Free Guardian by Joyce; Sweeney

Jessie says.
    My heart flip-flops. “We better wait and see what Stephanie wants to do,” I say. I know Stephanie will quash this. She doesn’t want any officers of the court looking at my eye and my arm.
    Andrea is sobbing now. “He scared me so bad. He said I’d have to answer at the Throne of God for my hateful ways.”
    I feel weird. Part of me is really frightened by the fact that I have the power to make something like this happen, but another part of me wants to dance for joy. I don’t think it’s good to be so confused. A house divided against itself cannot stand.
    I feel like I have two choices at this point. A guidance counselor or a priest. I choose a priest, since there’s nothing for a guidance counselor to do with a story like mine except have me committed. A priest might too, but at least I think he’ll have other options.
    Naturally, I don’t choose our church. I go to Saint Francis in Margate. I have to cut school, since I’m still grounded. I take two buses to get there, but I know from the newspaper that they serve Mass every day and have two priests, so there’s bound to be someone around for me to talk to.
    As soon as I see the outside of the church, I think if this angel business eventually turns me into a religious guy, this is the church I’ll pick. It has a nice green lawn with a statue of Saint Francis holding his hands out to the birds. There are three statue-birds, cleverly sculpted to look as if they’re fluttering around him, and then two real birds, a dove and some kind of blackbird, sitting on his head. I like a saint who’s the outdoor type, like me.
    I push open the doors and go past the foyer with a tableful of fund-raising literature and pass into the dark, magical part of the church, where the candles are flickering away and old ladies are going through their paces—stand, sit, kneel, mutter, cross, exit. People should be nicer to old ladies. They’re the only ones who bother to come out and pray for people. Mowing all these lawns has made me think how nice it would be to have grandparents. The kids at school make fun of their grandparents because they can take them for granted, but I’d love to adopt one of these little praying ladies and take her out for ice cream.
    When I see the altar, I know I’ve picked, or been guided to, the right place. There’s a flying Jesus behind the altar and all around him are angels. On his right is clearly Michael, because he has a sword and a mean look on his face. On his left is my man, Gabriel, holding a flower. Once again, they’ve made the mistake of portraying him blond. Up above Jesus’ head is a third angel in flight, looking down on the church with a sweet expression. He’s got something that looks like a fishing pole in his hand. I figure he must be Raphael. I stand there awhile, sort of soaking the angels in, and then I look for some kind of side exit. I have to explore a couple of different hallways because this is a big church, but finally I hit pay dirt—a library full of books and a young priest sitting on a window ledge, reading. I’m really happy I caught him this way and not in his office.
    â€œFather?”
    He looks up and then looks nervous. Probably he figures I’m a parishioner he’s supposed to recognize.
    I keep walking toward him, like I have confidence in myself. “My name is Hunter LaSalle. I don’t go to your church but I was hoping you could talk to me. I mean, I probably should have called first or come to confession but I really want to just talk. You know?”
    He kind of smiles and puts his book down. He holds out his hand. “I’m Father Ruiz. Would you like to see if Father McClure is free to talk to you? He’s senior here. I’m just a rookie.”
    â€œNo—I’d really rather it was someone … your age.”
    He laughs and then frowns again. He probably thinks this will