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Sister Michael didn’t play favorites, but she did have them.
Currently, she was reluctantly fond of Quinn and her pack of mates. They were each and all patently ridiculous, and trouble besides, but they amused her more often than not, and Heaven knew that there was too little to laugh about in Londonderry these days.
They were young and foolish, but they wanted things so strongly. Well. Perhaps not McCool. Orla seemed content with what she had, although what it was she had, only the saints could tell.
Sister Michael worried a bit about Mallon – the lusty thing, bold as brass, and more often than not, smelling of what drink she could get her hands on. Having been to school with her auntie, it was sad to see that history was like to repeat itself with her niece. Well, she would keep the girl in her thoughts.
While Sister Michael had only taken the Orders for the free rent, she did on occasion (though she was sure it did fuck-all), pray for the children she oversaw, from that tiresome little wart Jenny Joyce to that puppy-faced English lad, McGuire. Mallon certainly treated him like an ill-trained collie. Of course, Mallon keeping him in line saved Sister Michael the worry that he might interfere with the other girls at the school – though it may be he was a fey one, and little to fear there.
But for the boy, Sister Michael had known them all their lives; as a novice volunteering in hospital, she’d actually been at bedside the day Erin Quinn had come into the world. Gerry had been white as a sepulcher, and Mary red and swearing like a bootlegger.
This nonsense with the school magazine was almost worth the trouble it would bring from the Board of Governors. That the wee lesbian turned out to be Clare Devlin was… unexpected. She’d have to keep a weather eye out – if the girl should somehow happen upon another Sapphic type (she’d had her own money on Big Mandy O’Connell, but that as may be an offensive stereotype, giving it a second thought), it would be best to know about it so she could keep them out of the board’s eye.
Our Lady Immaculate College was her domain, and it chafed whenever the board met and decided to have Opinions. Most days, as hectic as the school could be, and Mother Mary keep her from another moment of a talent show, it had in the past usually kept her out of the way of idiot fecks like Father Pete and his ilk. It was enough she had to give up her Sundays to the Lord.
The only men she had any wish to keep company with were safely televised. At least she had finally purchased and set up a VCR. She could now build her own syndicated library of Star Trek, MASH and Rawhide episodes, hers to watch whenever she felt the need. Which was often, these days. Sometimes one needed to eclipse the trials of the day with Gil Favor’s soothing monologue. And what if Rowdy got up to trouble in town? Who else could rein that mustang in? It may be Gil would need to restrain him bodily, holding Rowdy back from a dust-up with another local who sneered his way. Rowdy was impetuous, to be sure, and no doubt smelled of sun and dust and horses, his body lean and striving in Gil’s arms…
“Sister? Sister Michael?”
Ah. Yes. Erin Quinn and her lot.
Erin was leaning on the desk, eyes glittering with ambition. She wore a tiny sweater like a little woolen dickie over her still-in-uniform-violation pink shirt. Behind her, Orla was balancing on one foot while braiding and unbraiding the same lock of hair, Clare practically vibrated with painful, earnest, exhausting zeal, and Michelle was hissing something under her breath to her hapless cousin, the red cap of a vodka bottle peering from her blazer pocket.
“You were saying?”
“Only that we’re ready to print our bombshell.”
“And that would be?”
“Sexism in the Church,” Erin announced triumphantly.
Sister Michael rested her cheek on one hand.
“Groundbreaking, to be sure.”
“It is! It’s the Patriarchy, and we’re going to smash it.”
“By all means, be my guest.”
“So we can print it? In the Habit?” Clare looked both anxious and elated, as she so often did. She and Erin certainly did not suffer from a lack of enthusiasm.
“Censorship is time consuming and Sister Christopher says David Duchovny was wearing a Speedo in last night’s episode, so I’m afraid my VCR is winning this fight for my attention.”
“You watch the X-Files too?” James brightened considerably. “Do you think they’ll see an alien?”
“Haven’t they already?” Hadn’t there been that little fish in the thermos? Or the swimmy fella, with the leech face.
“Do you identify with Scully? Because she’s Catholic, you know,” Clare offered.
“I am aware, yes.”
“I can’t believe you’re all talking about something as shallow as a TV show when I’m trying to burn down a house of oppression!” Erin’s color was high, and her eyes had a manic gleam.
“But it’s not shallow now, see, it’s about how the Government is always lyin’ to ya, and how the Oligarchy runs everything behind the scenes, unchecked in its shadowy power. In all, it’s about smashing the patriarchy, too. That and Mulder’s cracker. He does look nice in his Speedo, Sister.”
For a moment, everyone gawped at Orla, who only blinked and began balancing on her other foot. Sister Michael took that moment to push herself away from her desk.
“As I said, print whatever you like. I may find it in myself to congratulate you privately on your article. Or else publicly demand you print an immediate retraction. It’s a flip of the coin, really. Carry on.”
She brushed past them, hearing Erin’s excited murmuring and Michelle voicing piqued, prurient interest, “So you can about see everything he’s got, then?”
These children were the hope of the world. In a moment of rare optimism, Sister Michael liked their chances.
END