Red Ink, Black Marks, and a Crooked Ruler ((Open by PM))

[Persiflage]

((Open by PM))

Sister Mary Cecilia did not like her. It would have been obvious to anyone, but Nennya could read it in her thoughts. The nun disliked her enough to want to physically hurt her.

For Nennya, there wasn't much difference between Sister Mary Cecilia's desire to hit her and the act of hitting itself. It wasn't like it was the city streets. The aggression of criminals out for a fight was expected, and somehow impersonal. It caused her no distress. But when Sister Mary Cecilia looked at her, her face and body language expressed an ugly dislike.

Either it began, or she had begun to notice, in her second week at St. Joseph's School. Sister Mary Cecilia taught introductory English and English for non-native speakers, and Nennya, to her considerable irritation, had been vetted for the latter course on enrollment. There was no way to test out of the course. At first she thought she was in good company--there were about ten other students in the class, some of them from foreign countries like her, some of them from foreign solar systems.

What seemed like an acceptable situation turned ugly. Little things at first ... her synonyms quiz turned back with a large "D" on it--when looking at her answers, she saw that she'd been marked down for using the word "vehicle" as a synonym for "car," "behoove" for "conform," and "redeem" for "save"--with the words "too complicated" written in red pen, like an accusation. Little things like never being called upon to read aloud like the other students often were asked to do.

Little things that added up to being on the 'grounded' list by her third week. Students at St. Joe's were prohibited from taking part in sports, extracurricular activities, and patrolling if any of their class grades slipped below a C-. The list was publically posted outside the school office. She hadn't gone to look at it, but she had a deep sense of shame when she thought about her name being displayed there for everyone to see. There was nothing on that list that said how well she was doing in her other classes--A's and B's in Biology, Chemistry, History, Civics, and Religious Studies. As far as public knowlege went, she was a dummy who couldn't pass a basic English class.

So in her third week, she waited after class to speak to her teacher. sister Mary Cecilia sat behind her desk, a few stray hairs escaping her wimple, her nose pinched either with irritation or by her steel-rimmed glasses.

"I need to understand why I'm doing so badly in this class," Nennya said, balancing awkwardly from foot to foot, feeling embarassed and out of place, and not a little nervous. Sister Mary Cecilia smiled at her, a beautiful smile that lit up her face, predatory and cruel.

"I suppose it's because you're a liar and a cheat, Nennya," she said in a reasonable tone of voice. "And I'm glad you've finally decided to apologize for it."

It took a moment to process this. Her chest hurt; she realized she wasn't breathing, and that her mouth was hanging open. She stammered some sort of protest, but the nun brushed her words away with a flick of her hand. "Your first book report, on Shirley Jackson's 'The Lottery.'It's plagiarized."

"No it's not!" she said angrily. "We wrote those longhand, in class. How could I have copied it from someone else?"

"Control yourself. Stand up straight and speak to me with respect. It's not the text, it's the ideas, Nennya. You stole those ideas from someone else. They weren't your ideas." She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out her book report, her neat print scribbled over with red pen. Nennya's knees trembled and the nun slapped her desk with an open palm. "Don't fidget. Now, I've done you a considerable favor and not brought this to a faculty meeting. I don't want to see you expelled."

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She was angry, but what made her angry wasn't that she was being accused of cheating, but that Sister Mary Cecilia didn't really believe it. The anger passed and she stared down at the nun. "What should I do?" she asked coldly.

"Come to class every day. Be obedient. Do your work and do it well. And no more cheating." she gave another nasty smile.

Nennya nodded, gritting her teeth. "What can I do to get off the grounded list?"

"Why, extra credit, Nennya. Extra credit. A ten-page paper on 'The Lottery,' typed, citing the sources you lifted for your ideas. Due ... hm ... due Friday."

"That's only two days from now."

"And you have nothing to distract you from your work. No activities, no gadding about the city. Not until it's done. I suggest you begin now. You may go."

Nennya left, walking through the hallways at a fast clip, her mood shifting rapidly between anger, hilarity, and confusion. Her footsteps took her directly to the library.

Eleven more weeks of this. She looked through critical journals and texts until her eyes felt like dropping out of their sockets. Eleven more weeks of Sister Mary Cecilia. God have mercy. She let out a barking laugh and began to construct an outline.

[Persiflage]

The bell rang; Religious Studies class was over. Nennya put her books slowly back into her bag.

She was tired from staying up late for the past few nights. When she'd turned in her paper today, Sister Mary Cecilia had sniffed derisively at it.

"What is that?"

"That's my paper, Sister. The one you asked for." She had tried to place it in the desk basket, but the nun flicked her hand away.

"It's a day late," Sister Mary Cecila had said. "I don't accept late work."

Nennya closed her eyes and let out a defeated sigh. "It's not late, Sister. It's early." Students were beginning to file in for English class. They took their seats and watched Nennya and the teacher half-disinterestedly. The teacher's voice, though quiet, carried through the room.

"It's late," she said. "I'm sorry, Nennya, but you cheated on your book report and giving me a late make-up paper won't help you. Take your seat."

"I didn't cheat," she said, frustrated tears coming to her eyes. "Take the paper, please, Sister." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared.

The nun sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Take your seat, Nennya."

"Take the paper, sister."

"Hold out your left hand, Nennya." She did so, and the nun struck her twice on the palm with her ruler. It smarted, but didn't really hurt. What really hurt was the humiliation of it, being hit in front of the entire class. "Now sit down." Nennya went to her seat, and sat down just in time to see Sister Mary Cecilia sweep her paper into the trash. She laid her head down on her desk and didn't say a word through the entire class. At the end, she'd fished her paper out of the garbage.

The rest of her classes that day were a blur. And this was her favorite course, religious knowledge, and she'd been in a trance all the way through it. Everyone had left.

"Nennya," Sister Mary Hilde said gently, "What's wrong?" The nun came other and put her hand gently on the catgirl's shoulder. The touch of kindness after a day of hell was just too much. Nennya burst into tears. Mary Hilde handed her a tissue and sat down in the seat next to her.

Her woes came pouring out. Sister Mary Cecilia. The accusations. The false promises. And the humiliation. When her words dried up, Sister Mary Hilde patted her shoulder again.

"Do you remember last week's lesson, Nennya-- Luke Six, verses twenty-seven to thirty-seven?"

She bit her lip, and then recited. "But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other..." her voice trailed off. "I can't remember the rest."

The nun smiled. "And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same. And if ye lend to them of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven: Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again."

Nennya's eyes widened. The sister smiled. "When I was a little older than you, and a novitiate in my order, I had a difficult time of things with the prioress. She didn't care for me much, nor I for her. My confessor asked me to commit that verse to memory in three languages. At first I was angry with him for setting me penance when it was the other who had wronged me. I came to understand years later that it wasn't a punishment--it was meant to bring me comfort, so that I could recite those words to myself when in difficulty. You remind me of myself at that age."

"Do you think Sister Mary Cecilia is trying to help me? I don't know about that, Sister. I can see inside her head. She wants to hurt me. She enjoys it when she humiliates me. She dislikes me, and I don't know why."

"Come to the refectory with me, Nennya. We'll have a nice cup of tea."

They walked to the refectory together, the place where, nominally, only instructor nuns and their guests were allowed to eat. It was a small comfortable wood-paneled room with long low tables and benches. There were a few women there, eating in silence. Sister Mary Hilde poured them each a cup of tea from the large samovar, with plenty of milk and honey.

"Someone once wrote that it is easier to forgive other people for the wrong they do us than it is to forgive ourselves for the wrongs we do to them." She sipped her tea.

"Is that St. Augustine?" Nennya asked, confused.

"Oh, no, it was a science fiction author I'm particularly fond of. Do you understand what that means?"

"No." She sipped her tea. It was strong and sweet and good.

"It means that we have to help the people that wrong us. Forgiveness isn't an action. It's a process. It's a way of assisting those who sin against us, to help them avoid their own sin."

"She's in the wrong for the way she treats me. And I'm not Jesus. I can't help but feel mad about it."

"Jesus didn't just forgive, Nennya. He exhorts us to do the same. He wouldn't ask if we weren't capable of it."

Another tear spilled down her cheek and landed with a *plop* in her drink. Sister Mary Hilde pulled a fold of her cloak over Nennya's head. It felt very much like being a baby chick, safe under a mother's wing.

"I don't know what to do."

"I'll speak to Sister Mary Cecilia on your behalf. We'll see if some timely intervention can salvage this situation. Perhaps it's only a misunderstanding."

"I think you're an optimist, Sister." She took another sip of her tea, and felt a little better.

[Persiflage]

And it's ironic, too
cause what we tend to do
is act on what they say
and then it is that way.

--Jem, "They."

Valerie Atwood, the school counselor, had just given her a shock.

She'd gone in for her weekly appointment, and encouraged by Sister Mary Hilde's compassion and help, had discussed her problems with Sister Mary Cecilia at length. At the end of the session (at which, mercifully, she didn't cry--she seemed to have emptied her reservoir of tears on Mary Hilde's shoulder) Valerie had handed her her large notebook.

"What does this mean to you?" asked Valerie. "It's the first time I've been able to draw something for you. Do you understand this?"

She stared at the sketch, dumbfounded. It was done in braod strokes of charcoal, but the details were clear. It showed a woman with a large hooked nose, a scarf over her head, with little horns and pointed ears protruding. Dollar bills were stuffed into her low-hung cleavage and she was shoving pages of a torn-up bible in her mouth. A small crowd of nuns looked on at this monster adoringly, but one, wearing thick glasses, looked disgusted and angry. The angry nun bore a casual resemblance to Sister Mary Cecilia.

"It means a lot," said Persiflage, more surprised and appreciative of the detail than angry. "It's like looking at something antique, from another age. Like an astrolabe." She shook her head. "This," she said, pointing at the female figure, "This is a Jewish caricature in the old style--the hooked nose, the horns. But the spots on her forehead, the hairy forearms ... it's meant to be me. I don't see myself this way." Her hand moved over, pointing to the angry nun. "But someone does. Sister Mary Cecilia does."

"I didn't do this session with Sister Mary Cecilia, Nennya," Valerie replied, taking back the sketchpad and adding information about the session to the lower righthand corner. "I did it for you. Some part of you might see it that way."

Nennya shook her head, wrapping her jacket more snugly around her shoulders. She shook her head. "No. I'm ... I'm mildly psychic. I could tell that Sister Mary Cecilia hated me, but I couldn't understand why. Now I do. She's an anti-Semite. I just ... I just didn't recognize that. I've never been treated that way before. People tend to focus on my appearance, not so much on my faith. And anyway ... I ... it's not like we're observant. How did she even know?" She rubbed her temple, thinking. "She must have been on my admissions committee. There was some trouble because of my family's faith. The committee was reluctant to admit me until we agreed to pay full tuition and make a donation toward the scholarship fund for less privileged students. That must be it. She thinks I've bought my way in. I'm a dirty interloper in a nice clean Catholic fold." Her voice turned bitter. "I don't know what I"m supposed to do about that. I can't change my family or their faith. I don't think I would even if I could. There's no way she's going to stop hating me." She turned to look at her counselor. "Thank you, Valerie. This has helped a lot." She shook hands with her, and looked, despite herself, for any signs of revulsion in the counselor. To her relief, there were none.

She walked down the halls and out the door, catching the train to the mall. Was this what it was like to be different--to really feel different? To always be afraid that other people disliked her and only pretended to see her as being like them? Always to be suspicious? The idea was so new, so strange, that she almost missed her stop.

She picked up an Orange Julius and walked around the mezzanine, looking for a store she'd seen there a few weeks ago. She walked inside and pointed to a piece of jewelry sitting inside the glass case. "That one," she said to the well-coiffed shopgirl. "Don't wrap it up. I'm going to wear it out." She paid in cash and fastened the pendant chain around her neck, loosening the collar of her shirt and jacket so that the gold Star of David was clearly visible against the dark fur of her neck. She felt visible, self-conscious, and strange. Were people staring at her? What were they thinking about her inside their heads? How was she being labeled? As a St. Joseph's student? As a cat-girl? As a Jew?

She took time making her way back to school, riding the tram around the city once, feeling eyes on her, picking up on their mental impressions as she sat there. Yes, labeled as all of these, and more. But ... there was a lack of hostility in most of these thoughts that was comforting. She was being packaged, and dismissed. There was no animus against her.

She walked back to the school, just in time for Sister Mary Cecilia's class. She felt the nun's eyes on her as she went to her desk, felt her take in the Star of David around her neck, and felt that familiar rush of revulsion from the nun. Nennya sat and stared the nun in the eyes.

I know you hate me, thought Nennya. And I know why. But I'm not ashamed of myself or of my parents. The shame is yours.

She picked up a pencil and began working on the day's lesson.

[Persiflage]

The following is a "brief poem attributed to Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) about the inactivity of German intellectuals following the Nazi rise to power and the purging of their chosen targets, group after group."

It's here because it reminds all of us that when we sit and are silent about persecution and wrong, we are, in some ways complicit with that wrong--whether it be a wrong as devastatingly large as the Holocaust, or the little petty wrongs we ignore and excuse in ourselves and others, every day.

They came first for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant.

Then they came for me,
and by that time no one was left to speak up.

[Gravwarp]

Bryan left his psych evaluation with Ms. Atwood, with a devilish grin. She was eerie as usual and they spoke a lot about his obsessing with things and people. It was something he was working on and Valerie said he was making good progress. She also pointed out that he was actually performing much better academically here at St. Joe’s then he ever was at Public School. Perhaps it was that here, he didn’t have to worry about being constantly harassed by bullies here (well, for the most part). He laughed to himself on the way to English class. More than any class, recently this had become his favorite, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the curriculum. Nennya was in the class and he always liked seeing her. So far Bryan had been cruising through the class, with the bare minimum of effort, his grade reflected his efforts.

Bryan then saw something out of the corner of his eye; he caught a glimpse of someone down the hall at his locker. He made his way down the hall to the locker; he saw something stuffed in the vent. It was a photocopy of a poem. He recognized the poem, of course, but it confused him at first. Bryan took the sheet and made his way to class.

Had he insulted someone? He didn’t think so; he had tried to befriend as many people as possible. The poem spoke of standing up for those that were different from you, especially when they were being discriminated against. He had done that, had he not? He tried to be especially nice to the students that looked different. He had learned well, how difficult it was to be different and he wanted to spare as many as possible, the feelings of depression and isolation he had battled himself.

Entering the classroom, Bryan spotted a copy of the same poem tacked up to the corkboard outside the door. He was at first relieved the poem wasn’t an accusation against him. Then he was immediately concerned again, was this going to be another “Vigilant” incident? He was worried.

He entered English class with the throng of students, just managing to beat the second bell. As he walked to his seat, he saw that many of the students held copies of the sheet, as did Sister Mary Cecilia; but as confused as the majority of the students looked, the Sister was visibly perturbed. It was obvious she had some insight to the matter. Bryan smiled at Nennya has past her on the way to his seat. She did not smile back, she looked sullen; this did nothing to ease Bryan’s tension about this particular class today.

As the class settled down for the day’s lesson, the nun rose from her seat. She spoke in a disappointed tone to her class, “It seems that someone in this class is unhappy with my teaching methods.” She paused, letting the students react. She looked at the children, looking over them scanning for a reaction. She found none apparently and continued her speech. “Sister Mary Hilde spoke with me this week, and in no uncertain terms said to me, one of you feels you are being persecuted.” It was almost undetectable but he was sure she added an almost spiteful accent on the last word. “I’ve prayed for the divine insight on how to best handle this situation and finally, the Lord, in his blessed wisdom, has given me a solution. Since Sister Mary Hilde did not give me the name of this dissatisfied student, I’ll leave it to that student to come forward to me.”

She was silent; the students looked amongst themselves each attempting to find the guilty amongst them. Sister Mary Cecilia began to move up and down the aisles scanning the faces of her students like a vulture circling a fresh kill. But wait, Bryan noticed something. At first he though he imagined it, no there it was again. As the nun was looking about the room, her eyes kept falling on poor Nennya and hesitating, if only for a moment.

Bryan considered the situation for a second, “It made sense,” he thought. Nennya’s sullen look, the accusatory glances, even the poem, and, oh no, her necklace; the boy was distressed to think that the thoughts in his head might even be a possibility here in this school. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking was true but he did know for sure, that whichever student had spoken to Sister Mary Hilde had not wanted this discussion to be made public and certainly not wanted to be singled out to the rest of the class.

The Sister was closing in on Nennya’s desk but if she was the student in question, she did not seem worried in the slightest. She kept a cold and emotionless countenance upon her face, Bryan begin to look about as well for the guilty person. Whether or not she was truly the one, Bryan was sure that Sister Mary Cecilia was confident that she was culpable.

Bryan was unsure what to do, but as the nun approached Nennya’s back, she opened her mouth to speak. Suddenly, without thinking, Bryan stood up. “I… umm… I did it.” He said, his throat was drying and he found himself staring at the shocked faces of his classmates and that of Sister Mary Cecilia. Seeing her mouth agape, seemed to fuel the young man’s lies. “Yes, I’m the one who complained.” He began to raise his voice, “It’s an injustice to this class to continue to the false perception of the unquestioned divinity of Jesus.”

The look on her face was one of complete bewilderment and horror. “I hardly think this is the class for a religious discussion Mr. Baxter.” The Sister responded to his outburst and made her way back to the front of the room. “In the future, I would like to inform you that blasphemy will not be tolerated within my classroom.” She responded calmly. He wavered for a moment, he had no idea where his declaration had come from but he was going to have to see this little venture to it’s conclusion. She peered at the boy from the front of the class. “What seems to be your problem with my teaching method, if I may ask you?”

Her calm confused Bryan, he had hoped to get her to explode and forget Nennya’s guilt (whether imagined or not). He ignored the teacher’s question and continued on his now apparently insane tirade. “We merely have to look at the Canonical Gospels to find evidence that Jesus was not perfect.” “Sit down, Mister Baxter!” the nun replied her voice cold and very serious.

He continued unabated, “Matthew 21:18 to 20 tells a story of how Jesus and his Apostles were hungry on a winter day. They went to a fig tree and found it had no figs. So how did the merciful savior act, he withered the tree out of spite. That’s right killed the tree for not bearing fruit in the winter! I’m not the Son of God but I could have told you that tree would have had no figs in the winter!”

”Mr. Baxter, if you are finished? Will you please accompany me to the Headmaster’s Office? It appears that you have decided to take it upon yourself to change today’s lesson plan, so I think you, he and myself should sit down and have the theological discussion you so crave.” She looked at him coldly and said, “While we are there perhaps we can discuss your recent behavior problems and this little out burst.”

Bryan gathered his things he looked about the class room as her gathered his things. The “Oooh’s” and “Uh Oh’s” immediately began; he looked to Nennya subtly and saw a smile appear on her soft face. That small smile would make any punishment completely worth it. “Continue you reading, class. I shall return shortly, without Mr. Baxter and his ministry” Sister Mary Cecilia spoke to the class as she escorted the young man from her classroom.

*Edited by author for continuity purposes*

[Persiflage]

They'd arranged to meet at the Imperial Theater in the Rogue Isles, where a matinee of "The Last Unicorn" was playing. Predictably, they had the theatre to themselves, and spent their time talking in low tones, occasionally looking up to watch the Unicorn attempt to fulfill her quest; to find the others of her kind who had vanished in the wake of King Haggard and the Red Bull.

"I have something for you, Nix" he said to her. "it's a present."

"What is it," she asked, a little disinterestedly.

"Something from your little boyfriend." His voice was full of scathing contempt.

"Drix, be nice."

"You be nice. Did you notice he calls you Nya? He's got a hopeless crush on you. Do you want it or not?"

She was sitting next to him, but her shoulder flinched away from his arm. She shook her head. "Why hopeless? Why do you talk like that?"

He frowned at her, then frowned at the screen. When he turned back, he spoke to her, mind to mind.

//He's unworthy of you, and you know it.//

"That's not true," she said. "Bryan is kind, and generous--and brave! He defended me against Sister Mary Cecilia."

"And why do you keep bitching about that nun? I know she makes your life hard, but does that really matter in the long term? She's a symptom of the sickness of this place, nothing more. It's not that important."

"It is important. It is, Drix! Her cruelty to me is relevant. So is Bryan's kindness. You think that we won't face the same problems of dominance and cruelty in the world we want to build? Do you think we'll go there empty of memory?"

//It won't matter, Nix. It won't. If there is a conflict like that, me or someone like me will fix it. You and ... this obsession with people. And THAT! What is that all about?// He picked up her star of David and held it, balanced, on the tip of one finger. //This nonsense.//

"It's not nonsense. I used to think it wasn't important, but I was wrong to think so. I thought that we were strangers in this world, just waiting to leave. But I'm starting to feel differently."

Their eyes flickered to the screen, watching the Harpy beseech the Unicorn to open her cage.

"At first it just seemed stupid and unfair. But by hating me, Sister Mary Cecilia has helped me. I'm embracing a part of myself--THIS body, THIS religion--" she put her fingers over his, curling her hand around the pendant--"this is not nonsense to me. It's part of me and I want it."

"The more I learn about people, the more I understand about myself. My children, or their children, may look nothing like me. They may have to be adapted to an environment that makes strange demands on their bodies. I'll build them as carefully as our parents built us ... but it's not just the body that gets built, it's a culture, a people. Ignoring that is making a dangerous mistake. You've become cavalier in the way you treat the people around you, Drix. Your contempt for them. I'm not the only one who's noticed."

"You must never run from anything immortal," the Unicorn cautioned Schmendrick. "It attracts their attention."

She felt Drix twist on his own personal hook. She reached down and held his hand. //You are using your unhappiness as a license for cruelty and indifference. I don't like to see it.// She searched his face, eyes full of compassion and knowledge. He was the first to lower his eyes.

"Do you still want it?" he asked.

"Not now. I'd like more time to examine it at leisure. But there is something I want from you, Drix. It's important to me."

"What?"

"I want you to go to temple with me."

[Persiflage]

"What do we do?" he whispered to her, standing on the threshold of the congregation. She handed him a skullcap.

"Put this on, for starters. You're supposed to cover your head." He put it on, making a face.

The synagogue was an open area, two rows of pews separated by an aisle, not that different from the chapel at her school. At the front, a lectern with a microphone, and a large ornately carved box. But the front area was empty.

They walked up the aisle, hand in hand. There were a few clusters of people, eyes closed, reciting prayers.

//Is this place orthodox?// he asked her. //aren't you supposed to sit behind a screen so you don't distract the men from their prayers?//

//No, this is a Reform synagogue. The men and women attend together.//


They stood there, feeling awkward and strange. They took seats near the back, staring around like the strangers they felt themselves to be.

//I'm here,// he thought to her. //I'm wearing a coat and tie, and God help me, a yalmulke. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.//

//Waiting,// she thought. //The Rabbi is supposed to meet with us in a few moments.//

A woman, dressed in a sober dress suit, came over to them. "You are Nennya and Toviel?" she asked, reaching out to shake their hands. "I'm Deborah Schon, the rabbi." She sat down in the pew beside them, folding her hands on her skirt. "You had questions for me?"

Nennya bit the inside of her lip, all the questions she'd wanted to ask on the tip of her tongue. "I want to know... I need to know... am I Jewish?"

The Rabbi looked at her. "That's either a very complicated answer or a very simple one. We'll answer the simple one first. Was your mother Jewish?"

Nennya looked down at her hands. "Which one?" she whispered. "I have two."

The Rabbi nodded, reading more into the answer than was there. "The mother who bore you, was she Jewish?" Nennya nodded, thinking of Mommie Zarina. "Then the simple answer is yes, Nennya, you're Jewish, according to orthodox tradition. But this is a reform temple, and according to our standards, it is not so simple. To participate in our services and ceremonies, you would need to be confirmed in the faith. And there are other requirements to be met. Have you spoken to your mother about your faith?

"She's very far away," she answered. "And... my parents are reluctant to talk about their faith. I just need some help. I'm having ..." tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. Drix put his arm around her. "I'm having trouble at school. A teacher is mean to me because I'm Jewish, but I have no idea what that really means. I'm not one of the goyim, but I don't know how to be Jewish, either. Please, can you help me?"

The Rabbi nodded. "We have shul here, and we're preparing a few young women for their bat mitzvah. How old are you?"

"I'm fifteen," she said.

"Any familiarity with Hebrew?"

"I can speak it, but not well."

Deborah smiled. "The class for young women meets every Wednesday, here, at six. There will be others who are at your level. If you like, you may attend. I can't proceed you for the bat mitzvah, but maybe you'll discover the answers to your questions."

"Thank you, Rabbi."

Deborah looked over her shoulder at Drix. "You are her brother?"

//The resemblance isn't obvious?// he thought, loudly, to Nennya.

"I am," he said. "I'm here for her, not for myself. Your God doesn't want me." He stood up, taking Nennya firmly by the arm. "Thank you, Rabbi, for helping my sister." He inclined his head in a gesture of respect, but marched her firmly out the door.

//You were rude,// she thought to him, as they walked out the door. He buttoned her coat for her, pushed his skullcap into her breast pocket. His grip on her arm was almost uncomfortable.

//I know. I'm sorry. But I don't like this religion, Nennya. You wouldn't either, if you knew the laws of it. There are laws against mixing the seed of animals with other animals--how do you think that applies to us, and our family? We're a forbidden thing, chimearae, monsters. Its' forbidden for men to commit sodomy, or to wear clothing meant for women. The penalty is death by stoning. I don't think Rabbi Deborah or Miriam or what-have-you would do that, but her students would beat me with a broom if they knew. And the kenning--Nennya, they would never sanction our relationship. They would call it incest. I love our mothers and fathers, but they never had any intention of letting us be comfortable in their religion. And if you cling to it, I'm afraid it will take you away from me.//

//I will never leave you,// she said, leaning on his arm. //Never, Drix.//

He escorted her to the gates of the school. A few of the students, seeing his Bloodvine Academy uniform, sneered, glared, or averted their eyes.

//They look at me and think 'thing'// he said. //I don't like it here. But I'll be back, next week, to see you. Be well until then.//

They hugged, and she stood at the gate until disappeared over the rise of the hill.

[Persiflage]

She came back from the hospital in a blue funk. It had been a terrible few days. She wasn't sure which had her more upset, the way Joni was absorbing guilt over Mana, or Bryan's broken arm. It was late; she was tired, her knuckles were bruised from a fight she'd gotten drawn into on her way back to the school. She hadn't wanted to fight, but she heard the cries for help and couldn't deny them.

It was a woman, struggling with a man--a pursesnatching, she figured. Persiflage swooped in on them in a rush of speed, putting the momentum into the uppercut she delivered to the side of the man's jaw. He dropped like a stone, unconscious, to the ground.

But then the woman started hitting her, screaming and slashing at her with long pointed fingernails. The contents of the woman's purse scattered everywhere as Nennya struggled to hold the woman's wrists. Eventually she stopped screaming at her and dissolved into tears, scrabbling at the ground Nennya, perplexed, watched her shove make-up, condoms, and a twist of plastic baggie full of white powder into her cracked leather bag.

"What's going on here?" asked Nennya, completely confused. "Wasn't he trying to hurt you?"

"Screw you, sugar," the woman said. Nennya was getting a good look at her now; tight clothing, pancake slathered on a face which almost covered bruises but not swelling, a haggard, hard look of age on her young body. "Idiot kid."

"He was your pimp?" Nennya asked, aghast. She could tell that the woman hated the man, and she got some brief images, incomprehensible and strange, that filled in the gaps. "You should run away from him. You go, and I'll wait here for the police."

"Shut up. You don't know nothin' bout nothin.' You mind your own business." She helped the semiconscious man to his feet and they disappeared down the alley.

"Great," she said. "Just great." She had a strong urge to run after them, put the man in the hospital. But what then? The woman wouldn't thank her for that. Was it any of her business that the man abused her, took her money, gave her drugs to keep her tame? If she made it her business, wouldn't she have to track down and beat up every pimp in the city?

Maybe it was her business. But not tonight. The curfew bells were ringing in the tower as she crept through the school gates. She wanted nothing more than to take possession of the shower for at least an hour, either until her fingertips wrinkled or the boiler gave up.

A shadow separated itself from the darkness of the room and came forward. Nennya moved on instinct into a defensive posture. "Sister Mary Cecilia!" she said, her surprise making her tone of voice pleasant.

"I had to see it for myself. With my own eyes. Where have you been tonight, Nennya?"

"I've been out, sister."

"You're not allowed to go out on patrol until your grades improve, Nennya."

She thought about dissembling, about protesting that she'd been visiting Bryan in the hospital, but ... her knuckles, already healing but still bruised, would give lie to this. Did she really want to lie to a teacher who already considered her a liar? What harm could it do?

"I have been disobeying you, sister."

"Hold out your hand, Nennya."

She watched the sister take careful aim with her ruler, ready to smack her knuckles right on the bruising. As the ruler came down, Nennya grabbed it, and with a sharp twist, took it away from the nun.

"I don't think I'm going to allow you to hit me again, sister. If I need discipline, you should have someone else administer it." Because recognizing your authority over me makes me give you license to be cruel. Sometimes obedience is a sin.

She dropped the ruler at the nun's feet. "Good night, Sister."