Exorcising Aaron Nguyen

Sweet Baby Latte

Aaron's ghost set a nun on fire during fourth period.

I was forced to agree with Hiroki's diagnosis of Aaron's non-Catholic proclivities, because I'm Protestant and there's still something deeply wrong with the idea of lighting up an old lady who looks like she should sing about mountain climbing. Sister Robert Catharine only got a little singed, but witnessing the fire did have an effect on me. However blasé I'd been about the ghost before, I was serious about getting rid of it now.

When most students were safely tucked away in the cafeteria for lunch, I pressed myself into the sliver of shade against the chapel wall to wait for Hiroki. The sun flayed my face and melted the ice in my latte, which sweated and dripped only slightly less than I did. Humidity sucked the heat close against my skin and when I plucked at my shirt, it peeled away from my back like wax paper off sliced cheese.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my khakis. I juggled my latte a moment, trying to figure out the best way to hold it in one hand as I fished out my phone. It was a venti, and holding it one-handed sometimes caused me to squeeze too hard and crack the plastic. I shifted it between my boobs, clamping the blissfully cool cup against me with one hand as I dug around for my phone. It stopped buzzing just as I pulled it out.

The glare of sunlight made it hard to see who'd called, but it was probably Hiroki. He was late, and if he wasn't calling to let me know he was on his way with palm fronds and grapes, prepared to worship me like a fat Aphrodite, I was going to kick his late ass.

Note to self: Fat Aphrodite is an awesome band name.

I trudged to the small door at the back of the chapel, holding my phone out into the shadow of the doorframe. As I thought: Hiroki. I punched redial and held the phone up to my ear. Before it even had the chance to ring, there was a groan of metal from the other side of the door. My eyes flashed down to the lock.

Fun fact: in 1994, all the doors in our school were changed to the outward-opening variety to comply with fire-safety regulations, but no one had thought to install windows.

The chapel's back door swung out straight into my boobs, which didn't so much cradle and cushion my latte like a sweet baby of caffeine and vanilla, as smother that baby and crack every last one of its flimsy plastic ribs. Coffee and ice sluiced down my shirt and pants. I shrieked, leaping back faster than any gym instructor had ever made me, and flung the coffee through the yawning door.

Hiroki jerked aside, eyes wide, and watched the crumpled, dripping plastic carcass sail past him into the choir practice-room.

Dripping, fist clenched around my phone, I glared.

Hiroki swept his gaze over me, head to toe, in a way that made me blush in indignant fury. Coffee dripped from my shirt into a puddle on the brick between my shoes in a steady tap, tap, tap. He clenched his jaw, shoulders and chest making a single heave that told me he was holding back a laugh. I didn't see any palm fronds.

"Why were you standing there?" he asked, taking one backwards glance at the dead cup before he stepped down onto the bricks and squinted into the sunlight. Instead of answering, I drew back to kick him, but he skipped sideways. It was then I noticed the bundle of black fabric under his arm.

"Did you steal the baby Jesus from the nativity set?" I asked. "Again?"

Hiroki pulled a face. "No, it's a priest's outfit." He shook it out, baring the straight black robe with its stiff white buck-tooth of a collar.

I stared. "You stole a priest's robe?"

"Temporarily."

"Why?" I drew out the word, suspicious.