Outrun the Moon(39)

My heart grinds to a halt at the revelation. She remembered the false name I gave her? Her pronunciation wasn’t bad, either. What will happen when she receives the letter back as undeliverable? It will take a few months, but when the ax falls, my neck will be under it. I might have satisfied my end of the bargain with Monsieur Du Lac, but it seems my education here will never be secure.

“You will not make a mockery of my school, do you understand?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” I croak.

With that, she sweeps imperiously away.

The coolness of the chapel soothes my burning face, though not my pride, which longs for a hole to climb into. I hobble to the confession box, which is as near to a hole that I am going to find, and nearly collapse onto the kneeler.

Father Goodwin’s well-drawn profile shows through the wood screen. Why bother with the divider? I am certain he’s heard every word of Headmistress Crouch’s tongue-lashing.

I cross myself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asks in his soothing voice.

“About a year . . . or two.” I decide not to compound the sins with more lies.

“And how do you wish to unburden yourself?”

“I snuck off the school’s premises last night,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but back in Chinatown—I mean China . . . we often refer to China as Chinatown—I used to go wherever I pleased. I am used to my independence.”

“I understand. It cannot be easy coming here.”

“Yes.” I rest my head against the screen, thankful to find someone who understands.

“Do you know your Ten Commandments? Those are God’s rules for keeping us safe and on the path. See the parallel?”

“Yes, but—” I bite my tongue. I should leave well enough alone. One cannot go offending a priest. He has friends in high places.

“But?” he urges me on.

But if I never ventured off the path, I would not be here today. “I don’t wish to be impertinent, but sometimes I believe that staying on the path is easier for some than others.” I fear the tears coming again, and I dig my fingernails into my knees.

“How do you mean, child?”

“Sometimes, when someone tells me I can’t do something, it makes me want to do it more. My ma blames it on my bossy cheeks.” Not even being bitten by a lingcod could teach me. Ma told me to hold it by the tail, but I had no idea they could bite through a canvas sack.

“Well, it is good to be aware of our weaknesses.”

I sniff loudly and wipe my nose with the only thing I have—my sleeve. “Sometimes I don’t see it as a weakness. Sometimes I see it as one of my finer qualities.”

When I applied for a job at the cemetery, Mr. Mortimer told me people did not want to see a yellow face while mourning, but I proved him wrong. Most found another human face comforting, and it didn’t matter what color—yellow, brown, white, or indigo—only that someone cared.

Father makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle. “An American poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, wrote, ‘Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.’”

“I like that one.”

“Yes, but I don’t believe Emerson was talking about delinquency. Rules are meant to keep us safe. You must think of Headmistress Crouch as your protector. Am I correct in assuming you are repentant for your behavior?”

I slump to rest my backside on my heels. “Yes, Father.”

“I am glad to hear it. Is there anything else you wish to confess?”

“No.”

“All right, then. For your penance, I invite you to weed the herb garden adjacent to the chapel. While you weed, I would like you to think about uprooting the sins from your own life.”

“Thank you, Father.”

I could be weeding for a long time.



The late morning sun washes the herb garden with thin light. I am thankful to be spared returning to class, but my back is now drenched in sweat. My knees creak as I unfold myself from where I’m squatting by the parsley and move to the shade of a vast orange tree.

Girls have gathered around the goldfish fountain with plates of sandwiches and pitchers of tea. They are too busy, or hungry, to notice me. Except for one.

I see Francesca watching me. She looks as if she’s about to come over, but then disappears into the group of uniforms huddled under the umbrellas.

Who knew it was possible for me to become even more unpopular than when I got here?

I kneel on the ground and poke my spade at a stalk with thin leaves. Is it a weed, or something more valuable? But what is a weed, other than a plant that’s out of place through no fault of its own? Just like those buildings on Market Street, weeds are survivors. Long after all the other plants die, weeds live on.

But not this one. I dig out the stalk and jam it into a canvas sack with its brethren.

“Oh dear, I think you just pulled up the tarragon.” Francesca stands above me, holding two glasses of iced tea.

I rub my forehead with my apron. “Will it land me in the talk box again?”

“Hold these. This one’s for you.” She hands me the glasses and kneels beside me.

“Thanks.” I take a sip. Ma says cold things sap energy from the spleen, weakening the constitution. But this tea, both lemony and sweet, feels so good on my throat that I down the whole glass in one draw.