Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Read Online Free PDF

booth. You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s like the woman is a witch. It’s like she senses that I’ve done some wrongful deed. Mama is from the Caribbean—Dominica. Dominica, not the Dominican Republic. Everyone always mixes the two up, but they’re not the same. I went there with her and my uncle Paul when I was eight. The water was so clear, I could see all the way down to the sea bottom and to the little fish kissing away at my ankles. Anyway, Dominica is one of those little teeny islands they never put the names of on maps, like Nevis and Montserrat. Most people have never heard of those either—most people who aren’t from the Caribbean or don’t have any ties to it.
    I used to hear stories about how Mama’s grandmother, my great-grandma, would work her magic across the island. How she would look into a person’s eyes and tell his past and his future. I never really believed it, but I’m starting to wonder. Maybe Mama has the power of sensing but isn’t powerful enough to change anything, so she has to rely on religion for that. Maybe she thinks my wrongdoings are the cause of the misfortune in her life and that ridding me of my sins will lead to a cure for all her issues. I don’t know. Although, if ever there was a time I needed to confess and have a priest say that no matter how serious my crime, with two Hail Marys it will all be forgiven, this is it. But how do you say to someone, “I think I might have killed some old person … oops?”
    As I walk into the booth, I see Mama heading back over to the candles. And I’m thinking, Light as many as you like, lady. It’s not going to help any with Daddy coming back.
    “When was the last time you confessed?” Father Randall asks before I’m even fully seated on the small bench. I can see bits of his white skin and white hair through the patterned wooden panel between us.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I think with Father Hoppe a little while ago.” It’s a lie. I haven’t confessed since my confirmation. Only, Father Randall is so old, I figure I can tell him anything and he won’t dispute it.
    “You do not confess your sins weekly?”
    “No.”
    “You’ve done nothing you’d like to ask God’s forgiveness for?”
    I pause here for a really long time. My temples are beginning to throb again, but I can’t seem to form the words to verbalize what I’ve done, so I just sit quietly.
    “You haven’t sworn, thought ill of another?” he asks.
    “Are those really sins? I mean, seriously, who hasn’t done that?” I mumble. Man, the smart-ass really comes out in me when I’m freaking out.
    “What?” he says louder than I think is necessary. I’d forgotten about his auditory issues, so I lean forward and repeat myself, minus all the sass.
    “Just because others do, does that make it right?” he responds.
    I shrug and get quiet again.
    “Each day we walk through the darkened forest of life. In the time since you’ve confessed, there’s been nothing you’d like to get off your chest?”
    I inch the curtain back a little and peep outside the booth, just to make sure Mama isn’t involved in any of her snooping tactics—tactics I learned from her. But she’s on the other side of the church. Just as I turn away from her, I glimpse the area just above the altar, where a giant Jesus hangs on the cross. Crucifixes really creep me out.
    I allow the thick velvet curtain to close and shield me from that image. Suddenly, I get an idea.
    “Will God really forgive me for anything?” I lean forward and ask.
    “Of course. You are his child.”
    “And anything I tell you, you can’t tell my mother, right?”
    “It’s between you, me, and God.”
    “You can’t tell the cops, right?” I try not to sound too hopeful.
    “You, me, and God,” Father Randall says again.
    “Well, what would God think if I told him I stole money from someone who was super old?”
    “Why did you steal this money? Were you hungry? Were you in a