Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

I notice she wears a tutu—everything white—and her hair
is twisted into a tidy little bun. She’s younger than me, clearly
one of the students from my mother’s school. Winter, I think?
She’s been here before, and I was in the same grade as her
sister.
“I see you at Cathedral sometimes,” she tells me. “You
never take the bread, do you? When the whole row goes to
receive communion, you stay sitting there. All by yourself.”
The nanny takes me every week—my parents making me
attend but never bothering themselves. It’s the one thing that
bitch lets me fight her on, too. It all felt so fake, like the
makeup women put over their bruises to hide what’s
happening to them. It’s an act.
“I have my first communion soon,” she says. “I’m
supposed to have it, I mean. You have to go to confession first,
and I don’t like that part.”
My lips twitch, my anger fading just a little.
I don’t like that part, either. It never stops me from making
the same mistakes. It seems weird to receive forgiveness for
repeatedly doing things I know are wrong but I’m not sorry
for.
“Do you want me to go?” she finally asks when I don’t say
anything. “I’ll go if you want.”
I sit there, not as frustrated as I was a moment ago. I’ve
even forgotten about the pain in my hand and my parents for a
minute.
“I just don’t like it out there very much,” she explains.
“My stupid sister ruins everything.”
I feel like I understand. I don’t like it out there very much,
either. We can hide.
Together.
If she wants.
“I’ll go,” she tells me and starts to turn.