"Last school Ma.s.s," Wally says.

"Can't say I'm b.u.mmed about it," Hannah says.

Father Simon closes his eyes as he walks in during the procession. The music group sings one of their favorite contemporary Christian songs, but none of the people in the bleachers with Hannah sing along. Wally stands with his hands in his pockets, his eyes glazed over as he stares out over the sea of cla.s.smates below them.

Hannah listens to the readings with mild interest, but mostly she counts the number of juniors across the gym who have their eyes closed. She picks out Joanie sitting on the end of a row with her head in her hand.

Then the music group sings the "Alleluia," and Father Simon walks to the portable wooden lectern to proclaim the Gospel reading. Hannah choruses "Amen" with the rest of the living bodies in the gym, and then Father Simon tucks the liturgical book away and places his hands firmly on the edges of the lectern.

"Good morning," he says in his robust voice.

"Good morning," the hundreds of people around the gym respond.

"I had originally written a homily intended for our Senior Cla.s.s friends, since this is their last all-school Ma.s.s at St. Mary's-" Father Simon looks over toward the senior cla.s.s and smiles-"but I felt I could not ignore an issue that has come to the forefront of our national conversation lately, and which begs us to meet it with compa.s.sionate-but firm-truth. And then I realized, Seniors, that this was the perfect thing to talk about in my homily today, as it exemplifies the hard questions you will be met with as you leave St. Mary's and enter into the real world as faithful, educated, Catholic adults. This is the first of many times that you will be tested in your faith, and in your understanding of morality, as you attempt to balance G.o.d's eternal truth with the reality of the world we live in.

"Yesterday," Father Simon says, "the president made a statement that challenges our beliefs about what's right and what's wrong, and about the kind of culture we want to promote in this country."

Hannah's heart starts drilling so fast that she can hardly breathe. Her palms and underarms sweat. Searing heat flares up beneath the skin of her face. Across the gym, Joanie sits straight-backed on the bleachers.

"Yesterday, our president said that he supports 'same-s.e.x marriage.'" Father Simon pauses with his fingers still pulled over the air in a quote-making gesture. He pulls his plump lips into his mouth and stares down at the surface of the lectern.

"Students, I know you know, from your theology cla.s.ses and from your interactions with our faith community, that marriage-Holy Matrimony-is an ordained act between a man and a woman. The sacrament of Holy Matrimony is one of the most precious gifts our G.o.d has given us-as old as Adam and Eve, yet constantly renewed and reflected by Christ's love for His bride, the Church. It is a sacrament that we celebrate, that we honor, and that we want to protect. The s.e.xual union that takes place within marriage leads to increased love between partners and, with G.o.d's blessing, to life.

"Now. Forgive me for repeating that which you already know. But I offer you this reminder if only to contrast this truth with the statement our president made yesterday. Same-s.e.x marriage cannot exist because it is an oxymoron in and of itself, and because it undermines the very sanct.i.ty of Holy Matrimony.

"But there is an even more insidious side to political statements like this one, and it is precisely this snakelike temptation that I want you to watch for as you move beyond St. Mary's. In this case, the president's insidious suggestion was meant to trick us into thinking that Christ has nothing bigger in store for our h.o.m.os.e.xual brothers and sisters than a false, culturally-approved but eternally-unsound imitation of a marriage-that they might as well give up on their principles, give up on their conviction of right versus wrong, and settle for a sham-settle for something less-than.

"It is a lie," Father Simon roars, clasping his hands together and pointing them beseechingly at the student body, "that Christ wants his h.o.m.os.e.xual children to settle for this kind of life. It is a lie that He cannot renew them, cannot fulfill them, cannot call them to a life in the Church. We all have our Crosses to carry, we must all suffer with our Lord, but to reject the promise of our salvation is to live half a life. To live brokenly. To live in sin, separated from our loving G.o.d.

"G.o.d wants more than that for His children. He wants all of you to walk with Him in faith, and to reject shameful imitations of His love, and to lead all of your brothers and sisters into a family of faith so we can worship our Creator and Savior. He wants the absolute fullness of life for you, and sometimes that means rejecting the empty promises that society-"

There is a commotion on the other side of the gym. Hannah whips her head up, her face still searing with heat, to see Ms. Carpenter thundering down the first four rows of the bleachers, her heels pounding, her heavy brown hair flying behind her, her angry expression visible even from Hannah's vantage point. Father Simon looks up politely, expectantly, as if Ms. Carpenter might interrupt him to say that someone has gotten sick or fainted, but she thunders straight past the row of curious juniors on the ground floor and huffs toward the exit doors. Just before she disappears around the corner of the bleachers, she sweeps her hand across a card table and knocks a stack of Ma.s.s programs off the top. They swish to the gymnasium floor with that uncomfortable landing sound that Hannah a.s.sociates with someone dropping a book in a library. Then Ms. Carpenter shoves her hands against the exit bar of the gym doors-there's the loud echo of flesh hitting metal-and is gone from the gym.

Father Simon sputters and flushes red at the lectern. He settles his eyes on something over in the soph.o.m.ore section, and following his line of sight, Hannah sees Mrs. Shackleford pursing her lips and folding her hands over her dress. The student body starts to murmur and gossip; everywhere around Hannah, people shift in their seats and whisper behind their hands and drop curse words under their breath. Wally side-eyes Hannah and says, "The h.e.l.l was that about?"

Father Simon calls for everyone's attention and wraps up his homily with short, jarring sentences. The music group plays a song during the Preparation of the Gifts and a dull normalcy settles over the gym again. Father Simon plods through the Consecration as if nothing has gone amiss, but his face stays a bright red color and his hands shake when he raises the Host above the altar.

Hannah stands to join the Communion line with her hands clasped in front of her and her heartbeat still faster than normal. She receives the Body of Christ from Father Simon without looking into his eyes.

When she has settled back onto the bleachers, Wally wraps his hand around hers. His warm skin meets her clammy palms and she twitches in her seat. Wally smiles, mistaking her twitch for embarra.s.sment. "I don't mind," he whispers.

Below them, on the floor of the gymnasium, Baker stands behind Clay in the Communion line. Her Oxford shirt fits loosely on her back-looser than it ever did before. She takes Communion and pivots to climb the bleachers back to her seat, her eyes trained on the steps in front of her. As she climbs higher, coming closer to Hannah's row, Hannah gets her first good look at her since Sat.u.r.day night. Her skin looks ashen; her eyes loom much larger in her gaunt face; her hair looks thinner. She pa.s.ses by Hannah's row on slender, unsteady legs, and Hannah's heart wants to climb the rest of the bleachers with her.

She's not sure what prompts her to do it. Maybe it's Joanie's warning echoing in her head. Maybe it's the image of Baker climbing the bleachers after Communion. Maybe it's the instinct in her stomach.

She drives to Baker's house at ten o'clock that night.

I'm outside your house, she texts. Come out and talk to me or I'm going to pound on your front door and tell your mom everything.

The curtains in Baker's window move aside, and Hannah can see her, her skinny outline lit from behind.

Hannah's standing on the driveway when Baker slips out the garage door.

"What is wrong with you?" Baker whisper-shouts, her eyes bulging, her hair hanging in lank strands around her face.

"I need to talk to you."

"So you threaten to tell my mom everything?"

"You know I wouldn't do that. But I had to talk to you."

"I don't have time for this," Baker says, looking away from her. "My AP Bio exam is tomorrow."

"You need to talk to someone," Hannah says, her voice pleading. "You're making yourself sick."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. I've known you for four years and you've never looked the way you look right now. Please, Bake. You could talk to Ms. Carpenter. You saw how she reacted at Ma.s.s today. You know she can't believe all that stuff Father Simon was saying."

Baker says nothing. The garage lights stream down onto her gaunt face, making her dark eyes look bigger than ever.

"I know you have to be thinking about it," Hannah says. "I've been thinking about it, too. Whether he's right."

"Of course he's right," Baker rasps, her eyes glistening.

"What if he's not?"

Baker shakes her head. "Don't," she says, swallowing visibly in the white light. "Don't. It's not a possibility. None of this is a possibility-"

"We can make it a possibility-"

"Don't," Baker says, stepping back from her, her eyes large and wet. She shakes her head and swallows hard. "We can't, Hannah. We can't."

"What about the beach?" Hannah says desperately. "What about everything that happened?"

"I meant it," Baker cries, rubbing her hands feverishly up and down her arms. "I meant every word I said to you. It's killing me not to talk to you. You have to believe me that it is. But Hannah, there's no alternative. You heard Father Simon today. You heard what he said about people like us. And everyone believes that, Hannah. Even if they say they don't, deep down they really do. We don't have a choice. I mean, if we tried to-G.o.d, my parents would never look at me again-"

"Talk to Ms. Carpenter," Hannah begs. "Please. You know she's always told us the truth."

"I have to go."

"Baker, please-" Hannah calls.

But Baker hurries back into the garage and disappears into her house without another word.

Hannah drives to City Park. Though she would normally sit in her car, tonight she roams onto the golf course and lies on her back beneath the sky. She raises her hand into the humid air and imagines that she can stir it with her fingers, like a child discovering paint for the first time.

"I'm here to talk to you," she tells the sky.

The leaves on the oak trees tickle with the breeze. The earth buzzes with insects and secrets, and Hannah listens carefully, wanting to know what they say.

"Tell me what to do," she says. "Tell me what's right. I can't sort the bulls.h.i.t from the truth."

The stars sit still in the overwhelming sky. Hannah narrows her eyes, trying to determine the colors she sees, but she can't distinguish blue from black. The ma.s.s of the sky is impenetrable.

Father Simon's words wrap themselves about her heart. She thinks about Christ. How she'd like to lay everything down at his feet. "Here you go," she'd say, dropping everything down like a pile of wood. "You gave me this, and I have no idea what to do with it."

Then she'd take out a key, a big, clunky, golden key, and she'd reach to unlock her heart with it. Her heart would open up and all kinds of wondrous things would come spilling out-maybe rushing forth like a powerful waterfall, or maybe fluttering out like a gentle b.u.t.terfly. "Here it is," she'd tell him. "Everything that's in my heart, for you and me to see."

She'd ask him to stand in her kitchen when Baker came over to hang out. She'd have him witness Baker's laughter, her smile, her kind heart, her vulnerability. Baker wouldn't see him, but he would see everything: the goodness of her heart and the light in her eyes. And afterwards, Hannah would ask him, "How could I not love her?"

She'd ask him about the other people. The ones like her, the ones unlike her. "There are so many people who make me hate myself," she'd say. "Who make me feel ashamed. They claim to know what you want. They say I'm turning away from you if I fall in love with a girl. Is it true?"

He'd glide along, the giant of mankind who calmed the waves with his hand, the heart of humanity who loved the lepers and the prost.i.tutes, the silent spirit of Christmas Future, the gentle silver doe, the quiet lamb.

"Please," she'd beg him. "Please tell me."

Maybe he still wouldn't give her an answer, and she'd tell him this was all bulls.h.i.t. Surely he should know why he made her the way she is. Surely he should know why her heart beats the way it does. If he knows every hair on her head, why can he not recognize the truth of her heart?

"Please," Hannah cries, sitting up on her knees and sobbing to the sky. She chokes, shudders, blinks away the tears. "Please, either help me or take this away from me. I don't want this anymore."

But her stormy heart does not settle. Her muscles do not relax. She looks at the stars and wonders why G.o.d made them so good, so brilliant, but made her so wrong and broken. Her eyes spill over with tears and her throat burns. She pounds her fists into the earth, into the gra.s.s and the soil, and emits an animal-like cry from the depths of her body.

"Please," she sobs, digging her hands into the soil. "Please."

She wakes Friday morning with a pit in her stomach. She walks to the window and lifts it open, and the humid air collects on her skin. The fragile light of early morning stretches across the sky and the birds sing to each other about its promise. Hannah leaves the window open, though her parents would chide her about letting the air conditioning out, and walks to the bathroom to wash her face.

She enjoys an easy morning with no exams, and the lack of stress allows her to forget about her venture to Baker's house and the park the night before. During second block, in Ms. Carpenter's cla.s.s, they talk about how the AP Literature exam went for them, but no one dares to hint at Ms. Carpenter's behavior during Ma.s.s the previous day. Hannah relaxes and talks easily with her cla.s.smates, for once not distracted by Baker's presence, as Baker is sitting for her AP Biology exam in the gym.

Mr. Manceau interrupts with a knock on the door halfway through the cla.s.s period. Ms. Carpenter steps into the hall and closes the door behind her, and Hannah's cla.s.smates trade knowing looks with each other.

Mr. Manceau shuffles into the room a minute later. He leans against the whiteboard and folds his arms over his protruding stomach. "Ms. Carpenter has to go take care of something," he says, breathing heavily beneath his black mustache. "I'll be here with you until the end of the period. So get on back to work now."

"What does Ms. Carpenter have to take care of?"

"Don't you be worrying about that, Collins," Mr. Manceau says. His beady eyes gleam with satisfaction. "Just get on back to work. Well? Why aren't y'all pullin' out your workbooks?"

"We don't have any work to do," Collins says. "We had our exam yesterday."

Mr. Manceau huffs and swivels his eyes to the ceiling, as if begging for patience. "Why am I not surprised," he mutters under his breath. Hannah and her cla.s.smates wait on bated breath for him to continue, but he merely claps his hands together and says, "Well, in that case, each one of y'all needs to write me an essay about the things you've learned in this cla.s.s this year."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, Davies, I'm serious. And watch your mouth."

"How long does it have to be?"

"Are you kidding me right now? Have you not made it to the 12th grade? It needs to be as long as it needs to be."

Hannah and her cla.s.smates roll their eyes and begrudgingly pull out loose-leaf paper and pens. Hannah makes eye contact with a few of the people around her-Emily, Christina, Josh-as if to check with them: Are we really doing this?

"Are you going to read these?" Christina asks.

Mr. Manceau widens his eyes to signal that she has asked a good question. "I don't know if I will..." he says slowly, "but there are people who might be interested in reading them, I would think."

Hannah glares at him from her desk. Mr. Manceau pays no attention: he starts examining his nails, then chewing on them with short, aggressive bites.

Hannah takes pen to paper and writes a t.i.tle across the top of the page: A Condensed Summary of the Material* I Have Learned from the Best Teacher in This School. She then drops her pen to the bottom of the page and writes, below the margin, *Note that I am limiting this summary to academic material. I could never capture everything Ms. Carpenter has taught me about everything else.

Mr. Manceau stretches his neck against the whiteboard while the cla.s.sroom of students writes in silence. Hannah's hand races across her paper, writing Hurston's dialect technique in Their Eyes Were Watching G.o.d and the influence of colonization on "ethnic" literature and the importance of questioning the narrator.

Ms. Carpenter never returns.

The senior courtyard buzzes with talk when Hannah goes to lunch. Joanie intercepts her before she can sit down, pulling her into a spare corner away from the tables.

"Han-" Joanie says. Her expression is frantic; her eyes dart all over the courtyard, checking to make sure no one can overhear them.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you-have you heard what people are saying?"

"No?"

Joanie pulls her lips into her mouth and turns her head to check behind them. In a hushed voice, she asks, "Did you know Ms. Carpenter is in the front office?"

"Yeah, Manceau came to our cla.s.s and pulled her out-Joanie, what's wrong? Is she getting fired?"

"Hannah-"

"What? What is it?"

"Did you send her that e-mail?"

"What e-mail?"

"Someone sent Ms. Carpenter an e-mail. And she replied to it."

"So?"

Joanie swallows. "The e-mail was about-it was about all that stuff Father Simon ranted about yesterday-the person who wrote it said she was confused about her feelings for her friend-"

All the breath goes out of Hannah. Her limbs start to tingle. "How do you know this?"

"Everyone's talking about it-Michele overheard the front office staff whispering about it during her work study-she got a copy of the e-mail and she's showing it to people-"

"Jesus Christ."

"Hannah," Joanie says tentatively, "you really didn't-?"