The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(45)

“To tell you the good news of Jesus Christ,” I proclaimed in a loud voice that reverberated from the speakers. Then I said, “Of his vaginal birth . . .”

If I had done the reading at an ordinary Sunday Mass, no one would have cared, but this was not a Sunday Mass made up of an adult congregation. The congregation was grade-school kids who still thought the funniest things in the world were the names given to the male and female sex organs. To say it in church was a mistake on a scale that trumped even ringing the bells at the wrong moment.

The congregation sucked in and held its collective breath, but, like Ernie, I had no intention of allowing this mistake to go unnoticed.

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat and started over as the snickering began. “To tell you the good news of Jesus Christ,” I repeated. “Of his vaginal . . .” I shook my head. “His virginal birth . . .”

That did it. There is nothing more contagious than a suppressed snicker in a church, and Ernie had already warmed up the crowd. Once the giggling started, it spread like a wave and soon became outright laughter. I watched, transfixed, as David Butterfield, a seventh grader sitting at the end of a pew, doubled over in laughter, lost his balance, and tumbled into the center aisle. If saying the word vagina in church was funny, watching a student roll out of a pew was downright hysterical. The nuns popped up from their seats, marching like penguins from one pew to the next, unsuccessfully trying to restore order.

I looked at my mother. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn to her. We had worked so hard for this moment, and she had been so proud. I expected to see abject disappointment and sorrow, but my mother did not look disappointed or even sad—not in the least. She was smiling, a hand covering her mouth to suppress her own laugh.





16

My classmates and I marched in silence from the church narthex into the schoolyard. The nuns remained furious. Sister Beatrice waited until the door to our classroom had slammed shut before she unleashed her verbal assault, and it was a doozy. “Ernie Cantwell, you are a buffoon. And Sam Hill, you are a disgrace to your class, to your school, and to this community. Do not think for a minute I don’t know what happened in there this morning. Do not think for one minute I believe either of you is innocent in any of this. Do you think the church is a stage for your comedic routines? Do you think this was funny?”

“I do.”

For a second, no one reacted. As with the bells in the church, the comment was so foreign I think everyone was trying to decide if they’d heard it. I hadn’t said it, and I knew it wasn’t Ernie. The voice was higher pitched, a girl’s voice. We all turned in unison. Mickie Kennedy sat in the last desk of the first row. “I think it was hilarious, and I say we take a vote,” she said, thrusting her hand into the air. Mickie’s defiance was so brazen, so outrageous, I think most of my classmates forgot the gravity of the situation, because just as suddenly half of them raised their hands.

“Put your hands down!” Sister Beatrice screamed. She wheeled on Mickie but, unable to find words, stood there with her face growing darker shades of red, like a child holding her breath. For one brief moment, I thought her head might explode. “How dare you!” she finally bellowed. “How dare you . . . you . . . you . . .” She looked like one of those robots stuck in a corner that can do nothing but turn and pivot, turn and pivot. Finally, she grabbed the seating chart from Sister Mary Williams’s desk. “How dare you, Miss, Miss, Miss . . .”

“Kennedy,” Mickie said. “Like the president, but we’re not related.”

“Michaela Kennedy!” Sister blurted.

“My name is . . . Mickie,” she corrected. “What are you so mad about? At least Mass wasn’t the same old boring stuff.”

The color drained from Sister Beatrice’s face. She looked as though she might faint. She hurried down the aisle, hovering over Mickie like the witch over Dorothy, apparently unsure where to begin. For some bizarre reason, she chose to say, “We do not use nicknames in this school.”

“Then why does everyone call you Sister Beaver?”

It was Sister Beatrice’s nickname, though I’m not certain when exactly I first heard it. Because of her two prominent front incisors, the older students had dubbed Sister Beatrice Beaver, or Beave for short.

Sister Beatrice yanked Mickie from her seat by the arm, half dragging her out of the room. When the door slammed shut, Ernie and I looked knowingly at each other. Having just acted to save each other, we suspected Mickie, too, had choreographed her actions, though she had taken it a step or two further, something that would become a common occurrence throughout our lifelong friendship. What we didn’t understand was why Mickie had done it. She didn’t owe us anything. In fact, I had largely ignored her, still miffed that she’d taken my place as Ernie’s playground sidekick.

Five minutes after Sister Beatrice departed, one of the laywomen from the office came into our classroom looking harried and confused. “You are to take out your reading books and begin reading in silence,” she said. “If anyone speaks, I am to send you to the principal’s office.”

No one did.

Mickie did not show up on the playground at lunch, nor did she return to the classroom that afternoon. Neither did Sister Beatrice. She’d perhaps forgotten about Ernie’s and my detentions. Mary Beth Potts and Valerie Johnson sat like statues, paralyzed by their fear that I would tell on them. I never did. After school, Ernie and I ran out with our classmates like prisoners on a jailbreak, and we rode as fast as we could until we reached my front yard. When I walked in the front door, I detected an aroma familiar to every child—chocolate-chip cookies. My mother had just taken a tray out of the oven. She placed a plate on the table along with two glasses of milk. The right side of her mouth inched into a grin as she looked from Ernie to me.