Read Confessions: The Paris Mysteries for Free Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
different from any other kids in the world. You can believe me or not. Make of that what you will. But I’m an original, Father. And if God made me, I was tinkered and tampered with by my parents, who also made me. All of us Angels were messed with, Father. I think we were subjected to sins against nature. For years.”
I took a breath and croaked out, “If there’s a God, he knows I’m doing the best I can.”
I was winded and a little bit weepy because I’d never told this story in this way to anyone before. It was plenty of stuff, maybe enough to give Father Jean-Jacques a heart attack.
But I didn’t hear a heavy
thunk
on the stone floor.
The man behind the screen said, “Is that all, child? Is that supposed to be—a dare? Are you daring God to love you?”
I pondered that for a long time. “Yes, I suppose so, Father.” My voice was so small.
The priest said, “He loves you. Don’t worry about that.”
I told the priest I had nothing to be contrite about and added, “I don’t do penance and I never will.”
I could almost hear the priest thinking what to do with me, maybe throw me out and kick my butt for good measure.
After a long pause, Father Jean-Jacques said, “While God loves you and forgives you, you must still acknowledge the sin in your heart, and I believe you are doing this, child. I heard how you listed those sins. So I have an idea.
“For now, rather than penance, please meditate for fifteen minutes a day on things you have done to hurt other people, and I think this may help you heal from your parents’ betrayal against nature. And against
you
.”
I was quiet. Choked up, actually, but I didn’t want Father to know.
“Everyone at the Sisters of Charity is praying for you. God bless you,” he said.
About five minutes later, I got into our hired car, and my brothers followed at fifteen-minute intervals, each of them looking quite sober. As if we’d been thrown into cold showers and then rubbed down hard from head to toe with warm towels.
I don’t know what that looks like, actually.
But call me surprised. I felt pretty okay.
After blowing up our enrollment at
the International Academy, we knew enough to follow the overly strict and somewhat arbitrary rules at the convent school.
Our first school week was short, but
sooooo
boring, it seemed like it went on forever. We knew the course work, yeah, even Hugo knew his. Our parents, with all their faults, hadn’t raised stupid children.
One good thing is that I’ve been following the priest’s orders to meditate on how I’ve hurt people. It’s helped me recognize that we can’t help but make mistakes, even when our intentions are good. Of course, my parents took that way too far, but maybe I’ll be able to completely forgive them one day. I never thought I’d say that, so that’s progress.
And that is absolutely all I can say for the start of my junior year under the heavy thumbs of the Sisters of Charity.
That Friday afternoon, after making sure Jacob wasn’t home, I took Harry down to the basement. I jerked the chain on the light fixture that lit up the empty cellar, and Harry pulled out a joint from his back pocket. Before I could stop him, he lit up.
“Are you
crazy
?” I shrieked at him.
“Well, yeahhhhhh. It runs in the family,” he said mildly. “I thought you knew that.”
“Put it out. It’s going to stink down here. Jacob is going to know, and he’s going to make us very sorry.”
Harry inhaled deeply, then pinched out the end of the joint and put it back in his pocket. I glared at him as he finally exhaled, but he wasn’t contrite.
Recently, I’d sensed that Harry was becoming bolder, more sure of himself. He was writing a lot, definitely composing music, and given his extraordinary talent, he was probably creating something quite special. When I asked him what he was working on, all he said was “Stuff is cooking, sis. But it’s not done yet.”
“Weed is bad for you,” I went on,
I took a breath and croaked out, “If there’s a God, he knows I’m doing the best I can.”
I was winded and a little bit weepy because I’d never told this story in this way to anyone before. It was plenty of stuff, maybe enough to give Father Jean-Jacques a heart attack.
But I didn’t hear a heavy
thunk
on the stone floor.
The man behind the screen said, “Is that all, child? Is that supposed to be—a dare? Are you daring God to love you?”
I pondered that for a long time. “Yes, I suppose so, Father.” My voice was so small.
The priest said, “He loves you. Don’t worry about that.”
I told the priest I had nothing to be contrite about and added, “I don’t do penance and I never will.”
I could almost hear the priest thinking what to do with me, maybe throw me out and kick my butt for good measure.
After a long pause, Father Jean-Jacques said, “While God loves you and forgives you, you must still acknowledge the sin in your heart, and I believe you are doing this, child. I heard how you listed those sins. So I have an idea.
“For now, rather than penance, please meditate for fifteen minutes a day on things you have done to hurt other people, and I think this may help you heal from your parents’ betrayal against nature. And against
you
.”
I was quiet. Choked up, actually, but I didn’t want Father to know.
“Everyone at the Sisters of Charity is praying for you. God bless you,” he said.
About five minutes later, I got into our hired car, and my brothers followed at fifteen-minute intervals, each of them looking quite sober. As if we’d been thrown into cold showers and then rubbed down hard from head to toe with warm towels.
I don’t know what that looks like, actually.
But call me surprised. I felt pretty okay.
After blowing up our enrollment at
the International Academy, we knew enough to follow the overly strict and somewhat arbitrary rules at the convent school.
Our first school week was short, but
sooooo
boring, it seemed like it went on forever. We knew the course work, yeah, even Hugo knew his. Our parents, with all their faults, hadn’t raised stupid children.
One good thing is that I’ve been following the priest’s orders to meditate on how I’ve hurt people. It’s helped me recognize that we can’t help but make mistakes, even when our intentions are good. Of course, my parents took that way too far, but maybe I’ll be able to completely forgive them one day. I never thought I’d say that, so that’s progress.
And that is absolutely all I can say for the start of my junior year under the heavy thumbs of the Sisters of Charity.
That Friday afternoon, after making sure Jacob wasn’t home, I took Harry down to the basement. I jerked the chain on the light fixture that lit up the empty cellar, and Harry pulled out a joint from his back pocket. Before I could stop him, he lit up.
“Are you
crazy
?” I shrieked at him.
“Well, yeahhhhhh. It runs in the family,” he said mildly. “I thought you knew that.”
“Put it out. It’s going to stink down here. Jacob is going to know, and he’s going to make us very sorry.”
Harry inhaled deeply, then pinched out the end of the joint and put it back in his pocket. I glared at him as he finally exhaled, but he wasn’t contrite.
Recently, I’d sensed that Harry was becoming bolder, more sure of himself. He was writing a lot, definitely composing music, and given his extraordinary talent, he was probably creating something quite special. When I asked him what he was working on, all he said was “Stuff is cooking, sis. But it’s not done yet.”
“Weed is bad for you,” I went on,