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My heart aches for her. She must not have felt God’s love in the hymn like I did.

Grabbing the red curtain, Sister Agatha pulls it back and says, “Sara, you’re first. I’ll accompany you. The rest of you, remain here and remain quiet. Continue to repent until I return.”

The first girl in line, Sara, doesn’t move. Remaining in place, she trembles, her entire body shaking.

Until Sister Agatha barks, “Now!”

Rushing forward, Sara almost collides with Sister Agatha before she stumbles through the curtain.

Rolling her eyes, Sister Agatha shakes her head and mutters something under her breath before disappearing after her.

The red curtain swings back into place and silence falls upon the rest of us. It’s so quiet now in this little curtained-off corner, it’s as if we’re all holding our breath.

There are no more whimpers. No more sniffles.

No uncomfortable shifting or rustling of gauzy dresses.

Only silence.

Ears straining, I try to listen to everything happening outside the curtain.

I hear Sister Agatha call out, but her words are in Latin, and I don’t understand them.

A deeper voice calls back in Latin.

Then there’s quiet again.

A minute or two later, I feel all the little hairs on my body stand on end. But it’s not like what I felt when my father turned to look at me before blessing me.

No, this feels like I rubbed my entire body against a rubber balloon.

A couple of girls in line ahead of me squirm and turn to look around, and I know they felt it, too.

Then my stomach squeezes so tight I want to puke.

“What?” the second girl in line gags.

Clutching her own stomach, she bends over, her red ponytail sliding over her right shoulder.

The two girls around her quickly move away with looks of worry on their faces.

“Don’t you dare puke on me!” the girl with blonde curls says.

“I won’t!” the girl clutching her stomach says irritably, but her face is an ugly shade of green.

I fight hard not to grab at my own belly. Not wanting to draw the unwanted attention of the other girls.

It seems only the red-haired girl and I are sick. The others look a little worried but fine.

“Good,” the blonde girl says and smooths her hands down her white dress. “My daddy spent a lot of money on this dress. I bet your daddy couldn’t afford to pay my daddy back.”

The sickness churning like acid behind my bellybutton disappears.

Straightening, the red-haired girl sniffs at the blonde girl. “I bet my daddy could buy—”

Loud applause suddenly erupts inside the cathedral, drowning the rest of her words out.

Glancing at the curtain nervously, the blonde girl with curls hurries to move back into line.