Possess

saw in Hugh Darlington: They wanted to replace her dad.
    After that she had hardened herself against Matt. Sure they’d played together when they were kids, but they’d lost touch after Matt went to live with his mom. And now that he was back, he was different. Matt Quinn, star pitcher for Riordan Prep’s varsity baseball team, was Mr. Popularity. Mr. Perfect. They had nothing in common.
    No, that wasn’t quite true. She and Matt did have one thing in common: Alexa. Matt had dated her most of last year. And Bridget hated her with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
    “Are you even listening to me?”
    “Huh?”
    Hector darted in front of her and stopped dead, hands folded across his chest. “Did you hear anything I said?”
    Bridget took a wild guess. “Asian barista, should you ask him out or not?”
    Hector’s eyes narrowed as he fell back into step beside her. “Lucky guess.”
    “I was totally listening.”
    “Sure you were. Thinking about Matt Quinn?”
    Bridget tried to control the hot flush spreading across her face. Damn half-Irish blood. “Don’t be stupid.”
    Hector opened the door to room sixty-six. “Whatever.”
    Bridget brushed past him and stomped to her desk, dropping her bag on the floor. The new teacher wasn’t there yet, but the room was all atwitter about Mr. Singh and his replacement. Bridget didn’t care. She felt tired and old and completely disinterested in the goings-on at St. Michael’s Prep. She folded her hands across her desk and sank her forehead on top of them.
    “G-good afternoon, class,” a familiar voice said from the front of the room. “I’m your new history teacher.”
    Bridget’s head shot up, and she found herself staring at Father Santos.
    It wasn’t until the bell rang that Bridget realized a whole hour had slipped by.
    “B-Bridget,” Father Santos called from the whiteboard as students filed out of the room. “Um, Bridget Liu, can . . . can I see you for a moment?”
    “What the hell did you do?” Hector whispered. “Fall asleep?”
    “I’ll catch up with you after school,” she said, waving Hector off. She didn’t want any witnesses.
    “Bridget,” Father Santos began once the room was empty. “I was wondering if I might have a chat with you after school today.”
    “Sorry, can’t,” she said, relieved to have an excuse. “I’m grounded.”
    “Oh.” He paused for a moment and slipped a little-smoky-link finger between his collar and his neck. “Um, well, can you meet me in my office tomorrow morning before class? Around seven thirty? It’s—it’s important.”
    It always was with these priests.

Six
    E VERY T UESDAY B RIDGET HAD SIXTH period free. Her stint as the second accompanist for the St. Michael’s show choir satisfied her elective credit, and since the choir spent Tuesdays working on audition solos, Bridget was free to (a) sit in the back of the church and work on her homework, or (b) sit in the library and work on her homework.
    Exciting options. How about . . . neither?
    Bridget rapped softly on the door of Monsignor Renault’s office in the rectory and was answered with an immediate “Come in.”
    Bridget smiled to herself. He’d been waiting for her.
    She slipped into the office to find Monsignor scribbling away at his ornately carved desk. “Hello, Bridget.” He glanced up and gave her a quick nod. “I’m glad Mr. Vincent could spare you today.”
    “Me too.” Any excuse to get out of choir practice.
    With the tip of his pen he pointed for her to sit, then continued with his writing. Bridget eased into a brown leather chair and patiently waited for him to finish.
    Monsignor’s office was close and cramped, yet over the last few weeks Bridget had come to find it comforting. The dark green carpeting, the heavy reddish brown wood of his desk and bookcases, the Pietà paperweight, the small Tiffany lamp of purple, green, and orange stained glass. Even the heavy scent—a mix of furniture oil and candle wax—marked a place of refuge, a place where someone understood exactly what she was going through. Monsignor was the only one who did.
    Her eyes drifted to the portraits of the three archangels that adorned the walls. Traditional Catholic-y stuff, just what you’d expect to find in the office of a semiretired priest, but they were like familiar friends now, observing Bridget’s weekly sessions with her mentor. Raphael, beautiful and cherubic in flowing burgundy robes and matching wings, guiding the