ms. Carpenter is on the ground floor—she is thundering past a row of juniors—
Father Simon looks up expectantly, as if Ms. Carpenter might interrupt to say someone has fainted—
But no—she barrels past him toward the double doors, furiously knocking over a basket of song sheets as she goes—a gasp reverberates around the gym—
Ms. Carpenter shoves the Exit bar with all her might—an echo of flesh pounding metal—the whip of her dress around the corner—
And then she is gone.
One sharp, shimmering moment of silence, and then—
The gym erupts.
It’s like a switch has flipped, and suddenly the quiet school Mass has devolved into a chaotic town hall.
People are standing up, trying to get a better look at the double doors; one of Hannah’s fellow seniors shouts, “Bro, where’d she go?
” so loudly that it echoes; everyone is turning around in their seats, gossiping about what just happened, already trading rumors.
Even the teachers have given up all pretense: Mr. Creary, sitting two rows away from Hannah, blatantly turns to the girls behind him and says, “Okay, fill me in, what am I missing?” while Madame Fleurs ditches the freshmen to gossip with Senor Valdez in the seniors section.
Mrs. Shackleford springs into action, rushing to grab a microphone and shush them all, while Mr. Manceau barks at the music students to pick up the scattered song sheets.
Father Simon remains motionless at the lectern, his mouth hanging open, his fleshy face burning red.
Then he swoops over to Mrs. Shackleford and starts throwing a fit, gesticulating wildly toward the Exit doors.
“The hell was that about?” Wally mutters.
Breathe, Hannah tells herself. While everyone around her leans into the chaos, Hannah carefully scans the bleachers for a sign of Baker.
She finally spots her several rows up and over, sitting beside Clay, straight-backed and unblinking.
In that moment, more than ever, Hannah feels a pull so strong that it makes her stomach hurt.
It’s just us, right?
It’s a full five minutes before Mrs. Shackleford reestablishes order.
Father Simon plods through the Consecration as if nothing has gone amiss, but his face remains red and his hands shake when he raises the Host in the air.
Hannah joins the Communion line and receives the bread without looking him in the eye.
When she sits down again, Wally wraps his hand around hers. His warm skin meets her clammy palm and she twitches in her seat. Wally smiles, mistaking her twitch for embarrassment. “I don’t mind,” he whispers.
Below them, on the gym floor, Baker stands behind Clay in the Communion line.
Her movements are shaky. Her Oxford shirt is too loose on her back.
As she climbs the bleachers back to her seat, Hannah gets her first good look at her since Saturday night.
Baker’s skin is ashen; her eyes loom large in her face; her hair looks thinner.
She passes by Hannah’s row on skinny, unsteady legs, and Hannah’s heart wants nothing more than to climb the rest of the bleachers with her.
She’s not sure what prompts her to do it. Maybe it’s Joanie’s warning echoing in her head. Maybe it’s the image of Baker climbing the bleachers after Communion. Maybe it’s the instincts screaming inside her body.
She drives to Baker’s house at ten o’clock that night.
I’m outside your house, she texts. Come talk to me or I’m going to pound on your front door and tell your mom everything.
The curtains in Baker’s window twitch. A minute later, she slips through the garden gate and meets Hannah in the driveway, looking frenzied enough to fight her.
“What is wrong with you?” Baker hisses, her eyes bulging.
Hannah stares her down. “Really? You want to know what’s wrong with me?”
Baker falters, and Hannah takes advantage of the opening.
“You’re not well, Baker. You look sick and exhausted and like you might drop over any second—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re destroying yourself. And I don’t care if you cut me out or pretend like I never existed, but I’m not going to stand by and let you self-destruct. You need to talk to someone. A counselor, or another adult.”
Baker scoffs, but Hannah can see she’s holding back tears.
“You could talk to Ms. Carpenter,” she plows on. “You saw how she reacted at Mass today. You know she can’t believe all that stuff Father Simon was saying.”
Her heart starts racing when she mentions it, because this is it, isn’t it? The thing they promised they would never talk about. The crux of it all. She knows Baker feels it, too, because she rubs a shaking hand across her mouth and refuses to look at Hannah.
“I know you have to be thinking about it,” Hannah says, softer now. “Whether he’s right.”
“Of course he’s right,” Baker rasps, her eyes glistening.
“What if he’s not?”
“Don’t,” Baker says, shaking her head manically. “Don’t go there, Han. We can’t.”