UP SO FLOATING

CHAPTER ONE All Saints Church bells startled Monty from a daydream of picking flowers in a warm meadow. In her daydream she was in France where, on May 1st each year, children place little white flowers on their neighbors’ doorsteps. Her ooh-la-la-fancy Aunt Monique said kids picked muguet des bois—lily-of-the-valley. Monty was scouring the meadow for a sprig with thirteen bells, which guaranteed eternal happiness though she’d settle for a bit of joy to replace the misery of her sixth-grade classroom at All Saints School. All Saints and Heaven Help the Rest of You, she called it. Surely, it would take a miracle, but unfortunately, Monty did not believe in miracles. “Listen up, buttercups,” Sister Portentia said to the class. “I have an announcement.” Church bells chimed and sixth graders scrambled from their seats. “Not so fast.” She gestured like a traffic cop. “Sit. Dismissal can wait.” Groups of sisters were called orders for a reason. Students sank back into chairs at desks bolted to the floor. Monty’s spirit felt bolted down, too. Then the toughest nun this side of the Appalachians rattled on about a talent show. Monty drifted off but caught snippets. “Two weeks away. . . Performances count as grades. . . Extra credit for a connection to Massachusetts or Springfield. . .” A passing mention of grace bewildered Monty. Meanwhile, Sister Portentia worked the room like a bossy collie. “Sit up, Mister. Look lively, Finnegan. Spit out that gum, missy.” Finally, she asked, “Questions?” Monty raised her hand. “Do you think the busted furnace will be fixed by then?” Sister Portentia’s icy glare froze Monty’s lips shut. “Offer your suffering up to the saints. And as you’re full of smart remarks, we’ll start with you. Tell the class your talent.” “I have none,” Monty said. “At least not anything anyone would want to see.” “Then find one,” she snapped. “I’ll get back to you.” Monty’s cousin Naza raised her hand. “May we work with friends, Sister?” “You’ll form teams of four. Each team will report their talents to me on Monday.” Monty’s classmates chattered about tap-dancing, science experiments, and musical feats. Controversial acts were taboo. Someone asked to roller skate. No. Perform a skit? Yes. Play drums. NO. Classmates considered spinning plates, pulling rabbits from hats, making elephants disappear. Monty considered flinging herself into the frigid Connecticut River. “I know ventriloquism,” Finn Mountain said. “Only, I’ll need a dummy like Danny.” Monty kicked Finn as she glimpsed Danny slipping out through the cloakroom. One by one, each student stated their talent and was dismissed until only two remained. “I’ll sing ‘America the Beautiful’,” Naza volunteered. “I play a little piano, too.” “Katharine Lee Bates is from Falmouth,” Sister Portentia responded. “Extra credit.” “I can sew a costume,” Naza added and clasped her hands together. “It sounds like fun.” “It sounds dreadful,” Monty muttered. She dropped her head onto her desk. Her only talent was to ring the All Saints Church bells—no longer an option—and so, she was doomed. She traced a thumbnail along the grooves in her desk and tried to act invisible, but unfortunately her nemesis was not yet through with her. “Everyone is good at something,” the nun said, coming back around to Monty like she’d threatened to. “Name something.” Monty thought long and hard. “Well, I have a natural infinity for words, I can climb the lightning oak faster than any boy, and I can name a hundred patron saints.” Sister Portentia tugged at a silver chin hair. “Such as?” “My favorite is Saint Joseph of Cupertino, patron saint of aviators. Saint Roch represents gravediggers. Drogo is the patron saint of unattractive people. He could bi-locate. I bet appearing in two places at once could come in handy.” Monty didn’t actually believe any of this nonsense, she simply liked reading about the lives of the saints. Sister Portentia’s eyes narrowed. “As you’re an expert on saints, you’ll portray one.” “Me? A saint?” Monty’s eyes widened. “Lightning would strike me dead.” “Skip the humor,” the nun said. “Portray Saint Rose, who represents piety. Emulate her, and you may diminish some of your bad habits. Anything short of this will not improve your pathetic language arts grade. What do you know about Saint Rose?” “The patron saint of nuns was beautiful,” Monty said, “but she rubbed lye on her face so men wouldn’t stare at her, which is pretty stupid if you ask me.” Sister Portentia’s forehead wrinkled, and she pressed her palms into Monty’s desk. “Vanity is a sin. Saint Rose defiled herself to disguise her beauty. Now, is that so stupid?” Monty knew a rhetorical question when she heard one but answered anyway. “I would never rub lye on my face. I doubt God wants us to hurt ourselves.” “Is that right?” Rhetorical again. Sister Portentia taped the talent show poster to the blackboard, dismissed Naza, and turned on Monty like a wolverine. “Listen up, missy. You’re failing this term, your attitude is abysmal, and you’re on thin ice. Get with the program or you’ll attend charm school this summer. I promise you it will be miserable.” She picked up her things. “Detention is in 6B.” Then she left without so much as a backwards glance. Saints preserve us. Monty could not tolerate one more minute, much less one more hour, with a Holy Terror. And as for offering her suffering up to the saints? How could that possibly help anyone? Surely the saints didn’t need any more suffering. Nope. Neither did Monty…she needed help. Pronto. She leaped to her feet, ripped the poster from the board, and hightailed it out of All Saints. Though it might take a miracle, perhaps Heaven would help her. Detention could wait.