I had to write a short story for my english 102 class. It’s actually kind of a neat idea. My teacher had us all bring three ideas of places that could accomodate several different kinds of people whom we could tell different stories about, yet still be based around the same place. One class before us had chosen a bar, which I thought was pretty cute. We chose ‘catholic confessions” in which our characters would each tell a story while confessing to a priest. It should be pretty interesting and funny. Then we all had to create our characters. After writing basic stuff about our characters on a worksheet, she copied them all and made packets out of them so that each student could use the other students’ characters in our story as well, though it should be based on our character. My character is the only one under the age of 25, she is 11, so mine will be very different. I thought that I would provide the story. Feel free to comment on it and make suggestions as to how it could be better. Our class is based on short stories and one of the collections we have to read is Let the Dead Bury Their Dead by
Randall Kenan. 
Some of the stories are really interesting and others are boring and confusing. My favorite so far is “Run, Mourner, Run.” It’s about a gay white boy who seduces a rich black man. He is seducing the man because rich white man offered him lots of money in exchange for sleeping with the black man and getting information on him. SABOTAGE! I won’t tell you the end, but it was pretty interesting. It’s kind of aggravating to me because his short stories do not usually come with a complete ending. I like to know what happens after the main conflict. A number of his stories are about gays, and I sometimes wonder if he is gay, bi, or experimented. Anyways…
A Little Moore
“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Upon entering the small, dark room, she was relieved, which seems almost odd, considering how frightened she was entering the doors of the overwhelmingly large, almost oppressive cathedral. The smell, aged, a composite of personal odors, was not what comforted her. Nor was it the smooth, waxen bench she sat upon. It was the tiny beams of light fighting their way through the cracks above and under the door.
She sat in silence, listening to the muffled sound of passing feet and whispering voices. Besides, what could she say in return? What sense does amen make when conversation has hardly begun? Every prayer she had ever heard, including those Lowey would mutter every now and then, always ended in amen. It was as if the man on the other side of the smooth wall had already denied her help without ever even hearing out her case. So she waited.
A delicate cough.
“Child?”
She sat, contemplating.
“Hm?”
“Are you alright?”
“Yep. I…uh…have never done this. I have problems.”
“Well, by problems, do mean that you have sins you would like to confess?”
More contemplating. Sins? People always referred to sins as evil things. People hate sinners. If what she has done was a sin, would this man turn her away?
“I don’t know if they are sins,” she whispered.
“Ok, just…repeat after me, yeah?”
“Ok.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Now, don’t repeat this, but have you ever confessed?”
“I…no.”
“Ok, now repeat, this is my first confession,” he continued.
“This is my first confession.”
“These are my sins.”
“These are my sins.”
“Now, tell me your problems.”
“Where do I start?” she asked.
“Whatever comes to your mind first.”
“Well, my name is Ginny. My friend Lowey told me that whenever her and Mrs. Ceed come here, she tells all her problems to the priest in the box. So, I guess that’s why I came here. Is that ok?”
“Perfectly fine. Your friend actually comes here to confess her sins.”
“Ok, well, I guess that I will tell you my problems and you can tell me what my sins were,” she said.
“Wonderful idea,” he agreed.
Ginny’s mind was just inflated with problems, worries, and now, she finds out, sins. Why were things so difficult all the sudden? Was it because she grew that three inches this summer? The more she grows, the more problems are gonna come? Confusion. Why would adults constantly encourage growing up, becoming an adult with all of its wonderful privileges, and never confess that so many problems come with it, like blistering heat comes with a beautiful fire? Why would adults be so deceiving?
“On Saturday I kicked Mr. Ceed right where it hurts,” she spat out. Like he said, the first thing on her mind.
A groan came from the other side of the wall.
“Well, that’s a good start. You should never hurt another person.”
“What about an eye for an eye? I heard about that at school,” she retorted.
“An eye for an eye?” he queried.
“Yeah, Briar Ceed deserved it. He was hitting Lowey. He hits her a lot.”
“Many children do not understand the methods behind discipline,” he said.
“My father would never hit me for not feeding the dog. That’s what Lowey did. She forgot to feed the dog. It just made me so mad. She was crying and yelling, and he was yelling. So…I kicked him in the nuts.”
“Child, do not use such profanity in the house of God, please.”
“Does profanity mean nuts?” she asked.
Sigh.
“Anyways, Mr. Ceed made Lowey go inside. When I saw her at school she said that she wasn’t allowed to be friends with me anymore.”
Ginny could see teary-eyed Lowey in her mind. The light blue color beneath her eyes. When had that blue color showed up? A few weeks ago maybe. It made Lowey look so sad and tired. She quit playing tag with Ginny, James, and Karen. All through recess Ginny would just sit with Lowey along the rough, brick wall. Lowey would pick at the loose strings on the pastel-colored sweaters her mother dressed her in every day.
“When Lowey told me she started to cry, and that made me cry. Then, when I tried to hug her, she pushed me away. She told me that I needed to grow up.”
“Well,” said the priest, “kicking someone is not a very grown up thing to do.”
“She didn’t say it because of that. I could tell. And I asked her. She said that I didn’t know anything. She has said that to me before too. One time we got lost trying to go home from central park. She started crying, saying she was really scared and stuff. So, I stopped at a real nice restaurant to ask for help. The restaurant was so beautiful. The windows glittered, and there were limos parked in front of it, and women dressed in beautiful dresses and sparkling jewelry were getting out of the limos and going inside.
I walked up to a man dressed in black suit with a tie that had tiny little yellow and blue squares on it. When I told him that we were lost, he asked for the address and then gave us a ride home in his huge limo!” Ginny’s voice started to rise with excitement, remembering the elegant interior of the car, and the man’s clear, deep voice. A safe voice, not at all like Lowey’s father’s voice.
“But, the whole way home, Lowey looked so angry. Her cheeks turned red and she wouldn’t look at me. I just couldn’t understand why she was so angry.”
For a second Ginny went silent, watching the little slices of light on the floor disappear and reappear as people passed. A soft singing from the depths of the cathedral slipped into the small box of a room.
Ginny gently slipped off the uncomfortable bench and sat upon the equally smooth wooden floor. She put a leg in the light, allowing the slivers to lie across her jeans.
“Lowey was angry because I asked that man for help. She thinks that I trust people too much. She said that the stranger could have hurt us or stolen us,” Ginny explained. “That’s when she told me that I need to grow up. She said that one day I would trust someone and that they would hurt me.”
As Ginny sat there, tracing the patterns of light on her jeans, she noticed how calm she had become. She was not crying, as she had been while walking to the cathedral. The more she talked, the more relief seemed to ease her, the more she began to realize.
“Yeah, know who else told me I needed to grow up? My sister, Miriam. Not for the same reason though. She told me that because I spied on her. But, I didn’t do it to make her mad, or to be mean. I don’t know why I spied on her. I just wanted to see what she was doing. Why boys, and makeup, and clothes, and the telephone became so interesting to her. Why she won’t play with me anymore. I tried on her clothes. I tried on her nail polish, and her makeup.”
Ginny read the cd cover: Imogen.
There was a click as she shut the top of the cd player, followed by a light whirring as the disc accelerated in speed. The music was pretty, not the mumble jumble of men talking too fast for her to understand. She imagined herself as one of the beautiful women at the restaurant, wearing elaborate gowns with their hair pinned up high, and wearing gigantic jewels.
She stood in front of the floor length mirror hanging on the back of the door. Ginny always wanted one of those mirrors on the back of her door. She begged her father for one, using the case that it was unfair that Miriam got one and she didn’t. It seemed as if that was always the case lately.
She turned around and around in the mirror, examining her body like she had seen her sister do so many times before. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Miriam’s favorite jacket lying across the bed.
As she stood over the jacket, pondering whether putting it would be worth the damage Miriam would deliver if she caught Ginny wearing it, she noticed how out of place it was. The bedspread, lavender in color, did not even seem to contrast with it. It was merely out of place. It did not fit in with the harmony of the room around it; the pastels, lavenders, and magentas. It was like a strange visitor to a small town. Noticeable, but not unwelcome.
Deciding the juice was worth the squeeze, she slipped on the jacket and then turned enthusiastically toward the mirror. She expected to look older, to be more of an adult and less of the puny, short, blonde headed runt that she appeared to be only minutes before. Isn’t that what the point of clothes is? Of marvelous jewelry, expensive shoes, and new fashions?
But Ginny did not look older. She did not look older with the yellow and black checkered, pleather jacket on. She did not older when she added the Oakley sunglasses. Or the makeup. Or the nailpolish.
“Even after trying on all her stuff, trying to be like her, I still didn’t understand what was so interesting. After about fifteen minutes of trying on her clothes, and makeup, and stuff, I wanted to go back out and play. Doesn’t she get bored of trying to be pretty? What is so special about boys? Even after I spied on her, I still don’t know.
It was fun though. Miriam’s room is across the hall from mine. We used to share a room but she decided that she wanted her own room this summer. Anyways, I would wake up sometimes when she got up at night and Dad wouldn’t because his room is upstairs. She would go outside and leave in a car. I never told Dad. I’m not sure why though. I guess it’s because that’s the way we have always been. We don’t tell on each other.” Ginny paused. The light peaking from underneath the doors had begun to fade, blending into the absence of light around it.
“This Saturday I went over to James’ house to play. He has a really cool tire swing. But, his Mom called him inside and told me that I needed to go home because James had to clean his room. Well, when I got home I could hear Miriam’s voice on the back porch, so I went back there. I thought that maybe she was drinking lemonade there like we used to with Dad. But when turned around the corner of the house, I saw Miriam and some boy there. At first I thought that the boy was just laying on top of Miriam, which confused me. After looking for a second, I saw that it was the boy who cut Mrs. Kismet’s grass on Wednesdays.
I would have left because boys are boring and Miriam is no fun when she is around them. She ignores me. But, I just couldn’t figure out why he was on top of her. I went a little further around the corner to get a better look. I thought that maybe he was bullying her. George used to bully James by sitting on him and farting.”
A small chuckle from the priest.
By now the slivers of light had disappeared completely and had been replaced by a soft glow of yellow candlelight. Ginny imagined it warming her like sunlight.
“Then I saw that his pants were pulled down so that you could see a lot of his boxers and that Miriam’s skirt was pulled up a little ways. It was short already though. Miriam started making funny noises, as if the grass cutter-boy was hurting her.
I knew he wasn’t hurting her though. The older kids on my buss make those noises sometimes. They say that people make those noises when they have sex. I’m not sure what happens during sex, but I do know that is how babies are made. Miriam told me that,” she said. “Is that what they were doing?”
There was silence for a minute. To Ginny, the silence meant very little, but to the priest, the silence was almost awkward. Should he offer such knowledge to a child so innocent? Every day dozens of people come in confessing sins of adultery, lust, and fornication. Every generation of children become involved with sex earlier and earlier than the last generation.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me. I told Miriam that I had seen her laying with the Mrs. Kismet’s grass cutter-boy. At first she was really mad. Even madder than Lowey the day we got a ride from the rich man in the limo. She yelled at me, and told me I was stupid, and that I needed to mind my own business and grow up. I told her I was sorry and started crying. I really didn’t mean to do anything wrong.
She made me leave her room. Later that night the grass cutter-boy came to eat with us at dinner. His name is Jeff, and he is Mrs. Kismet’s nephew.
After he left Miriam came to my room and told me that it was ok. That she shouldn’t have been doing that there anyways. She never said if she was having sex though. I guess it doesn’t matter. She gave me a hug though. It kind of felt like when she used to play with me and stuff. When we would tell each other secrets like me and Lowey do now. Now she doesn’t play with me or tell me secrets. I miss that,” Ginny sighed. A small tear trickled down her cheek, leaving behind a trail of salt that would soon dry and appear as a semi-translucent white streak.
“So, what are my sins then?” Ginny asked patiently.
Again, there was a light chuckle, and then a deep, thoughtful breath. “I think that you know what your sins are, my child. At least you are learning. Usually, when we sin, we feel that is it wrong deep inside of us. In our very soul we feel pain. Not so much a sadness, but a deep regret for our actions. But, if you would like to learn more about what sins are and God’s message and word, then when you leave ask a sister or brother for a bible. They will be out there in the cathedral. Do not be afraid to ask them,” he said.
“Thank you for listening to my problems. I will pay attention to what things I do that make me feel bad. Before I go, would you like me to listen to your sins?”
This time, a deeper, merry chuckle escaped from the opposite wall. “Thank you child,” said the priest, “but you have enough to deal with. I will confess my sins to a less burdened soul. Before you go, repeat after me once again, ok?”
“Ready,” she said.
As Ginny pushed open one of the heavy, polished doors of the cathedral, bible in hand, she took one last glance back at the brilliant array of dazzling candles and rows upon rows of bowing heads.
Upon turning back, she bumped into a heavy man with red hair. She recognized the name of her and Miriam’s favorite video store. After a quiet, almost unintelligible apology, she scurried out onto the side walk, breaking into a jog, eager to show Lowey Ginny’s new book.
