Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(70)

I’d never been to confession, not being Catholic, but I’d seen this on TV. “Sure.”

“Well, after I started telling him everything, he pulled away the partition, so he could see my face. And then he asked my name. They aren’t supposed to do that, are they?”

Suddenly I didn’t notice Sister Ernestine’s progress anymore. All of my attention was focused on Becca. “No, they aren’t. What happened next?”

“Well, then, the priest told me that I was going to burn in hell for having told so many lies, and that the only way I’d be spared was if I came to his office after school so he could personally give me lessons in faith—”

I let out a curse word so blistering Becca wasn’t the only one I shocked.

“Miss Simon!” Sister Ernestine was just a few yards away, her wimple fluttering behind her in the breeze. “May I please have a word with you?”

“In a minute, Sister.” To Becca, I said, “I need the name of that priest.”

“Not in a minute, Miss Simon. Now. Mass will be letting out momentarily and I will not condone—”

“Becca. What was his name?”

“Oh, why?” Becca held both fists to her mouth, looking consternated. “What does it matter? I never went to the stupid faith lessons. I was too afraid. I went home from school that day and told my parents that I hated Sacred Trinity and I’d never go back because the girls there were mean, and my parents let me transfer to—”

Thank God. Her poor, clueless parents had done one thing right, at least. “I need the name of that priest right now, Becca.”

“Why? Am I in trouble? Are you going to go talk to him?”

“No, you’re not in trouble. If I talk to him, I’ll keep your name out of it. Now what was his name?”

“Father Francisco,” Becca whispered, staring down at her lap. It was covered in the strips of tissue that she’d nervously shredded. “It was Father Francisco.”

“Thanks.” Before I stood up, I carefully plucked Becca’s glasses from the milkweed into which she’d thrown them. In a louder tone, I said, “Well, I think that’s enough for one day, don’t you, Becca? Becca and I were just discussing The Scarlet Letter, Sister Ernestine, which she’s currently reading for English class.”

“Were you?” Sister Ernestine asked, panting as she reached us at last. “I was unaware that we were now holding tutoring sessions in the courtyard.”

“I think it’s a refreshing change. Studies show that exposure to nature helps people feel more energized, which heightens their sense of well-being and causes them to retain more information.”

“That may well be true.” Sister Ernestine stared at Becca with the same laserlike intensity I’d often seen Romeo focus on a piece of fruit I was holding in front of him. “But it won’t be good for Miss Walters’s well-being if she falls behind on her studies, and the bell for second period has rung, so I think she’d better return to class.”

“Oh, yes, of course. It was nice talking to you, Becca. Remember everything I said. You really should think about having a chat with your dad. And maybe your stepmom, too. She’s not so bad.” I wasn’t sure about that last part, of course, but it seemed like a therapeutic thing to say.

Becca eyed me skeptically as she gathered up her things. “Okay. Maybe I will. Thanks, Ms. Simon.”

“Don’t forget these.” I held out her glasses.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t need them.” She didn’t add the word anymore, but it hung in the air like one of the many gold-and-black-winged monarch butterflies, tantalizingly close.

She turned and walked away. I’m sure it was only my imagination that she seemed to be standing a little taller than before.

If so, it was probably only temporary. She’d been through so much. She’d never “get over it,” an expression some patients liked to cling to like a life raft. When am I going to get over this crippling sense of guilt I have that I’m responsible for my best friend’s murder, Doctor? There would be no getting over what Becca had been through. “Moving on” was what Dr. Jo like to call it.

Which was funny because it’s what we mediators called it, too.

“What,” Sister Ernestine said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth so that if Becca looked back at us, we wouldn’t appear to speaking about her, “was that about?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” This, at least, was the truth. “If I could tell you, which I can’t. She thinks of me as her guidance counselor. So I have a professional obligation to keep everything she told me confidential.”

“Hmmm,” Sister Ernestine said as she continued to observe Becca’s progress across the courtyard. “Are you aware of your professional obligation to keep from cursing at and threatening our students and faculty, Miss Simon? Because Ms. Temple has filed a formal complaint against you for doing so. Apparently you terrified her first-period geometry class earlier today.”

I swallowed. “I’m also aware there’s an exception to the rule of student–guidance counselor confidentiality: when the counselor becomes aware of a situation that might put other students at risk.”

Sister Ernestine’s pale gray eyebrows rose. “Other students? What other students? Please tell me this doesn’t involve Sean Park. I know he and Becca Walters are lab partners in chemistry class. That boy is far too intelligent for his own good. I knew he was up to something. Miss Simon, we can’t afford this kind of thing, not now with what happened yesterday to Father Dominic at that girl’s house. Her father is a major donor.”