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history books to know that priests read Latin. And I’d read enough mystery novels to know that they have to keep whatever you tell them secret.
    Just as I was wondering how to summon a priest when you need one, a plump lady in full clerical garb entered the sanctuary from a small door by the altar. She stopped and gave a small bow to the altar, then turned and walked toward the back of the church, her Birkenstocks squeaking up the aisle.
    â€œHullo there,” came a British voice from halfway up the aisle. “May I help you ladies?”
    â€œUm, yes. We’re looking for a priest, I guess?”
    She came to a stop in front of us and chuckled. “Well, you found one, I guess. Reverend Cecily, you can call me.” She shook my hand firmly. “And you are?”
    â€œI’m Theo. Theodora, really. But you can call me Theo.”
    â€œTheo-Theodora, welcome.” She held my hand in hers warmly. “We are truly happy to have you here.”
    â€œUh, okay, thanks.” I withdrew my hand and wondered if Bodhi was right and Reverend Cecily was going to ask if I loved Jesus. “And this is my friend, Bodhi.” As soon as I used the word, “friend,” I wished I could take it back. But if Bodhi minded, she didn’t show it. She just stayed where she was on the pew and gave a little wave.
    â€œHello there. What a wonderful name, Bodhi. The Sanskrit word for ‘enlightenment.’ Your parents are Buddhists?”
    Bodhi propped herself up on her elbows. “They were when I was born. Or at least their guru was.”
    â€œAh. Well, what can I do for you girls today?” Her eyes dropped to the 1970s blue hardside Samsonite I’d found in the attic, where the painting was zipped neatly into one side.
    I moved the suitcase behind my legs. “We’re looking for a priest to read some Latin. But you’re a . . . I didn’t know women—”
    â€œâ€”could be priests? This is an Episcopal church, and indeed they can. And yes, I read Latin. Ancient Greek, too. I studied them for my divinity degree.” Reverend Cecily looked confused. “Do you need homework help?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Reverend Cecily set to work with the painting in her study and sent Bodhi and me to the kitchen to raid the coffee-hour cookies.
    â€œHow did you know those words were Latin?” Bodhi asked, her mouth full of Social Tea Biscuits. “Do you take it in school?”
    â€œNo, Spanish.” I shoved another Nutter Butter in my mouth and slipped three more into the patchwork pockets I’d sewn onto Jack’s old T-shirt. “What language do you take?”
    â€œI don’t take anything. I’m unschooled.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s kind of like homeschooling but without the school part.”
    â€œSo . . . it’s just . . . being home?”
    Bodhi huffed. “No, it’s pursuing your own interests, when you want to. Independent study projects, they’re called. Like, when my mom was on location in Tanzania, I worked at an animal rescue center, working with baby hippopotamuses. And when my dad did that movie about the inner-city teacher, I wrote a history of hip-hop. And the summer they did that disaster movie together, I pretty much just read all the Tolkein books.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWhatever. I’m going to school in the city this fall.” Bodhi took a swig of apple juice from a paper cup. “Besides, it’s not homeschooling when you don’t have a home.”
    â€œSo where did you live before?”
    â€œOn sets. On location. In trailers. In hotel rooms. At other actors’ houses. Oh, and one year at a Collective Living Experience.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œJust a bunch of hippies arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes.”
    Another cookie in the mouth, another in the pocket.