The Defrocked Saint

The habit was never supposed to fit.

That’s the first thing you need to understand. Sister Margaret Mary’s old novice robes hung in the back of the sacristy closet for thirty years, collecting moth dust and the particular mustiness of unused holiness. They were meant for someone smaller, someone whose shoulders didn’t carry the weight of a father who drank himself into early retirement and a mother who pretended not to notice. They were meant for someone whose faith didn’t feel like a pair of shoes two sizes too small.

But here I am, standing in front of the bathroom mirror in the rectory basement, and I’ve made them fit.

The white wimple frames my face like a question I’m not ready to answer. The black veil drapes down my back, heavy as a secret. And the hem. God, the hem. It stops four inches above my knee, a fact I discovered when I first pulled the thing over my head and felt the cool air hit my thighs. Sister Margaret Mary must have been built like a prayer candle. Short and sturdy. I’m neither.

I tug at the skirt. It doesn’t get longer.

“You look like a nun who lost a bet.”

Rosa’s voice comes from the doorway, flat and unimpressed. She’s leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, wearing her usual uniform of black jeans and a leather jacket that’s older than both of us. Her hair is shaved on one side, long on the other, and she’s got a silver ring through her bottom lip that her mother still pretends not to see.

“I look like a nun who’s about to make some money,” I say.

Rosa snorts. “You look like a nun who’s about to get arrested.”

She’s not wrong. That’s the thing about Rosa. She’s never wrong, not about the important stuff. She knew my father was going to lose his job six months before he did. She knew my mother would start hiding the vodka bottles in the laundry room. She knew I’d take this gig even though every sensible bone in my body was screaming no.

But sensible bones don’t pay rent.

I turn sideways, checking the profile. The habit clings in ways that would make a real nun cross herself. The fabric is thin, worn translucent at the elbows. When I move, it catches the light and shows the outline of everything underneath.

“The shoes are wrong,” I say.

Rosa looks down at my feet. I’m wearing black combat boots, scuffed at the toes, the laces double-knotted because I’m not a fool.

“They’re perfect,” she says. “The contrast sells the whole thing. Innocent up top, trouble down below.”

I don’t tell her that I’m not sure there’s anything innocent about the top either.

The basement smells like bleach and old carpet and the faint sourness of the drain. The rectory above us is quiet. Father O’Malley left for his weekly poker game an hour ago, and Mrs. Delgado, the housekeeper, went home at six. We have the place to ourselves until midnight, which gives us exactly three hours to get ready and one hour to get out.

I check my phone. Seven forty-five.

“He’ll be there at nine,” Rosa says. “You sure you want to do this?”

I met Marco three weeks ago at a bar in the Mission. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my car and drinking whiskey like it was water. He bought me two drinks, told me he was a venture capitalist, and spent twenty minutes explaining why cryptocurrency was going to save the world. I nodded and smiled and let him think he was interesting.

Then he mentioned the party.

“It’s exclusive,” he’d said, leaning in close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “High rollers only. The theme is sacred and profane. You know what I mean?”

I knew exactly what he meant.

“I need a date,” he’d said. “Someone who can play the part.”

I’d laughed, told him I’d think about it. But I was already thinking about the rent, about the eviction notice taped to my door, about the way my mother’s hands shook when she poured her morning coffee. I was thinking about the five thousand dollars Marco had flashed on his phone screen like it was nothing.

Five thousand dollars for one night.

Five thousand dollars for wearing a costume and standing next to a man who thought money could buy anything.

I told Rosa the next morning. She told me I was an idiot. Then she helped me find the habit.

“I’m sure,” I say now.

Rosa doesn’t look convinced. She pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, her boots loud on the concrete floor. She stops a foot away and looks me over, her eyes moving slow, taking in every detail.

“The veil’s crooked,” she says.

She reaches up and adjusts it. Her fingers are gentle, surprisingly so for someone who spends her days breaking down engines and her nights breaking down men’s egos. She tucks a strand of my hair behind the wimple, smooths the fabric over my shoulders.

“There,” she says. “Now you look like a real nun. A real nun who’s about to do something very, very stupid.”

“That’s the look I was going for.”

She doesn’t smile. “Teresa. I’m serious. These guys, they’re not just rich. They’re connected. Marco’s got friends in places you don’t want to know about.”

“I know.”

“If something goes wrong, I can’t pull you out. I can’t call the cops. I can’t do anything except wait and hope you walk out on your own two feet.”

“I know.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she sighs, the sound heavy with a resignation I’ve heard from her a hundred times before. It’s the sound she made when I told her I was dropping out of community college. The sound she made when I moved back in with my parents. The sound she made when I started taking cash jobs from men who didn’t ask questions.

“You look good,” she says finally. “You look like you belong in a painting. One of those old ones, where the saints are dying and they look beautiful doing it.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She pulls a small bag from her jacket pocket and hands it to me. Inside is a crucifix on a silver chain, heavy and cold. I turn it over in my hands. The Jesus figure is detailed, his ribs visible, his eyes closed in permanent agony.

“Where did you get this?”

“My grandmother’s. She would have wanted someone to use it.”

I slip the chain over my head. The crucifix settles against my chest, a cold weight between my breasts. It feels wrong. It feels right. I don’t know which one is worse.

“One more thing,” Rosa says.

She pulls out a small makeup bag. Inside is a tube of lipstick, the red of fresh blood. She takes it out, uncaps it, and holds it up to my face.

“You need something that says you’re not actually a nun,” she says. “Otherwise they might believe you.”

She paints my lips carefully, her face close to mine. I can smell the tobacco on her breath, the motor oil in her hair. Her hand is steady. She doesn’t miss a line.

When she’s done, she steps back and looks at me.

“Perfect,” she says. “Now you look like a sin.”

I look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me is a stranger. She’s wearing the uniform of the faithful, but her mouth is the color of temptation and her eyes are the color of survival. She looks like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

I wish that were true.

My phone buzzes. A text from Marco.

*Car outside in 30. Don’t be late.*

I read it twice. Then I turn to Rosa.

“If I don’t come back,” I say, “tell my mother I loved her. Even when she didn’t deserve it.”

Rosa’s face hardens. “You’re coming back. I didn’t steal my grandmother’s crucifix for nothing.”

She hugs me then, quick and hard, her arms tight around my shoulders. I feel the bones of her ribs against mine, the sharp edge of her jacket zipper pressing into my stomach. She smells like home. She smells like the only person in the world who would help me put on a nun’s habit and send me into a room full of predators.

“Be careful,” she whispers.

“I’m always careful.”

“You’re never careful. That’s the problem.”

She lets me go. I grab my bag, check for the pepper spray, the burner phone, the roll of cash I’ll need for the cab ride home. Everything is in order. Everything is a lie.

I walk up the basement stairs, my combat boots heavy on each step. The door at the top opens into the rectory kitchen. The lights are off. The refrigerator hums. A crucifix hangs above the stove, Jesus looking down at me with that same expression of patient suffering.

I stop in front of it.

I don’t pray. I haven’t prayed since I was twelve years old, kneeling in a pew while my father slurred through the stations of the cross. But I look at the crucifix and I think about what Rosa said.

*She would have wanted someone to use it.*

I touch the cold metal against my chest.

Then I walk out the door and into the night, a nun in combat boots, a sinner in a saint’s clothing, a girl who’s about to walk into a room full of wolves and pretend she’s one of the flock.