Colossians 3:20

On my importance scale of one to ten, God and religion rank at a solid three. I never finished communion, I can't tell you what makes the Red book different from the Blue book, and breaking bread sounds too much like Breaking Bad and that makes me think about crystal meth at service instead of our Lord and savior. I'm going to Hell. I know this, it's not a secret, and I'm okay with it. Realistically, Hell is probably more fun and for that I am thankful. I'd rather spend eternity with One Direction, anyway (because they're totally going to be there). An eternity in Hell also means I won't be reunited with my least favorite authority figure: Sister Barbra Rose, certified nun and former principal of Saint Charles Borromeo, the school that I spent three years crying, puking, and sometimes learning in.

I remember Saint Charles for its details. There were wide steps leading to the murky white, stained glass window double doors. Somewhere in my pile of junk, there's a photo of me standing on those steps wearing a jean overall dress and rocking a bowl cut on my first day of Kindergarten. I remember the cold, speckled tile in the basement where I attended Sunday school and how it felt to lay on it, the dirt and grime from the bottom of my classmates' shoes forming gloves on my fingers. The altar boys used a long, gold stick to put out the candles at the end of service. I liked it because it was shiny and looked new compared to the inside of the chapel which was lined with dark brown pews and darker brown kneeling benches. Sometimes, the sunlight from outside would shine through the stained glass windows and put colorful spots on the brown. I remember thinking that it looked like someone ate too much of Nana's fruitcake and pooped all over the church.

The first time I met Sister Barbra Rose, I was sitting in a pew with my father. It was new student orientation day and myself and ten other children were very excited to be spending the day at church instead of spending the day doing something equally as fun, like peeling off layers of sunburned skin or eating our toenails. I had seen nuns before, but there was something about this one that rubbed me wrong. I can't say that I knew from the very first moment that I would have an issue with her, because her smile was convincing and I believed every word she said about how fun Kindergarten would be and how much love I'd have for God by the end of my time spent at SCB, but something about her irked me. At the end of orientation, she gave me a hug and I swear she squeezed me too tight on purpose.

I told my dad this and he laughed at me, telling me that she hugged me tightly because she knew of me, knew our last name. Sister Barbra Rose knew of us not only from our devotion to the church but because my neighbor, Mr. Barr, was the Saturday pastor.

I spent a lot of time at the Barr house doing crafts with Mrs. Barr. She's the one who taught me how to properly hold scissors, and I remember it because she used the words “God loves you, but he doesn't want to meet you, yet” when she saw me holding them incorrectly. Some weekends, my family would have plans on Sunday and would go to Saturday service instead. Those days were my favorite because I got to drive to church with Mr. and Mrs. Barr in their van that smelled like pine cones and vanilla, not baby's farts and stale Cheerios like ours.

One Saturday, after we got to SCB, Mr. Barr told me he wanted to show me something. I followed him willingly and he led me behind the shed next to the corroded old double swing set that was the only sort of “playground” on the property. The red paint was chipping off and I once swung so high that I went over the top bar and fell off, landing on my neck, but I brushed it off like a champ and still fought for a turn at every recess. Mr. Barr asked me if I'd check on his garden for him, located behind the shed, and I agreed with enthusiasm.

The first time my ass got handed to me by Sister Barbra Rose, it was because of Mr. Barr's damn garden and my need to be responsible for things. I was doing what he asked me to do, making sure no crazy keggers were being thrown and nobody was growing cannabis in the garden, when I saw a duck. Its dainty yellow fur was of a cotton ball consistency and it felt too gentle to be touched by my hands, hands that earlier that day had been beating a hammer against a nail for a science lesson on how Jesus' crucification was the inspiration for Newton's third law. Or some weird shit like that. I don't know, it was Catholic school. Catholics will change the laws of anything (including physics) to set themselves closer to God. When I got caught with the duck by the playground police, I was immediately sent to the principal's office.

I can see myself walking down the long, narrow hallway leading to Barb's office. Around me, lining the walls, are finger painted depictions of Mary giving birth to Jesus and words like “faith,” “God,” and “love” written with the blood of a virgin (I can't remember it exactly, but I'm assuming because, you know, Catholics). My hand is being held by Mrs. Jodi, the mother of one of my classmates. She's dragging me more than I'm walking towards the office. I'm thinking about how much trouble I'm going to be in, if my parents are going to have to come get me, whether or not I'll be grounded, or if I'll get a toy taken away. There's butterflies in my belly, and they've got butterflies in their bellies. We're all nervous.

Walking to Barb's office was the equivalent of Frodo taking the Ring to Mordor, except I didn't have a Sam to do all the work and take all the blame for me. One does not simply walk in, one must think about every single thing they've ever done wrong and come to terms with the consequences of actions before they happen for the entirety of their trip.

Except I didn't see what was so wrong with taking a duck out of my neighbor's garden. For all I know, that duck could have been planning a rave with all his little duck friends. I was simply protecting the plants. I told Barbra Rose how I felt, saying that the playground police were “stupid” and it would be “dumb” for me to get in trouble over something so “idiot.” God forbid a five year old use cuss words; my mouth was washed out with soap and I was sent back to my classroom to finish out recess alone.

I got my revenge for the duck incident a few weeks later when good ol' Barb was my substitute teacher. I'd been complaining about a stomach ache all morning but she didn't believe me because I didn't have a fever. At nap time, when all the other children were being silent and resting like they were supposed to, I was shoving my finger down my throat. I'd seen my older sister do it a couple times when she came home late at night and was sworn to secrecy because I knew that the final result was vomit. But no matter how far I shoved, I couldn't puke, and my efforts seemed futile until Barb walked by to check on her good, sleeping children. I couldn't have planned it any better, the way my chunky orange barf landed on her pointed black shoes, coating the silver buckles and making them look like rust. I was (and still am) very proud of myself for this accomplishment, as I got to go home early and be treated like I was sick, even though as soon as my mom closed my bedroom door I played Barbies until I heard her footsteps against the hardwood coming down the hall.

But what really did me in, what really got me in trouble with God, was the day that I finally snapped on Barbra Rose: the day she tried to kill me.

“My eyes hurt,” I whined. I rubbed them and made the pain worse.

“Stop rubbing. You're going to school whether you like it or not, Mae,” Mom said.

“But what about my eyes? What if they burn so bad they fall out of my face and someone steps on them? Then what do I do?”

“Then you'll be blind for the rest of your life.”

Despite my best efforts, I was going to school. With pink eye. Because apparently, no matter how Godly Catholics think they are, they don't mind having an entire Kindergarten class infected with grossness. Maybe this is why Popes aren't required to get checked for STDs.

At snack time, my teacher pulled me aside and told me I had to go to the principal's office. Still scared shitless from the last time I was sent to Mount Doom, I looked at her with terror and shook my head.

“Nuh uh,” I protested, arms crossed over my chest as if to protect myself from Orcs.

“Now, Amanda, you have to go. Sister Barbra Rose is going to give you medicine to make your eye feel better.” (Borromeo didn't have a school nurse. God doesn't believe in them.)

“But she doesn't like me! She's going to put soap in my mouth again.”

“She will not. Don't be ridiculous.”

Despite my best efforts, I was going to the principal's office. This time, the walk was less like the road to Mordor and more like Jesus walking the Via Dolorosa.

The office looked the same as I remembered it: navy blue walls with white furniture, accented by black couches and pops of red. The secretary smiled at me as I walked in, and I lifted my middle finger in her direction. Her jaw dropped, but before she could do anything about it, Barb waved me in to the storage closet of a nurse's office.

“Hello, Amanda,” she said with a large grin. “How are you feeling today?”

“Like poop,” I responded. “My eye hurts.”

Barb, still wearing a grin and looking at me like my Papa looked at pie, told me that it would be okay, all I needed to do was sit on the couch, put my head backwards, and she would make me feel better. I listened because I didn't know any better.

I was looking at the light on the ceiling when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something flash. When I went to move, Barb held my head in place.

“Stay still, Amanda,” she commanded as two of her fingers spread the skin above and below my right eye. The flash came again, and it was then that I remembered seeing a pair of scissors and a butcher knife and a chainsaw and a fireplace fire poker in the nurse's office.

“No!” I yelled, and, just before she could stick me in the eye with one of her torture devices, I flung my head forward to throw her off and used all of my strength to kick her in the shin. “No, you bitch!”

I ran faster than a Kenyan out of that office, past the secretary with a dropped jaw, all the way to my older sister's classroom, where I pounded on the door and demanded to be let in.

Sister Barbra Rose eventually caught up with me and dragged me back to her office by my ear, telling me how naughty I was and how disappointed God was in me. But honestly, God should have been proud of me. I saved my own life that day.

I remember nothing else from Saint Charles Borromeo except for my hate/love relationship with Sister Barbra Rose. According to my mom, I threw up on her again during my Kindergarten graduation ceremony out of nervousness. I guess I blocked that memory out because it's just too damn good to remember.

I cannot wait to go to Hell. One Direction will be there, Sister Barbra Rose will not. It's going to be awesome. And now, like a true Catholic, I'll try to make up for my sins through use of false kindness:

Peace be with you.
(And also with you.)