Neighborhood Girls Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Mom and Dad, with love, for everything

  EPIGRAPH

  The world breaks every one and afterward

  many are strong at the broken places.

  —ERNEST HEMINGWAY, A Farewell to Arms

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Creator, the Redeemer, and the Spirit Who Makes Us Free Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two: Blessed Are the Bitches Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Three: Whale Watching Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Jessie Ann Foley

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  THE CREATOR, THE REDEEMER,

  AND THE SPIRIT WHO MAKES US FREE

  1

  IT WAS A WARM FRIDAY AFTERNOON in late September, and I was sitting in Ms. Lee’s Honors Brit Lit class doing that thing where my hand moves my pen across the page, taking perfectly coherent notes, but my brain is somewhere else entirely. It’s a bad habit, but one that even a straight-A student like me can’t resist when the clock is forty minutes away from the weekend and the sun is filtering golden light through the third-floor classroom windows and my week of being a bored girl in a plaid skirt surrounded by other bored girls in plaid skirts is about to give way to the wild possibilities of a late summer weekend, when Saint Mike’s is playing a home game against Notre Dame Prep under their new stadium lights, and the weekend is like a juicy peach I’m holding in my hand, just waiting to be bitten into and devoured, pit and all.

  I uncapped my pink highlighter and was beginning to color in my nails while I half listened to Ms. Lee’s well-worn lecture about the importance of thesis statements when the PA clicked on. There were a few seconds of dead noise, and then a throat cleared.

  “Excuse me, young women,” Sister Dorothy began. “Please pardon the interruption.” We all looked up expectantly at the ancient speaker system, like it was a TV or something. “Teachers, please escort your classes down to the auditorium for an important assembly. Thank you.”

  “What’s this about?” Marlo Guthrie demanded from the front row. Marlo’s GPA trailed her best friend, Ola Kaminski’s, by a hundredth of a point, and she didn’t like these kinds of disruptions throwing her off her valedictorian game. Besides, we were a month into our junior year, and we’d never been called to an unscheduled assembly before.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Ms. Lee answered, gathering up her keys and gradebook and herding us toward the door. “I guess we’ll soon find out.” She smiled then and began nervously twisting her engagement ring around her finger, and everyone knew that she was lying. And that’s when we knew it was something bad.

  Down in the auditorium, I found Kenzie, Sapphire, and Emily sitting in the last row, passing a bag of Skittles back and forth. When they saw me, Kenzie lifted her backpack from the seat she’d been saving for me.

  “First week of school and I already got a fucking JUG,” she complained, waving the telltale pink slip of paper at me before crumpling it up and stuffing it into the front pocket of her backpack among the various tubes of lipstick and frosted eye shadow. Other schools call this kind of punishment a detention. But at Academy of the Sacred Heart, where everything is God-ified, we call it JUG: Justice Under God. I shoved my backpack under the sagging velvet seat and sat down.

  “I told you your skirt was too short,” Em said through a mouthful of candy.

  “Well, you know what? I’m not always going to have legs like this.” Kenzie stuck them out for us to admire. They were as long and lean as a waterbird’s, still deeply tanned from her summer lifeguarding job, and glistening with jasmine-scented, shimmer-flecked body lotion. “These things are a national treasure. Why would I ever want to cover them up? I should be like one of those supermodels and get them insured for a million dollars. Sister Hairy Penis is just jealous.”

  “I believe her name is pronounced Sister Mary Eunice,” Sapphire giggled, “and I doubt some eighty-five-year-old nun is jealous of your hot legs.”

  “Yeah, Kenz,” I laughed. “Don’t be such a narcissist.”

  I glanced around for teachers, then pulled a can of contraband Dr Pepper from the front pocket of my backpack. I burst into a fit of fake coughing to cover up the ka-chhh as I cracked it open.

  “Don’t use your honors-class words on me, Wendy,” Kenzie said. “So, what do you think this assembly is about, anyway? Like every nun in the school is up onstage.” She raised her clasped hands to the high gilded ceiling of the old auditorium. “Please, please, please, oh Lord: please let us be going coed!”

  Sister Dorothy, dressed in the signature dull gray of the Sacred Heart nuns, glided up to the mic at the center of the stage. One thing eleven years of Catholic schooling has taught me is that nuns don’t walk; they glide. I guess this could be an optical illusion of their floor-length habits, but I’ve always thought it’s because they’re so much holier than the rest of us that they practically float. Come to think of it, that might be why I’m such a good student: it’s kind of hard to cut class or blow off a homework assignment when you have to answer to somebody whose best friend is literally Jesus Christ Himself.

  “Let’s begin our assembly today, as we begin whenever we gather together,” Sister Dorothy began, “with a prayer.”

  We all sat up a little straighter—Mr. Winters was patrolling the aisle—and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, and the Spirit Who Makes Us Free,” we murmured, and it didn’t even sound weird anymore because we’ve been saying it the Sister Dorothy way since freshman year, when, during orientation, she taught us about gender-inclusive language and how God transcends our ideas of male and female and therefore it’s inaccurate to say “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” I guess the cardinal had gotten wind of it and had a disapproving little chat with her, but Sister Dorothy, who has been principal of ASH for approximately a hundred years, isn’t exactly used to having people tell her what to do.

  “I look out at this gathering of intelligent, compassionate young women on the brink of adulthood, and the sight of it fills me with peace.” She opened her mouth to continue, then closed it. She tried again: opened her mouth, shaped it around a word, and clamped it shut again. That’s when we realized that she was gulping back tears. And then we knew that whatever she was about to tell us must be really bad. After all, this was a woman who, according to school legend, had been arrested over thirty times, for protesting deforestation by chaining herself to trees or spray-painting peace signs on nuclear cooling towers or throwing overripe tomatoes at politicians who supported military strikes in the Middle East.

  She worked as a Red Cross nurse during the Vietnam War and made us all watch Apocalypse Now during Teachings in Catholic Social Justice class, even that horrible water buffalo slaughter scene that made Veronica the Vegan barf into the recycled paper bin. An
d instead of apologizing for making Veronica so upset, Sister Dorothy yelled at her for a) throwing up all over the paper, rendering it unrecyclable, and b) being more affected by the portrayal of animal slaughter than of human slaughter.

  She was a tough lady.

  “It’s been a rough few years for Academy of the Sacred Heart,” Sister Dorothy finally continued, her voice still wobbling. “In the past ten years alone, our enrollment has dropped by fifty percent. Our graduates move away and lose touch. The city public schools are improving. People don’t believe in single-sex education anymore. Or in religious education at all, for that matter. Meanwhile, the costs of maintaining our school in this crumbling old building keep going up.”

  As if on cue, a little piece of plaster broke loose from the gilded ceiling and landed with a small puff of dust on the stage behind her.

  “I have prayed over this matter a great deal,” she resumed. “And one thing I am quite sure of is that God always answers our prayers, but not always in the way we’d like God to.” I heard a stifled snort and looked over, stunned, to see that Mr. Winters, ASH’s basketball coach and sole male teacher, was standing in the aisle beside us. He had removed his bifocals and was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief he’d fished out of his pocket.

  “The Board of Trustees made the decision last night that Academy of the Sacred Heart is no longer a financially viable institution. And that’s why I’ve called you here today: because I believe you, our students, should be the first to know that at the end of this school year, ASH will be closing its doors forever.”

  A collective gasp swept through the auditorium, followed by several shrill screams, loud protests of “no!” and, of course, a smattering of applause from Veronica the Vegan and her friends, as if their boycott of the crispy chicken patty special was somehow the thing to bring down this institution for good. Emily immediately whipped out her phone and began tweeting about it; Sapphire held her hands over her open mouth and was, for possibly the first time ever, speechless; while Kenzie sat perfectly still, the bag of Skittles crumpled in her hand.

  “This,” Kenzie finally said, a slow smile spreading across her beautiful face, “may just be the greatest day of my life.”

  I can’t say I was all that surprised by her reaction. Kenzie had never made a secret of her resentment at having been forced to attend ASH. She’d been all set to go to Lincoln, our neighborhood public high school, until she came home from her eighth-grade graduation dance with a neck ringed in hickeys. Her dad sent her transcripts to Sister Dorothy the next day.

  “If anybody can straighten you out,” he told her, “it’s the Sacred Heart nuns.”

  He’d been wrong about that, of course.

  Sister Dorothy rapped the microphone, and we quieted down instantly.

  “To our seniors,” she continued, “this means you will have the bittersweet distinction of being our last-ever graduating class. And for our underclasswomen: I know that it was your intent to cross this stage at graduation in your cardinal-red cap and gown. I know that is what you wanted, what your families expected, and what you deserve. And I am so sorry that we failed you.” She stopped to wipe her eyes. “But please know that this decision was made after much discernment and prayer, and that we would not be closing this school—a place that, for the women up here on this stage, is not just our life’s work but our home—unless there was simply no other option. I’m so sorry, girls. We tried our very hardest.”

  And then, without responding to the waving hands and shouted questions that filled the echo-y expanse of the auditorium, a space that was built to accommodate twelve hundred girls and now held a population of barely two hundred, Sister Dorothy walked off the stage. Sister Mary Eunice, Sister Gertrude, and Sister Mary-of-the-Snows, all of whom were weeping, followed suit. The lay teachers standing in the aisles and at the exits were bum-rushed with angry girls demanding answers.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kenzie said, throwing her empty Skittles bag on the floor. “There’s twenty minutes till last bell but it looks like Mr. Winters has his hands full.”

  We ducked past the crowds of yelling, crying girls, out the auditorium doors, and down the Saints Corridor toward our lockers. My head was spinning. Given ASH’s half-empty hallways, the class sizes of nine or ten girls, the pathetically outdated computer labs, the cuts in sports teams and academic clubs and the near-constant fundraisers, you would think that we would have seen this coming. We hadn’t. Academy of the Sacred Heart had stood on the same Chicago corner since ladies wore corsets and men took the streetcar to jobs in the stockyards. Our mothers went here, and so did our grandmothers. So did our great-grandmothers. ASH was an essential and immortal piece of our city; saying it was closing was like telling us that Lake Michigan was drying up. No matter how many signs there might have been, we hadn’t seen them, because we hadn’t believed that ASH was a thing capable of dying.

  And how could this timing be any worse? It meant that next year, my senior year, I’d be at some other high school, walking to some other locker, without the saints watching over me as I gathered my books. I don’t mean that last part in a religious, God-watching-over-me sense. When you go to ASH, you actually have saints watching over you because their faces are painted all over the walls and ceiling of the main hallway. Back in 1902, the school’s principal, Sister Xavieria Schmidt, commissioned a group of art students from our first graduating class to paint a mural of the Virgin Mary on the east wall outside the auditorium. In over a hundred years, the paint hasn’t faded a bit, and now, on bright mornings, when the sun shines through the glass front entrance, it hits the gold of Mary’s halo in such a way that she actually glows with divine light. The painting was such a success that the next year, Sister Xavieria Schmidt commissioned the class of 1903 to create another mural—this time, to Saint Anne, the mother of Mary. A tradition was begun, and every year since then, the art students from each graduating class have added another female saint to what has come to be called the Saints Corridor, and now these images cover every inch of space in the main hallway that isn’t taken up by a locker, a light fixture, or a door frame.

  The artists, who always sign their names and their class year somewhere on their painting, include my mom, whose name is scrawled in the grass at Our Lady of Lourdes’s feet; my grandma, whose name snakes up a fold in Saint Margaret of Scotland’s purple robes; and my Aunt Colleen, whose looping signature is painted like a wedding ring around Saint Attracta’s finger. In fact, the only woman in my family whose name doesn’t appear anywhere is my Aunt Kathy, the youngest of my mom’s two sisters and our family’s resident black sheep, and that’s only because, as she once explained, “The only extracurricular I did was the smoking-cigs-in-the-locker-room club.”

  The Saints Corridor is also the source of much of our school lore. Saint Agnes of Bohemia, painted in 1968, the era of free love, has big curving boobs and a sexy red, open mouth. You’re supposed to kiss her feet before prom night if you’re hoping to lose your V card. Saint Maria Goretti has the words I LOVE BRAD painted faintly within the folds of the sheep that she’s holding. And Saint Catherine of Alexandria’s red robes have been rubbed away to a splotchy, faded pink, from three decades of ASH girls touching them for good luck before a big exam, hoping that the patron saint of learning will help them remember the formula for ammonium phosphate or how the Seven Years’ War helped lead to the American Revolution.

  The corridor is even said to be the site of a religious miracle. Back in 1988, two popular seniors named Tiffany Maldonado and Sandy DiSanto were driving home from a homecoming party, dressed in neon taffeta and drunk out of their minds. When they reached the railroad crossing at Avondale Avenue, they miscalculated the distance of the oncoming headlight and were creamed by a California-bound freight train carrying three thousand tons of coal and limestone. School lore has it that my mom’s painting, Our Lady of Lourdes, who reigns over the wall across the way from the science lab and directly above my locker, wept for the enti
re week of their funerals. At the end of the week, after people had come from miles around to venerate the painting and news crews had reported on the phenomenon and my mom dug out her old paintbrushes and brought them to Queen of Heaven church to have them blessed, the janitor discovered a leaky air-conditioning unit on the second floor directly above Our Lady’s head, and suddenly Academy of the Sacred Heart went from site of holy miracle to citywide laughingstock.

  Here’s the thing, though: I’m not crazy and I’m not superstitious. I’ve totally outgrown that simple, unquestioning religious faith I had as a kid at my First Holy Communion, decked out in a white lace dress and matching tiara from David’s Bridal and kneeling for the Body of Christ for the very first time. I don’t believe the people who claim they see the Virgin Mary in their grilled cheese sandwiches. But there’s something special about Our Lady of Lourdes. Maybe it’s just the connection I feel because my own mother helped to paint her, back when she was carefree enough to care about things like art and beauty. Maybe it’s because my locker stands right beneath her and I feel like she’s been watching over me—literally—since day one of my high school career. But whatever it is, I can feel her, like a peaceful presence pressing down on me, whenever I get my books from my locker. I talk to her sometimes in my head, which I guess is the same thing as praying. Hey, Our Lady. Please let me pass my precalc test. Hi, Our Lady. Please let my mom get enough hours this week to pay our gas bill. Hey. It’s me. Can you help me work on not hating my dad so much? I’d never tell anyone I do this, of course. If you knew my friends, you’d understand why.

  On this particular afternoon, Our Lady gazed down at me and Kenzie as she always did, smiling her lonely smile as we gathered our stuff.

  “Don’t tell me you’re seriously gonna do homework this weekend,” Kenzie said as she watched me load my backpack with my physics textbook and my precalc notebook.