Free Magdalene by Moriah Jovan Page B

few years. Even though Mitch had known
the consequences of letting an impressionable teenager loose with a
libertine like Sebastian, Mitch had needed help desperately.
    Sebastian was willing to step in where
Mina’s parents wouldn’t, Mitch’s parents couldn’t, and this—
    “I don’t think I believe any of it, much
less enough to preach it for two years.”
    —was the result.
    Mitch had gambled his son’s religious
training and lost.
    “Déjà vu all over again,” he said under his
breath, remembering the late nights, the arguments, the anguish of watching his best friend lose his faith, hurt,
angry, bewildered, and, ultimately, alone in a mire of doubt. Mitch
certainly wasn’t going down the “pray about it and you’ll know it’s
true” route again. That rarely worked anyway.
    “What? No objections?”
    “What am I supposed to say to that, Trevor?
You’ve always been expected to be a man, and you’ve grown into a
fine one, so I trust you’re capable of making your own
decisions.”
    “I don’t want to embarrass you in front of
the ward.”
    Mitch laughed. “I haven’t been embarrassed
about anything since I came home from my mission early.”
    “Aw, c’mon, Dad. You were sick.”
    That was the story, anyway.
    I’ve been hearing things about you, Elder
Taight, Elder Hollander. The stock exchange? The Louvre? You’re not
here for the sightseeing, Elders. You’re here to work.
    Have you seen our baptism numbers,
President?
    Yes, Elder Hollander, I have. Impressive,
certainly, but I simply can’t ignore you two breaking the rules. I
know you two spent your last P-day in La Rive Gauche.
    It was a P-day, President. Preparation day.
That was part of our preparation.
    Don’t get smart alecky with me, Elder
Taight. I always knew you were trouble. And where are you getting
all the money I know you’ve been spending? You can’t afford half
the food that’s in your apartment.
    No, Elders Hollander and Taight weren’t
blameless.
    Sebastian had indeed dragged Mitch to the
stock exchange and museums on the sly, taught him about money and
art and philosophy, encouraged Mitch’s taste for subversive books
at the tiny bookselling stalls they found on their explorations of
Paris. Mitch ate well on Sebastian’s dime and didn’t beat his feet
to death walking everywhere because Sebastian made sure they had
the money to use the subway and, if they were desperate enough to
risk being found out, a taxi. Sebastian had taught him what it felt
like not to pinch every penny because he had to, and Mitch was only
too eager to take the mental and emotional respite his renegade
companion offered.
    But they also worked hard and had the
numbers to prove it. It should have been enough.
    You two need to figure out if you’re here to
work or if you’re here to mess around.
    But President, we’re the second-highest
baptizing companionship in the mission.
    I heard you the first time, Elder
Hollander, but you’re not listening to me . It doesn’t excuse
either of you. You and Elder Taight here, birds of a feather,
shirking your duty. I’m sure your parents are very proud, but
then...the Church is paying for your missions, right?
Because your parents can’t? So they don’t have any real
investment in how you do here. Weak, both of you.
    The mission president’s insults had stunned
Mitch into silence, but not his companion.
    Oh, fuck you, President. You wouldn’t know
weak if it crawled up your ass and died.
    Elder Taight! Your language!
    Maybe you should worry less about my
language and my food and my going to the stock exchange, and more
about your two lily-white rich zone leaders out fucking
every pretty girl they can find. That’s against mission rules too,
right? I never hear about them getting called on the carpet.
Put our stats up against any other companionship in the mission and
you’ll see who’s fucking around and who’s not. C’mon, Elder. Let’s
go back to tracting, like we’re supposed to. Like we