The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(43)

Arriving at school, I slid the front wheel of my bike into the bike stand and snapped the lock through the tire. Ernie skidded to a stop beside me. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so,” I said.

We walked up the covered breezeway together, and I was certain the eyes of the entire student body were watching me, and that this would be the best day of my life. Then I opened the door to our classroom and froze. The face that wheeled to greet us had not the soft and comforting features of Sister Mary Williams but the laser-precise glare of Sister Beatrice.





14

Ernie stumbled into me, not seeing Sister Beatrice. “What the hell, Sam.”

Our principal’s eyes threw daggers at Ernie. “Detention, Mr. Cantwell. I will not tolerate profanity.”

Ernie’s shoulders sagged, and he stepped past me and found his seat.

“Do you not know where your seat is, Mr. Hill?”

“Yes, Sister. I mean, no, Sister.”

“Then I suggest you find it.”

I took my seat along with my equally depressed classmates.

“Sister Mary Williams is under the weather. I will serve as your substitute. When the bell rings, you will assemble in an orderly fashion and proceed to the church.”

Ernie raised his hand. “Sister, the altar boys need to be at the church early to get set up—”

“Does Sister Mary Williams allow you to speak without permission, Mr. Cantwell?”

“No, Sister.”

“Then I suggest you wait until called upon.”

Ernie sat back.

“Was there something you wanted to ask, Mr. Cantwell?”

“No, Sister.”

“Something about the altar boys having to leave early for church?”

Ernie still did not answer.

“Well, Mr. Cantwell?”

“Whatever . . .”

If the room had not already been deathly silent, this would have been one of those moments when you truly could have heard a pin drop.

“You just earned a second detention, Mr. Cantwell, and I shall be sending a note home to your mother to discuss your insolence.”

“You’re diabetic?” Peter Hammonds asked.

It was an innocent question, I’m sure. Hammonds wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and his vocabulary skills were less than stellar, but Sister Beatrice saw it as a further attack on her authority. “And you will be serving detention with Mr. Cantwell, Mr. Hammonds. Anyone else wish to test my patience?”

No one did.

“Now, who are the altar boys?” Ernie, Matty Montoya, and Billy Fealey raised their hands. Their arms looked like limp noodles. “The altar boys are excused.”

Valerie Johnson then raised her hand and, when called upon, said, “Sister, the altar preparers also need to leave early to set up the church.”

Sister Beatrice dismissed them. As they departed Sister Beatrice turned her attention to me. “I suppose you believe you should be allowed to leave ahead of your classmates as well, Mr. Hill.”

“No, Sister, just the altar boys and the altar preparers.”

“Vanity is a sin,” she said, but it sounded like thin. “Can anyone in the class tell me what vanity is?” This time not even Peter Hammonds would venture a guess. “No one? Vanity is the excessive belief in one’s own abilities or attractiveness. Do you believe you are better than your classmates, Mr. Hill?” Her words hissed at me like a rattler disturbed from sleep. I noticed her eyes were glassy.

I shook my head. “No, Sister.”

“Smarter? More important?”

“No, Sister.”

“Good, then you shall demonstrate your humility by being last in line entering the church.”

When the bell mercifully rang, my classmates and I solemnly lined up against the wall. Sister Beatrice didn’t have to worry about us talking. We marched down the playground to the church like prisoners on a forced death march. Not even the crisp winter air could raise our spirits.

Outside the grand cathedral doors, we waited for the younger grades to parade down the aisle and take their seats. When our line moved forward, Sister Beatrice reached out and put an arm across my path the way my mother did when she had to stop the car suddenly. Her eyes bored into mine, and I could smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Your classmates chose you because they want to see you fail,” she said.





15

As we marched into the church, I became keenly aware of the parents and the rest of the congregation assembled in the pews behind the students in their school uniforms. Valerie Johnson and her cohorts had hung white RESERVED signs on the pews for the students. As we waited for the nuns to ensure the usual boy-girl-boy-girl seating, I saw my mother standing beside Mrs. Cantwell. They smiled at me, but my mother’s smile quickly faded when her eyes shifted to Sister Beatrice. She bowed her head, and her chest heaved. She also must have uttered something audible, because Ernie’s mom turned with a look of alarm and touched my mother’s arm, like people do when they think someone is sick. My mother just closed her eyes and shook her head.

We filed into our designated pews. As I was last, the girl to my left, sitting at the end of the pew nearest the center aisle, was Sister Beatrice. I felt nauseated, and only partly from the smell of alcohol emanating from her. We stood at the first song. Moments later Ernie led the procession up the aisle, carrying the crucifix. Father Killian shuffled forward in his white-and-gold cassock, singing loudly, and ascended to his throne. When the song concluded, he gathered us in Christ’s name and welcomed our parents and the members of the congregation. After leading us in the profession of faith, he sat.