God. Like when I cried in Jared’s mom’s shower, I felt like I was talking to God. But when I actually thought about it, I didn’t know what I believed. My parents didn’t do religious stuff. Like, my dad said he believed in God, but then he would joke and say you might as well because if he didn’t exist you were screwed anyway.
So I didn’t know. But I thought confession would be good. I needed to tell someone. And it was at least one thing I could do while I tried to figure out my options. And maybe you could talk to the priest about it. Maybe you could ask him for advice.
That night, I ate dinner with my little brother Henry. I watched him read a graphic novel from the library, but he kept spilling milk on it. That was the thing. People did bad things all the time. They wrecked library books. They cheated in school. They beat up the nerdy kids.
I tried to eat. I had hardly eaten anything since Saturday. I still thought constantly about calling the police. I had this daydream of walking into a police station and turning myself in. How dramatic it would be. Everyone would say how brave and honest I was. And of course they would be totally nice to me, like in the movies. The kindly old sergeant would get me a Coke and sit me down with the lady counselor who would say, “It’s completely normal that you were afraid to tell us. That’s what usually happens in cases like this-the person comes in days later. Don’t worry, you did the right thing-it was an accident. That security guard endangered your life. We have lots of reports of him harassing innocent skateboarders like yourself....”
At the same time, I had another dream, a nightmare really, of being bullied and pushed around, of hard adult faces turning on you like they do. Male faces, turning ugly and grabbing you and handcuffing you and not telling the truth about things. And then some politician using you: telling everyone how evil teenagers were, skateboarders especially, and they had to be stopped! We’re going to make you an example! That stuff happened, too. I had seen it. Every skateboarder had.
After dinner in my room, I Googled “confession.” The first thing that came up was an article about a priest in Minnesota who turned a child molester in to the police, after he confessed. It was a big controversy and all these other people had written comments about whether the priest should have told or not. Most people said he should have. Most people agreed that child molesting was worse than breaking the pact of the confessional. But other people thought that anything a person confessed, even murder, was protected no matter what. You weren’t even talking to the priest, they believed—you were talking to God. The priest was just a stand-in.
There were more articles about controversial priests. In Massachusetts, a whole town was suing one priest, and it got so bad the parish declared bankruptcy and sold the church. Then I found this conspiracy Web site that said the pope was trying to make everyone go into credit-card debt so he could take over the World Bank. Everything I clicked on just got worse and worse. Maybe confession wasn’t such a good idea
I gave up after a few minutes and lay down on my bed. Then my mom knocked on my door and came into my room. She was all flustered because my dad had come over. He was in the garage packing stuff up. She said he wanted to talk to me.
I didn’t trust myself to talk to my dad. I didn’t know what I would say. So before I left my room, I made a decision: Since I didn’t know if I should tell him, I wouldn’t. And then later, if I decided I should tell him, I still could.
The important thing was, I couldn’t break down and start bawling and blurt it out. That would be the worst situation, because then the firestorm between him and my mom would begin. And that would be too brutal to think about.
I went downstairs. I grabbed a couple carrot sticks off Henry’s plate as I went through the
So I didn’t know. But I thought confession would be good. I needed to tell someone. And it was at least one thing I could do while I tried to figure out my options. And maybe you could talk to the priest about it. Maybe you could ask him for advice.
That night, I ate dinner with my little brother Henry. I watched him read a graphic novel from the library, but he kept spilling milk on it. That was the thing. People did bad things all the time. They wrecked library books. They cheated in school. They beat up the nerdy kids.
I tried to eat. I had hardly eaten anything since Saturday. I still thought constantly about calling the police. I had this daydream of walking into a police station and turning myself in. How dramatic it would be. Everyone would say how brave and honest I was. And of course they would be totally nice to me, like in the movies. The kindly old sergeant would get me a Coke and sit me down with the lady counselor who would say, “It’s completely normal that you were afraid to tell us. That’s what usually happens in cases like this-the person comes in days later. Don’t worry, you did the right thing-it was an accident. That security guard endangered your life. We have lots of reports of him harassing innocent skateboarders like yourself....”
At the same time, I had another dream, a nightmare really, of being bullied and pushed around, of hard adult faces turning on you like they do. Male faces, turning ugly and grabbing you and handcuffing you and not telling the truth about things. And then some politician using you: telling everyone how evil teenagers were, skateboarders especially, and they had to be stopped! We’re going to make you an example! That stuff happened, too. I had seen it. Every skateboarder had.
After dinner in my room, I Googled “confession.” The first thing that came up was an article about a priest in Minnesota who turned a child molester in to the police, after he confessed. It was a big controversy and all these other people had written comments about whether the priest should have told or not. Most people said he should have. Most people agreed that child molesting was worse than breaking the pact of the confessional. But other people thought that anything a person confessed, even murder, was protected no matter what. You weren’t even talking to the priest, they believed—you were talking to God. The priest was just a stand-in.
There were more articles about controversial priests. In Massachusetts, a whole town was suing one priest, and it got so bad the parish declared bankruptcy and sold the church. Then I found this conspiracy Web site that said the pope was trying to make everyone go into credit-card debt so he could take over the World Bank. Everything I clicked on just got worse and worse. Maybe confession wasn’t such a good idea
I gave up after a few minutes and lay down on my bed. Then my mom knocked on my door and came into my room. She was all flustered because my dad had come over. He was in the garage packing stuff up. She said he wanted to talk to me.
I didn’t trust myself to talk to my dad. I didn’t know what I would say. So before I left my room, I made a decision: Since I didn’t know if I should tell him, I wouldn’t. And then later, if I decided I should tell him, I still could.
The important thing was, I couldn’t break down and start bawling and blurt it out. That would be the worst situation, because then the firestorm between him and my mom would begin. And that would be too brutal to think about.
I went downstairs. I grabbed a couple carrot sticks off Henry’s plate as I went through the
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