Catholic, Reluctantly (The John Paul 2 High Series) Read online

  Also from Chesterton Press:

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  Fairy tales retold by Regina Doman

  www.fairytalenovels.com

  The Shadow of the Bear

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  Alex O’Donnell & the 40 CyberThieves

  The John Paul 2 High Series

  by Christian M. Frank

  www.johnpaul2high.com

  Book One: Catholic, Reluctantly

  Book Two: Trespasses Against Us

  Book Three: Summer of My Dissent

  Look for more upcoming titles at

  ChestertonPress.com

  To Katie, with Love

  Excerpts from “A Capella” which first appeared in Like Taxes: Marching through Gaul, copyright 1989 by David Craig and Scripta Humanistica, used with permission.

  Copyright © 2011 by Chesterton Press and John Doman

  Originally published 2007 by Sophia Institute Press, Manchester, NH

  All Rights reserved

  Cover design by Regina Doman. Photo from Spiering Photography. Interior images from iStockphoto.com and Spiering Photography.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Chesterton Press

  P.O. Box 949

  Front Royal, VA 22630

  www.chestertonpress.com

  Summary: When a school shooting causes Allie Weaver to join John Paul 2 High, a newly-established parent-run Catholic high school, she and her six fellow students face personality conflicts, problems with the nearby public school, and mysterious threats from a prankster and possibly even the shooter himself.

  ISBN: 978-0-982-76772-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.johnpaul2high.com

  Allie Weaver sat back from her mother’s computer and wiped her eyes. There were still a few sniffles left in her, but they were going away, slowly but surely. She was 15, and she was a sophomore now, and whatever happened, she wasn’t going to cry again.

  angelgirl785: u there tyler?

  takedownman: yeah wats up

  angelgirl785: moms pulling me out of school

  takedownman: wat!!!!

  takedownman: no way!!!!! Y?

  angelgirl785: becuz of wat happened today

  takedownman: the gun scare?

  angelgirl785: yeah

  She knew it would seem bizarre to Tyler. And paranoid of her mom. But Tyler didn’t know what had really happened today. She hadn’t told anyone except her mom and the police. She ran a hand through her long blond hair as she waited for Tyler to finish swearing. Gotta stop crying, my mascara will run! Finally she typed:

  angelgirl785: yeah thats how I feel

  takedownman: shes overeacting

  angelgirl785: yeah maybe

  takedownman: tell her you want to stay

  takedownman: becuz of me.

  angelgirl785: yeah right thatll do it

  angelgirl785: thats not the worst part

  angelgirl785: shes sending me to some

  angelgirl785: weird new catholic skool

  takedownman: wat?

  angelgirl785: john paul 2 high

  angelgirl785: not far from sparrow hills

  angelgirl785: thats a good thing I guess

  She paused, and shivered. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before. Part of her felt almost as if she had died, as though she had been shot…the glint of a cold gray eye peering through that hood at her…if it had been a gray eye…she really wasn’t sure…

  angelgirl785: tyler

  angelgirl785: im scared.

  angelgirl785: im really really scared.

  BEEP! George Peterson backpedaled hard and tried to bring his bike to a stop. He heard the sharp screeching sounds of brakes–and then, with a tooth-rattling shock, something hit his back tire. His bike shot forward, swerved, and headed for the side of the country road.

  Jesus, he thought, as he saw the curb approach. Jesus, help me…I got to do something!

  The bike hit the curb, and he was flying over the handlebars. Instinctively, he threw out his hands in front of his face. Hit the ground rolling…

  His shoulder hit the grass first with a painful jolt, and then he was somersaulting on the grass. He turned over three or four times before he stopped. The air was knocked out of his lungs, his sunglasses had flown off, and the top of his backpack was digging into the back of his neck.

  For a few moments he lay there, stunned; then, with a gasp for air, he got up on all fours. Nothing seemed to be broken. He rose to his feet shakily and turned to face the thing that had hit him.

  A large black car was pulled to the side of the road. It was old and dusty, with a huge dented hood and a tarnished silver grill.

  I just got hit by a car, George thought numbly. And I'm okay.

  Relief flooded over him, followed by anger. He glared at the black car. It’s probably some old guy, half-blind; he probably hits people all the time. He knew how close that was; he was lucky to be alive. Moron.

  The car door opened with a low creak, and someone stepped out. It wasn’t an old man. The figure that emerged was a tall and bulky teenager, dressed in a large black trench coat, white shirt and tie, with a plump face and bushy brown hair. He looked a year or two older than George, but it was hard to tell.

  The boy glanced at George for a moment. There was something strange about his eyes, almost disembodied. Then, suddenly and almost casually, he turned away, walked to the front of the car, and examined the front bumper.

  Feeling irritated, George stepped forward. “Hey! Buddy!” he shouted. “What’s the deal?”

  “You scratched my bumper,” the boy said without looking up.

  “I scratched your bumper??” Anger flared in George’s chest. “Oh, geez, I’m so sorry. Maybe it would have better if you had just run me over, right?” He grabbed his bike and pulled it upright.

  “If you do that sort of thing all the time,” the boy said, “I’m surprised you haven’t been run over.” He stood up, straightened his tie, and fixed George with a scornful look.

  “Do what?” George snarled.

  “Ride in the middle of the road,” the boy said.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  The boy sighed mightily, and rolled his eyes. “Listen carefully,” he said. “If you ride in the middle of the road—” he put a sarcastic emphasis on the words, “You’re liable to get run over. Got that?”

  George felt blood rushing to his head. His hands tightened around the handlebars of his bike. “Got this?” he shouted, and then lifted his bike off the pavement and threw it as hard as he could against the car. There was a SCREECH of metal on metal. “Huh?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Now you definitely scratched it,” he said.

  “Did I? Oh, I guess I did,” George retorted. “Watch where you’re going next time!”

  The boy's face suddenly went blank again; he said nothing more but just stared at George with an unreadable expression. It was almost as if he were a robot that just got turned off. George felt a little creeped out. There’s something wrong with this kid…

  Then, suddenly, the boy turned away and got back into the car. Still breathing hard, George watched as the old car pulled back onto the road and drove away.

  “What a creep,” he muttered, and turned back to his bike, picking it up and rotati
ng the pedals experimentally. It didn’t seem to be broken. That was freaky. He let out a harsh laugh. I bet he goes to Sparrow Hills. There's a lot of crazies at that school. Wasn’t there something on the news last night about another gun scare up there?

  He picked up his sunglasses, and then cleaned himself off the best he could, running his hands through his curly hair to smooth it down. He had been wearing a windbreaker, so his white school shirt and tie were untouched; but he had two large grass stains on his school pants.

  Thanks a lot, buddy, he thought savagely. Scratches? He’s gonna total that thing…I hope he gets into an accident… he stopped moving for a second. No. That’s not right. He sighed heavily.

  “Lord,” he muttered. “Okay, guess I could have handled that better…”

  He sneaked a guilty look back down the road, but the black car was out of sight. Too late to apologize. Oh well.

  As he got back onto his bike, feeling his bruises, he tried to stop himself from cursing the guy to Hell, or imagining a very nice car accident waiting for him around the bend. “Better think about something else,” he mumbled. “Okay, God, please help me to be a better Christian…” But he almost hit me! a voice inside him screamed. He gritted his teeth and went on. “…and please help me to get to school on time…”

  Until recently, he wouldn’t be praying like this. George had been Catholic all his life, but he hadn’t really started taking it seriously until he’d started wrestling last year at St. Lucy’s. It had all started with praying before matches, and somehow, once God had gotten his attention, it was hard to ignore Him. Not that this made things any easier; in fact, sometimes it made things harder.

  And now he was going to a new school, a school that was supposed to be a ‘real’ Catholic school. So lately he’d been trying even harder to be a ‘real’ Catholic, whatever that meant. As if my life isn’t hard enough…

  He checked his watch and almost swore. It was 7:30 already! He had been having trouble getting to school on time, mostly because at John Paul 2 High, opening bell was 7:50—earlier than he was used to—because they started the day with a rosary…

  He shook his head, pumped hard on the pedals and shot back onto the road.

  Allie Weaver sat in the back seat of her mom’s car, slumped down, her blond hair spread behind her over the leather seat of the car. It was her first day at John Paul 2 High, and she was dressed in the official uniform: black skirt, white shirt. She looked exactly like a waitress.

  She saw her mother’s eyes glancing at her anxiously from the rear-view mirror. Here comes the pep talk…

  “So, Allie,” her mom began in a hopeful voice. “How are you feeling?”

  Allie knew that she should just say “fine” and go back to moping. But all of the sudden, all the frustration welled up inside of her, and she burst out, “Why do I have to go to this stupid school, mom?”

  “You know why,” her mom said shortly. “Because it’s safer for you here.”

  “Not much safer. It’s right next to Sparrow Hills,” Allie muttered, but not too loudly. Her mom and step dad had talked about sending her to some snobby boarding school instead, and that would be much worse. Fortunately, they couldn’t afford it. She glanced longingly out the window at the yellow buses unloading at Sparrow Hills, then ducked down again in case anyone saw her.

  A few minutes later, the car came to a stop. “Well, here we are!” her mother said. “At least, I think that this is the address she gave me…”

  Allie straightened in her seat and looked out the window. What she saw made her more depressed than ever, if that was possible.

  It looked like a school building, at least, but a very old and ugly one. The walls were built of dingy red bricks. The rows of windows were stained and dusty, and in some places cracked and fixed with peeling yellow tape; yellowing blinds shrouded the inside. Allie and her mother had pulled into a parking lot of cracked gray asphalt, and a rusting aluminum porch directly in front of them, shaded the front doors.

  “This is it?” Allie whispered, awestruck by how ugly it was. The building was… a dump. A sty.

  “This is it,” her mom said firmly as she opened the car door. “Come on.”

  “Haven’t you seen inside?” Allie asked, yanking her book bag out of the car.

  “Well, there wasn’t time. You know this is sort of last minute. But I’m sure that Emily Costain’s husband has everything under control. He’s the principal. Do you remember Emily? She and I were in college together and she has a daughter your age…”

  Allie was barely listening; she had noticed a sign taped to the doors with the words ‘John Paul 2 High’ on them. She read more of it, and gasped. “Hey mom, this sign says—”

  “Come on, Allie,” her mom said, pulling open the door and pushing her through. “I don't have much time. I've got an early meeting.”

  They walked into a darkened hallway, lined on either side by rows of rusting lockers with a musty, decrepit look about them.

  Her mom found a light switch and turned it on. One by one, rows of dim, flickering fluorescent lights went on, bathing the hallway in a sickly light.

  “Ah,” her mom said in satisfaction. “That’s better.”

  “Hello!” a voice called out. A stout lady with red-gray hair emerged from an office door. “Oh, you must be the Weavers.” She walked up to them. “I’m Jenny Flynn. Welcome to John Paul 2 High.”

  With a wonderful feeling of relief, George reached the top of the hill and started coasting down. The road sloped gently down for a full mile, curving slightly. He picked up speed, his tires making a soft, steady buzz on the asphalt, and as he rounded the curve, he saw the huge complex of new buildings that was Sparrow Hills.

  He glanced at the buildings wistfully as they flicked past. I bet they have a bunch of gyms, he thought. Gun scares or no, he was envious. Life there had to be so much easier. Heck, the wrestling squad probably has its own gym. That reminded him painfully that he wasn’t on the St. Lucy’s wrestling squad anymore. He wasn’t on any wrestling squad anymore. His new school didn’t have sports; how could it? There were only five kids enrolled, including him.

  And wrestling’s pretty much the only thing I’m good at, he thought glumly as Sparrow Hills flicked out of sight, to be replaced by woods on either side.

  He had made it onto the varsity team. He had made it to States! States! It had never happened before, a freshman making it to the state championship. He had gotten his picture in the paper…Stop it, he told himself again. Better think about something else. After all, like Mom said this morning, the Costains need us to be at the school. The school’s just getting off the ground, they need the students.

  The story of my life, Mom and I do everything with the Costains. The Costains lead, we follow. Mr. C is the general and we’re the…supply team or something… He gave his forehead a quick swipe. At least you’ll stay in shape with all this biking.

  To his right, a pasture replaced the trees, with a few black-and-white cows grazing in it. George backpedaled and slowed down. Finally, he turned up a driveway of crumbling asphalt, and coasted into the parking lot.

  He had heard that the building was supposed to be demolished before Mr. Costain had leased it for a rock-bottom price. But George couldn’t help thinking that the building might have been better off as a pile of rocks. It was pretty much the ugliest school he had ever seen.

  Pulling up to the doors, he dismounted and checked his watch. Awesome: it was only 7:40. He had ten minutes left before the rosary started.

  “George, could you help me?” He turned to see Mrs. Simonelli getting out of her car, balancing several grocery bags together with her briefcase. As usual, the science teacher was wearing high heels, clunky jewelry, a faultless suit, and a tense, pained expression on her narrow face. Every light hair on her head was perfectly in place as though held with super glue.

  “Sure, Mrs. Simonelli.” George hurried to grab the door for her, partly to be polite and partly because you didn�
�t mess with Mrs. Simonelli. “Hey, Liz.”

  Mrs. Simonelli's daughter (and polar opposite), Liz, was slouching out of the car with a few grocery bags of her own. As usual, she had a sour look on her Italian features, as though she would rather be dragged down the street behind a Ferrari than attend school at John Paul II High.

  “What’s the food for?” he asked, by way of making conversation. He recognized a pumpkin pie and a few cans of whipped cream in the plastic bag she was carrying.

  “Refreshments for the fund raising meeting after school,” Mrs. Simonelli said. “Liz, make sure those get into the refrigerator in the cafeteria.”

  Liz grumbled something unintelligible as she and her mother entered the school. George was about to follow them when something—he didn’t know what—struck him as odd. He slowly turned around.

  Then he saw it, right next to the Simonelli’s car: a big, battered black car with a tarnished silver grill.

  No!

  That creep…he’s coming here?

  It was the same car.

  Then George remembered hearing rumors last week about a new kid enrolling at the school; Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Simonelli were really excited about it: the student body was growing, the school was getting off the ground.

  So this is our new classmate, he thought sourly as he turned to the front door again. Great. As if John Paul 2 High wasn’t weird enough already – wait. Is that a sign on the door?

  He peered closer, entirely failing to to notice another new car: a shiny red coupe, looking distinctly out of place in the old parking lot.

  George frowned to himself as he re-read the sign taped on the front door of the school. Under inspection? he thought. What does that mean?