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Chapter eight

“I’m not going on no fucking retreat.”

“Watch your mouth,” Mom says. “I already paid for it, and you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s with some kids from East Catholic up at the CYO center in Indianapolis. It’ll do you some good to meet new people. Get out of the Ridge social circle for a few days, get your mind off Laura.”

“I don’t want to get my mind off Laura.” I stare at the television. For the last week, MTV has been broadcasting live from Panama City Beach, and I’ve spent every waking hour since Laura left watching the coverage in lieu of eating, showering, or engaging with the world on even a rudimentary level.

“If I have to watch you mope around this house for even one more day, I’m going to go nuts. It’s pathetic.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but going on a three day religious retreat for my spring break isn’t much of an upgrade on the pathetic scale.”

Future Cardinal Joseph E. Ritter started the Catholic Youth Organization back in the thirties or forties. The “CYO” supports a variety of youth activities—anything that keeps our dicks in our pants. And nowhere is this brainwashing more acute than the retreats.

Retreat. The word carries with it a certain connotation in Catholic circles: rebirth, resurrection, renewal…retarded. You disappear for a few days, get all hopped up on Jesus, then spend the next few months trying to clear him out of your system. Jesus is like bad lunchmeat, I guess.

I went to my first retreat last year as a sophomore. They corralled a thousand of us into the East Catholic High School gymnasium. The motivational speaker was a “rock ’n roll priest,” a guy who tried to validate his coolness by using contemporary music during Mass. Father Don was his name. He played Mr. Mister’s “Kyrie” as an entrance hymn. I made out with a girl who had a Mohawk and smelled like peaches and marijuana, which, come to think of it, wasn’t a totally horrible experience.

“You’re going,” Mom says. “End of discussion.”