My whole life, I had waited for this moment.
And then, finally, it came. We went alphabetically, which stuck me in the middle, like usual. I hated being in the middle. I was tall, geeky, uncoordinated except on the basketball court, and not very developed—important in high school. And I wasn’t formidable yet.
That came later.
Nope. Just a tall awkward girl, walking behind boys shorter than I was. Trying to be inconspicuous.
I got to the aisle, watching as my friends stepped in front of the altar, below the stairs where we knelt when we went up for the Sacrament of Communion.
Father Broussard handed out the binders. He was tall but not as tall as me. He was tending to fat, with most of it around his middle. He held the binders by the corner, as if the binders themselves were cursed, and he said a blessing over each and every one of us as we reached out for our futures.
We weren’t supposed to say anything, but a few of the boys muttered, “Sweet!” and some of the girls clutched their binders to their chests as if they’d received a love letter.
I got mine—cool and plastic against my fingers—and held it tightly. I didn’t open it, not near the stairs, because I knew the kids who hadn’t gotten theirs yet would watch me.
So I walked all the way to the doors, stepped into the hallway, and leaned against the wall.
Then I opened my binder.
And saw nothing.
My breath caught.
I peered back into the chapel. The rest of the kids were still in line, getting their binders. No red envelopes had landed on the carpet. No binders were tossed aside.
Nothing. I stopped three of the kids, asking them if they saw me drop anything or if they’d gotten mine.
Then Sister Mary Catherine caught my arm, and dragged me away from the steps. Her fingers pinched into the nerve above my elbow, sending a shooting pain down to my hand “You’re not to interrupt the others,” she said.
“But I must have dropped my letter.”
She peered at me, then let go of my arm. A look of satisfaction crossed her fat face, then she patted my cheek.
The pat was surprisingly tender.
“Then you are blessed,” she said.
I didn’t feel blessed. I was about to tell her that, when she motioned Father Broussard over.
“She received no letter,” Sister Mary Catherine said.
“God has smiled on you, my child,” he said warmly. He hadn’t noticed me before, but this time, he put his hand on my shoulder. “You must come with me to discuss your future.”
I let him lead me to his office. The other nuns—the ones without a class that hour—gathered with him. They talked to me about how God wanted me to make my own choices, how He had blessed me by giving me back my future, how He saw me as without sin.
I was shaking. I had looked forward to this day all my life—at least the life I could remember—and then this. Nothing. No future. No answers.
Nothing.
I wanted to cry, but not in front of Father Broussard. He had already segued into a discussion of the meaning of the blessing. I could serve the church. Anyone who failed to get a letter got free admission into a variety of colleges and universities, all Catholic, some well known. If I wanted to become a nun, he was certain the Church could accommodate me.
“I want to play basketball, Father,” I said.
He nodded. “You can do that at any of these schools.”
“Professional basketball,” I said.
And he looked at me as if I were the spawn of Satan.
“But, my child,” he said with a less reasonable tone than before, “you have received a sign from God. He thinks you blessed. He wants you in his service. ”
“I don’t think so,” I said, my voice thick thick with unshed tears. “I think you made a mistake.”
Then I flounced out of his school grounds.
My mother made me go back for the last four days of class. She made me graduate. She said I would regret it if I didn’t.
I remember that much.
But the rest of the summer was a blur. I mourned my known future, worried I would make the wrong choices, and actually considered the Catholic colleges. My mother rousted me enough to get me to choose before the draft. And I did.
The University of Nevada in Las Vegas, as far from the Catholic Church as I could get.
I took my full ride and destroyed my knee in my very first game. God’s punishment, Father Broussard said when I came home for Thanksgiving.
And God forgive me, I actually believed him.
But I didn’t transfer—and I didn’t become Job, either. I didn’t fight with God or curse God. I abandoned Him because, as I saw it, He had abandoned me.
Thirty-two years later, I watch the faces. Some flush. Some look terrified. Some burst into tears.
But some just look blank, as if they’ve received a great shock.
Those students are mine.
I make them stand beside me, even before I ask them what they got in their binder. I haven’t made a mistake yet, not even last year, when I didn’t pull anyone aside.
Last year, everyone got a letter. That happens every five years or so. All the students get Red Letters, and I don’t have to deal with anything.
This year, I have three. Not the most ever. The most ever was thirty, and within five years it became clear why. A stupid little war in a stupid little country no one had ever heard of. Twenty-nine of my students died within the decade. Twenty-nine.
The thirtieth was like me, someone who has not a clue why her future self failed to write her a letter.
I think about that, as I always do on Red Letter Day.
I’m the kind of person who would write a letter. I have always been that person. I believe in communication, even vague communication. I know how important it is to open that binder and see that bright red envelope.