This Will Only Hurt a Little(27)
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I have strong sperm. Whatever, Busy. Prove that it was mine.”
I slammed the receiver down and ran out of the restaurant and up the street. I just wanted to get the fuck away from everything and everyone. Kendra ran after me and grabbed me and we tumbled to the ground and both cried on the side of Shea Boulevard, as cars whizzed past us. After that, Becca was okay with me dating Shawn Harris. Not happy about it, but okay with it. I avoided Ben at school, which wasn’t that hard.
Toward the end of the school year, my French teacher announced that she would be taking a small group of students on a two-week tour around Europe in June. Kate and I both decided we should go. Our parents agreed. I think my parents were rightfully not looking forward to the summer with me. I was dreading my due date and would be glad to be out of the country for it. I still cried regularly in bed at night, sure not only that I had murdered a baby but that I was also going to hell. How would God ever forgive me? How would my own father? How would I?
Our tour of Europe was only about ten kids from my high school. In every town and every city we visited, we would be taken to the cathedral in the center of town. And in every single one, I would light a candle and pray for forgiveness. Pray for my baby. Pray that God would allow me to have beautiful children in the future. Sometimes I would cry, and Kate would wait patiently for me in the pews until I was finished, and then we would go explore with the rest of the group and buy chocolate and postcards to send home before getting back on the bus and continuing on.
Our teacher was very cool about letting us drink so we could truly experience “European living”; after all, we were almost sixteen. I felt such freedom walking around these beautiful old cities with my friends, having coffees and gelato in cafés and wine in the afternoon, visiting places we had only read about and seen in movies (basically just The Sound of Music!). In Florence, we met up with my aunt—my mom’s sister—who was living there at the time. She came to meet us at our hotel, ate breakfast with us, and smoked about a million cigarettes. I could tell my French teacher was impressed with her worldliness, and I felt cool that I was related to her, even if we didn’t really have much of a relationship because of my mom’s complicated feelings about her.
By the time we got to Rome, we were tired, but I was feeling pretty good. Our first morning there, we visited the Colosseum and Kate and I took pictures standing and smiling where all the tourists do. Then it was off to the Vatican. When we arrived, our tour guide turned to us and said in his cheerful Italian accent, “Oh. It seems there is extra security today! Bags open, everyone!”
Everyone went through one by one, but I was stopped by a security guard. There was conferring back and forth in Italian with another guard, and my teacher called our tour guide back to intervene.
“He says you mustn’t go in! We have a bit of a problem here. Let’s see . . .”
He then explained that I was wearing overalls, really nice cream overalls that I had borrowed from Emily (of course) for the trip. Overalls are not allowed in the Vatican. It’s a rule that has something to do with farmers not going to church in dirty overalls or something. Honestly, I have no idea. But we didn’t know what to do. We weren’t close to our hotel. I couldn’t change into anything. And I had to see the Vatican!! After a bit of discussion, the tour guide came back to the little group that was waiting with me while everyone else had gone in ahead.
“Okay. We maybe have a solution! Does anyone have a sweater???”
Kate pulled one out of her backpack and waved it around. “I do! I have a sweater!!”
“Okay! So, Miss Busy, you just put the sweater on and it must remain on the whole time inside, okay? Are we good??”
I pulled Kate’s sweater on over my head, the guards gave us a nod of approval, and in we went. As soon as we entered the Vatican, I was awed by not only the sheer size and beauty but also the number of people crushing in there. We could barely see anything. Someone in front of us turned around.
“The Pope is here!!!!!”
The Pope? THE Pope? Pope John Paul II? THAT Pope???
I grabbed Kate’s hand. “Come on. We’re getting a picture for my grandma.”
And around we scooted, weaving through the hundreds of people all clamoring to do the exact same thing. We made our way to the right side of the church and pushed forward. At some point I lost Kate, but I kept moving ahead, determined. This was it. I was about three people deep behind the rope. There was lots of jostling and shoving, but I kept pressing forward.
Then something insane happened. Well, a few things actually. A woman turned around, looked me straight in the face, and said, “Go! You need this more than I do.”
And with that she grabbed me and shoved me in front of her. You already know I clearly don’t have the best balance. I fell forward as the man who was in front of the woman stepped to the side. I would have fallen to the ground, but someone from the other side of the rope grabbed my right arm, the arm where I wore the little ball chains I’d bought at the hardware store with my dad and wrapped around like a bracelet because I thought it made me look punk rock and cool. It was a large security guard. He pulled me up, and just like that, I was face-to-face with Pope John Paul II. Inches from him in fact. I was staring into his eyes.
“Es Deutches?”
I shook my head.
“No. I’m—”