Possess

his booming, official exorcist’s voice. “Bridget, what have we trained for? What have we spent all this time working on together?”
    Oh, so this is what Catholic guilt felt like.
    “Well?”
    “I, uh . . .” It was a silly question. Monsignor was right: He’d spent so much time training her, teaching her, believing in her. Was she really going to give all that up because she freaked out at the feeling she got when she banished a demon? Was she really that selfish?
    “Hey, Bridge!” Matt Quinn ran across the parking lot. Flail. “Bridge, wait up.”
    “Matt,” Bridget said, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing here?”
    “Hey, I thought maybe you’d want a ride home,” he said as he jogged up to the car. “I saw Hector out front and he said he hadn’t seen you after school so I came looking for you.”
    Bridget closed her eyes. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus! God forbid she do anything without Matt and her mom sticking their noses in it.
    “Bridget has some official parish business to attend to this afternoon,” Monsignor said.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” Matt said to Monsignor with a nod of his head. Such a good Catholic boy. “I didn’t realize—”
    “You are Sergeant Stephen Quinn’s son, are you not?” Monsignor asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I see.”
    “Matt,” Bridget started, “I need to go.”
    “Oh.” Matt looked at her sidelong. “You okay, Bridget?”
    “Yeah.” She didn’t want to get into it with him; he’d be on the phone to her mom five seconds after the words “I’m going to an exorcism” hit the air.
    Matt’s eyes flicked between the two priests, then landed on her face with a look of confusion. “Do you need me to come with you?”
    Bridget, Monsignor, and Father Santos all answered in unison. “No!”
    Matt’s brows drew together, and Bridget recognized that familiar look of concern and, barf, responsibility. His face pleaded with her silently for some sort of explanation. She didn’t know why, but she thought it was kind of sweet. “I’m fine,” she said, reaching for the car door. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
    He grasped her hand, intertwining his fingers loosely in hers. “Promise?”
    Bridget’s heart thumped in her chest. What was wrong with her? “Yeah,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Yeah, I promise.”
    Far from appeased, Matt’s brows lowered over his eyes. He bent his head close to hers. Bridget held her breath. “We’re still on for Saturday night, right?”
    “The Winter Formal?” Father Santos asked. He sounded surprised.
    Matt straightened up and withdrew his hand from hers. Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank Father Santos or murder him.
    “Yeah,” Matt said. “Bridget and I are going.”
    Father Santos’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to the Winter Formal? Together?”
    “Yes, we are,” Matt said. “Is there a problem?”
    “N-no. I just, I just thought—”
    “BRIDGE!” A shriek pealed across the parking lot. Bridget spun around to find Peter Kim sprinting to the car.
    Really? Really? First Matt, now Peter? She’d managed to avoid him all day and now he found her? Was she being punished for something?
    “Interesting timing,” Father Santos muttered.
    “Bridge,” Peter panted as he trotted up to her, all red faced and sweaty from his brief outburst of physical activity. He brushed past Matt without a glance in his direction. “Bridge, I’ve . . . I’ve come to take you home.”
    Bridget snorted. “I can get myself home, Peter.”
    “But I can protect you.”
    Was he serious? “Protect me from—”
    “If anyone’s taking Bridget home,” Matt interrupted. “It’s me.”
    Oh, great. A pissing contest. “Guys, seriously? I don’t need either of you to—”
    Peter turned to face his rival. The pointy ends of his spastic hair barely reached Matt’s shoulders. “I’ve known her longer.”
    Matt took a step forward. “No, you haven’t.”
    “Bridget’s my responsibility.”
    She freaking hated that word. “Guys, I’m right here.”
    “I think Bridget can decide for herself,” Matt said, ignoring her. “Who she wants to take her home.”
    This was ridiculous. “Yes, Bridget can,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And she chooses neither.”
    They turned to her at the same time. “Huh?”
    “Yeah. Parish business, remember? I need to go.”
    Peter grabbed her arm. “But—”
    “Boys,” Monsignor barked. His patience was maxed out.