“Eleanor,” he said. “Tell me who hurt you. And tell me right now.”
She felt the force of his will like a wall pressing against her.
“No. You won’t even tell me your name.”
“If I tell you my name, will you tell me about the burns?”
He let her hand go and she pulled her arm back and held it to her stomach. Her entire body fluttered from the touch of his hand on her hand, and the unrepentant way he studied her.
She stood still and silent while he stared at her face until she reluctantly met his eyes.
“Will you tell anybody what I tell you?” She wasn’t wild about telling anyone something so private about herself, but for some reason, a reason she couldn’t name, she trusted this man, this priest.
“Not a soul.”
“Okay. Fine. Name?”
He reached into the black leather saddlebag on his motorcycle and pulled out what appeared to be a Bible in some foreign language. He flipped opened the well-worn cover to a page where he’d written his name in thick black ink with strong legible handwriting.
Søren Magnussen.
She reached out and with the tip of her finger traced the letters in the name.
“Søren … Did I say that right?”
“You say it like an American.”
“How am I supposed to say it?”
“I like the way you say it. You should know, that’s not the name anyone here will ever call me. That’s what my mother named me. Unfortunately I’m forced to go by what my father named me—Marcus Stearns.”
“So no one here knows your real name?” That he wrote Søren Magnussen in his Bible seemed to hint that he considered Søren his real name, not Marcus.
“Only you. And now that you know it, I believe you owe me an answer to my question.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Eleanor—”
“I go by Elle, not Eleanor.”
“Eleanor is the name of queens. Elle is merely a French pronoun that means she or her. I will call you Eleanor. And now, Eleanor, tell me how you arrived at the burns on your wrist. Then we’ll discuss the knees.”
“Curling iron.”
“Self-inflicted or is someone in your home hurting you?”
“Self-inflicted.”
“Why did you do it?”
“For fun.”
“You enjoy hurting yourself?” He asked the question without shock or disgust. She heard nothing in his voice but curiosity.
She nodded.
“You think I’m crazy?”
“You seem quite sane to me. Apart from your clothes.”
“What? Not down with grunge?”
“Your hair is also a cause for concern.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s gone green.”
“It’s not moldy,” she said, laughing at the playful look of disapproval on his face. “That’s hair gel. I put green streaks in it.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. But I’ll be sixteen in two weeks.” She felt the need to add that part at the end. “My mom says you’re too young to be a priest.”
“I’m twenty-nine. But I’ll try to age very quickly for her. I’m certain pastoring at a church you attend will age me considerably.”
“I’ll do my best.” She grinned broadly at him as she toyed with the cuffs of her jacket. Once more she fell into an awkward silence. He didn’t seem awkward at all. He seemed to be having the time of his life watching her be weird in front of him.
“Now for the knees. Those are impressive-looking wounds.”
“I fell,” she said. “Shit happens.”
“You don’t seem the clumsy sort. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
She pursed her lips. Her? Clumsy?
“I’m not clumsy. Ever. My gym teacher said I move like a trained dancer.”
“So then where did the injuries to your knees come from?”
“I got in a fight at school.”
“I hope she looks worse than you do.”
“He,” she said with pride. “He looks fine. But he’s still walking funny.”
Søren’s eyes widened slightly.
“You fought with a boy at your school?” He sounded mildly horrified.
“It’s not my fault. There’s this girl at school—Pepper Riley. And if her name wasn’t bad enough, she has huge boobs. She’s scared of her own shadow and won’t fight back. So this guy, Trey, he was being a prick to her on the bus saying all kinds of gross shit about her body. So I told him to shut up. And then he starts saying gross shit to me. He was all, ‘I want your body, Elle.’ So I said he could have my body. Then I gave him my foot. Right in the nuts. It was kind of amazing. When we got off the bus he pushed me so hard I landed on my knees and ripped them open. Whatever. Typical Wednesday at your local Catholic high school. Your tax dollars not at work.”
He continued to stare at her. His eyes had widened even farther.
“Father Stearns? Søren? Whoever you are?” She waved her hand.
“Forgive me. I was utterly riveted by your story. I might have entered a fugue state.”
“Lucky for me, it all happened at the back of the bus and the driver didn’t see it. Otherwise Vice Principal Wells would have my ass. He told me if I got sent to his office one more time I’d be publicly crucified as an example to the rest of the school. I think he was kidding?”
She felt the force of his will like a wall pressing against her.
“No. You won’t even tell me your name.”
“If I tell you my name, will you tell me about the burns?”
He let her hand go and she pulled her arm back and held it to her stomach. Her entire body fluttered from the touch of his hand on her hand, and the unrepentant way he studied her.
She stood still and silent while he stared at her face until she reluctantly met his eyes.
“Will you tell anybody what I tell you?” She wasn’t wild about telling anyone something so private about herself, but for some reason, a reason she couldn’t name, she trusted this man, this priest.
“Not a soul.”
“Okay. Fine. Name?”
He reached into the black leather saddlebag on his motorcycle and pulled out what appeared to be a Bible in some foreign language. He flipped opened the well-worn cover to a page where he’d written his name in thick black ink with strong legible handwriting.
Søren Magnussen.
She reached out and with the tip of her finger traced the letters in the name.
“Søren … Did I say that right?”
“You say it like an American.”
“How am I supposed to say it?”
“I like the way you say it. You should know, that’s not the name anyone here will ever call me. That’s what my mother named me. Unfortunately I’m forced to go by what my father named me—Marcus Stearns.”
“So no one here knows your real name?” That he wrote Søren Magnussen in his Bible seemed to hint that he considered Søren his real name, not Marcus.
“Only you. And now that you know it, I believe you owe me an answer to my question.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Eleanor—”
“I go by Elle, not Eleanor.”
“Eleanor is the name of queens. Elle is merely a French pronoun that means she or her. I will call you Eleanor. And now, Eleanor, tell me how you arrived at the burns on your wrist. Then we’ll discuss the knees.”
“Curling iron.”
“Self-inflicted or is someone in your home hurting you?”
“Self-inflicted.”
“Why did you do it?”
“For fun.”
“You enjoy hurting yourself?” He asked the question without shock or disgust. She heard nothing in his voice but curiosity.
She nodded.
“You think I’m crazy?”
“You seem quite sane to me. Apart from your clothes.”
“What? Not down with grunge?”
“Your hair is also a cause for concern.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It’s gone green.”
“It’s not moldy,” she said, laughing at the playful look of disapproval on his face. “That’s hair gel. I put green streaks in it.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. But I’ll be sixteen in two weeks.” She felt the need to add that part at the end. “My mom says you’re too young to be a priest.”
“I’m twenty-nine. But I’ll try to age very quickly for her. I’m certain pastoring at a church you attend will age me considerably.”
“I’ll do my best.” She grinned broadly at him as she toyed with the cuffs of her jacket. Once more she fell into an awkward silence. He didn’t seem awkward at all. He seemed to be having the time of his life watching her be weird in front of him.
“Now for the knees. Those are impressive-looking wounds.”
“I fell,” she said. “Shit happens.”
“You don’t seem the clumsy sort. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
She pursed her lips. Her? Clumsy?
“I’m not clumsy. Ever. My gym teacher said I move like a trained dancer.”
“So then where did the injuries to your knees come from?”
“I got in a fight at school.”
“I hope she looks worse than you do.”
“He,” she said with pride. “He looks fine. But he’s still walking funny.”
Søren’s eyes widened slightly.
“You fought with a boy at your school?” He sounded mildly horrified.
“It’s not my fault. There’s this girl at school—Pepper Riley. And if her name wasn’t bad enough, she has huge boobs. She’s scared of her own shadow and won’t fight back. So this guy, Trey, he was being a prick to her on the bus saying all kinds of gross shit about her body. So I told him to shut up. And then he starts saying gross shit to me. He was all, ‘I want your body, Elle.’ So I said he could have my body. Then I gave him my foot. Right in the nuts. It was kind of amazing. When we got off the bus he pushed me so hard I landed on my knees and ripped them open. Whatever. Typical Wednesday at your local Catholic high school. Your tax dollars not at work.”
He continued to stare at her. His eyes had widened even farther.
“Father Stearns? Søren? Whoever you are?” She waved her hand.
“Forgive me. I was utterly riveted by your story. I might have entered a fugue state.”
“Lucky for me, it all happened at the back of the bus and the driver didn’t see it. Otherwise Vice Principal Wells would have my ass. He told me if I got sent to his office one more time I’d be publicly crucified as an example to the rest of the school. I think he was kidding?”
