mention penis candles, bolts of energy, or naked swimming.
“It’s more than that,” my mom insisted. Her brown eyes were wide, and she looked as taut as a piano wire. She turned to my dad. “Sean, help me here.”
“Look, Morgan,” my dad said, more calmly. “We’re concerned about this. I think we’re pretty open-minded, but we’re Catholics. That’s our religion. We are part of the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church does not condone witchcraft or people who study witchcraft.”
“I don’t believe this,” I said, starting to get impatient. “You’re acting like this is a huge threat or something.” Memories of how sick I had felt after the two circles flashed through my mind. “I mean, this is Wicca. It’s like people deciding to protest animal testing or wanting to dance around a maypole.” Some of the facts about Wicca that I had read in my book came back to me. “You know, the Catholic Church has adopted a bunch of traditions that began with Wicca. Like using mistletoe at Christmas and eggs at Easter. Those were both ancient symbols from a religion that began long before Christianity or Judaism.”
My mom stared at me. “Look, miss,” she said, and I knew she was really angry. “I’m telling you that we will not have witchcraft in this house. I’m telling you that the Catholic Church does not condone this. I’m telling you that we believe in one God. Now, I want these books out of this house!”
It was like my mom had been replaced by an alien duplicate. This sounded so unlike her that I just gaped. My dad stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder, obviously trying to get her to calm down, but she just glared at me, the lines around her mouth deep, her eyes angry and cold and . . . worried?
I didn’t know what to say. My mom was usually incredibly reasonable.
“I thought we believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” I said. “That’s three.”
Mom looked almost apoplectic, the veins in her neck jumping out. I suddenly realized that I was taller than she was now. “Go to your room!” she shouted, and again I jumped.We’re not a raised-voice kind of family.
“Mary Grace,” my dad murmured.
“Go!” my mom yelled, throwing out her arm and pointing out the kitchen door. It almost looked like she wanted to hit me, and I was way shocked.
Dad reached out his hand and touched Mom’s shoulder in a tentative, ineffectual gesture. His face looked drawn and his eyes concerned behind their wire-rim glasses.
“I’m going,” I muttered, taking the long way around her. I stomped upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I even locked it, which I’m not supposed to do. I sat on my bed, spooked and trying not to cry.
Over and over, I had the same thought: What is Mom so scared of?
14
Deeper
> < “The king and queen longed for a child for many years and finally adopted an infant girl. But to their misfortune, the child was destined to grow enormous and devour them with her steely teeth.”
—from a Russian fairy tale> <
“So how come you’re in the dollhouse?” Mary K. asked the next morning.
I backed Das Boot out of our driveway, two strawberry Pop-Tarts clenched between my teeth.
Once when Mary K. was little, she had done something bad, and my mom had sternly told her she was “in the doghouse.” She had heard “dollhouse,” and of course the whole thing made no sense to her. Now it’s what we always say.
“I was reading some stuff they didn’t want me to read,” I muttered casually, trying not to spew crumbs all over my dashboard.
Mary K.’s eyes opened wide. “Like pornography?” she asked excitedly. “Where’d you get it?”
“It wasn’t pornography,” I told her in exasperation. “It was no big deal. I don’t know why they’re so upset.”
“So what was it?” she persisted.
I rolled my eyes and shifted gears. “They were some books about Wicca,” I said. “Which is an ancient, woman-based religion that predates Judaism and
“It’s more than that,” my mom insisted. Her brown eyes were wide, and she looked as taut as a piano wire. She turned to my dad. “Sean, help me here.”
“Look, Morgan,” my dad said, more calmly. “We’re concerned about this. I think we’re pretty open-minded, but we’re Catholics. That’s our religion. We are part of the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church does not condone witchcraft or people who study witchcraft.”
“I don’t believe this,” I said, starting to get impatient. “You’re acting like this is a huge threat or something.” Memories of how sick I had felt after the two circles flashed through my mind. “I mean, this is Wicca. It’s like people deciding to protest animal testing or wanting to dance around a maypole.” Some of the facts about Wicca that I had read in my book came back to me. “You know, the Catholic Church has adopted a bunch of traditions that began with Wicca. Like using mistletoe at Christmas and eggs at Easter. Those were both ancient symbols from a religion that began long before Christianity or Judaism.”
My mom stared at me. “Look, miss,” she said, and I knew she was really angry. “I’m telling you that we will not have witchcraft in this house. I’m telling you that the Catholic Church does not condone this. I’m telling you that we believe in one God. Now, I want these books out of this house!”
It was like my mom had been replaced by an alien duplicate. This sounded so unlike her that I just gaped. My dad stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder, obviously trying to get her to calm down, but she just glared at me, the lines around her mouth deep, her eyes angry and cold and . . . worried?
I didn’t know what to say. My mom was usually incredibly reasonable.
“I thought we believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” I said. “That’s three.”
Mom looked almost apoplectic, the veins in her neck jumping out. I suddenly realized that I was taller than she was now. “Go to your room!” she shouted, and again I jumped.We’re not a raised-voice kind of family.
“Mary Grace,” my dad murmured.
“Go!” my mom yelled, throwing out her arm and pointing out the kitchen door. It almost looked like she wanted to hit me, and I was way shocked.
Dad reached out his hand and touched Mom’s shoulder in a tentative, ineffectual gesture. His face looked drawn and his eyes concerned behind their wire-rim glasses.
“I’m going,” I muttered, taking the long way around her. I stomped upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I even locked it, which I’m not supposed to do. I sat on my bed, spooked and trying not to cry.
Over and over, I had the same thought: What is Mom so scared of?
14
Deeper
> < “The king and queen longed for a child for many years and finally adopted an infant girl. But to their misfortune, the child was destined to grow enormous and devour them with her steely teeth.”
—from a Russian fairy tale> <
“So how come you’re in the dollhouse?” Mary K. asked the next morning.
I backed Das Boot out of our driveway, two strawberry Pop-Tarts clenched between my teeth.
Once when Mary K. was little, she had done something bad, and my mom had sternly told her she was “in the doghouse.” She had heard “dollhouse,” and of course the whole thing made no sense to her. Now it’s what we always say.
“I was reading some stuff they didn’t want me to read,” I muttered casually, trying not to spew crumbs all over my dashboard.
Mary K.’s eyes opened wide. “Like pornography?” she asked excitedly. “Where’d you get it?”
“It wasn’t pornography,” I told her in exasperation. “It was no big deal. I don’t know why they’re so upset.”
“So what was it?” she persisted.
I rolled my eyes and shifted gears. “They were some books about Wicca,” I said. “Which is an ancient, woman-based religion that predates Judaism and
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