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another thing we did when we were little. We’d look, then blink, then look again. The yellows, oranges, blues and greens would come together, then separate, then come together again. The parts were most beautiful when they made a whole. “C’mon,” Colette whispers. “Do it.”
    â€œI’m too old for games,” I whisper back.
    Someone coughs and then clears his throat, a baby cries at the back of the basilica and his mother shushes him. Otherwise, the basilica is quiet.
    Madame Dandurand pokes her husband with her purse and tips her head toward a priest who is about to sit down in the front row. Mom is watching him too. It’s the handsome dark-haired priest—the one Mom was talking to last week. Madame Dandurand whispers, “I didn’t know he was back from Africa,” to her husband.
    Even the baby stops crying when the choir begins to sing in the balcony and Father Lanctot and the altar boys proceed from the back of the oratory down the center aisle to the altar. The altar boys go first. They’re dressed in white satin robes. The one in the middle carries a golden cross with a crucified Jesus on it. The other two are carrying tall wooden candlesticks. They press the candlesticks to their chests and walk slowly so the flames won’t go out.
    I hear the swish of Father Lanctot’s black cassock. “Where’s his Kleenex?” Colette whispers. My eyes move to Father Lanctot’s sleeve and sure enough, like always, a piece of balled up Kleenex is poking out. Father Lanctot has a permanently runny nose and a gross habit of reusing his old Kleenex.
    Mom’s got the look on her face she always gets at church—as if she has been transported someplace wonderful. She hasn’t noticed Colette whispering. I’d like to go someplace wonderful too. Only it’s hard with Colette shifting in her seat next to me and whispering about Kleenex.
    Father Lanctot genuflects before the altar. His eyes are watery and his face is as lined as a map. “It’s lucky he only has to go down on one knee,” Colette whispers. “If he used both knees, he might not be able to get back up.”
    I don’t want to giggle. But there’s something about being in a place where I’m not supposed to giggle that makes me more prone to giggling. And Colette knows it. Monsieur Dandurand gives us a steely look.
    I force myself to concentrate on Father Lanctot’s face. He has turned toward us. “May the Lord be with you.”
    â€œAnd also with you,” the congregation responds. Everyone is watching Father Lanctot—except Colette. She’s looking to the right. I turn a little too, to see what’s distracting her. I should have guessed: Maxim is standing inside the arched doorway, his orange security vest slung over his arm.
    When I look back at Colette, she’s got the same look on her face as Mom.

    As soon as it’s time for Communion, Colette needs to pee. At least that’s what she tells Mom.
    Communion is my favorite part of Mass. I love the feeling I get when the Host—the thin round wafer Catholics believe is miraculously transformed into the body of Christ—is melting on my tongue. That’s when I’m most sure the Lord’s spirit is alive in me and in all living creatures. Even Colette.
    The dark-haired priest is at the altar now, holding a gold chalice with extra wafers. When it’s Mom’s turn to receive Communion, I watch him, but he shows no sign of recognizing her. It’s as if he’s making a point of looking over her head and out at the congregation.
    Father Lanctot hands Mom the Host, and she puts it on her tongue. In the old days, you’d open your mouth and the priest would pop the Host right in. That was before people worried so much about germs and disease.
    When it’s my turn, I feel the handsome priest’s eyes on me. On my face, my hair and especially on my eyes. I