Page 49 of Of Angels & Absolution

“No, it’s okay,” I say quickly. I realize she doesn’t know how colleges work, that we have more time off than a job thatcloses for a day or two during the holidays. She thinks I was only coming home for Christmas day, and she didn’t even make space in her life for that. She certainly doesn’t want me there for weeks.

“Don’t cancel your dinner,” I add. “You should be with your family. I’ll be fine. I have a lot of work to catch up on anyway, and I have tons of friends here who already asked me to come to dinner and meet their families. I might even stay with them for a few days.”

I say my goodbyes as quickly as I can, racing to hang up before the tears come.

The following weeks crawl by. Everyone else seems excited, a spring in their step at the prospect of a long winter break ahead, the fun they’ll have and the presents they’ll receive. I dread the empty campus, the loneliness, the feeling of abandonment that will surely crawl inside me and take hold, even when I tell myself it’s silly, that no one owes me a Christmas experience.

At last, the last day of classes arrives, and someone asks me the dreaded question.

“Where are you going for Christmas?”

I look up after a long beat of silence to find Manson and Ronique staring at me, waiting. I had assumed he was talking to her, since they’ve been chatting about his upcoming holiday in Switzerland while I sit in Annabel Lee’s chair, wondering why I’m here. She invited me over, but she went out into the hall at least fifteen minutes ago, leaving me alone with her friends. She must’ve gotten caught up with other girls in the dorm. I have to remind myself that most people have friends, and more than two or three. She probably knows lots of people on her floor, and they obviously like her enough not to report her for her collection of strange pets.

An opossum is currently sniffing around on the floor at my feet.

“Um, nothing,” I say, avoiding their gazes. “I don’t—I’m just staying on campus.”

“Really?” Manson asks, his eyes widening. “Are the dorms even open?”

“I mean, the nuns and priests live on campus,” I say, thinking about Father Salvatore out there, knowing I’m alone here, waiting. A rush of trepidation and want rolls over my skin like fever. “They said I could stay. I just have to get my own food when the dining hall is closed.”

“Aren’t you related to Saint Soules?” Ronique asks.

“Yum-my,” Manson says, exaggerating each syllable. “I’d go home for that dish.”

“Amen to that,” Ronique says, crossing herself. “The things I would let that man to do me.”

“He’s my brother,” I blurt out.

“Oh right,” Manson says. “Sorry.”

“I’ll trade you,” Ronique says. “You can have my family for Christmas, and Saint can take me home. I’ll crawl into his bed every night after his parents are asleep and let him absolutely ruin my life.”

“It would be worth it,” Manson says, then sneaks a look at me. “Sorry again.”

“What is she doing out there?” I say, glancing at the door.

“She’s just saging the hallway,” Manson says. “She’ll be back in a minute.”

“She’s what?”

“Saging?” Ronique asks, looking at me like I’m a dumb, clueless kid, which I guess I am. I’m certainly not climbing into beds at night, and if Saint is ruining my life, it’s not entirely by choice.

Okay, maybe that’s exactly what it is, but not in the uncouth way she says it.

The door swings open, and the opossum keels over.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, jumping back.

“Jack Skellington, you little monster,” Annabel Lee says, breezing in surrounded by a cloud of woodsy, acrid smoke. She scoops up her pet, who lays in her arms on his back with his legs straight up in the air. “Don’t worry, he’s just being dramatic. He likes to scare my visitors by playing dead.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling silly all over again.

She deposits a charred bundle of pale green sticks onto her altar.

“He’s still a wittie bittie joey, so you have to forgive his pranks,” she coos, scratching his belly. “He was bald as a baby and half-starved when I found him. His mama possum probably got hit by a car or hunted by another animal. But now he’s all clean and parasite free and fattened up like a pig. Aren’t you, Skelly-welly?”

“Can you not?” Ronique asks. “That voice nauseates me.”

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