4.

Easy for him to say. His underwear wasn’t soaked. My panties were so wet and thick between my legs that I practically waddled back to the classroom. I had to get rid of them, soon, even if it meant walking home with nothing on under my skirt. As long as nobody saw, and I didn’t touch myself again, it wouldn’t be a sin, would it?

Oh, who was I kidding? From now on, everything was a sin.

I was on the threshold of the classroom when it hit me. I mean, I must have known before, at some level, in my mind, but until this second it was never real: the reason you get wet. It’s so the man can put his penis in you.

Your husband will ejaculate in your vagina! That’s what Father said. The transmission of life. If I was wet, it meant I wanted it ― or my body did, even if my soul knew it was wrong. They call that a revelation, and it made me weak. I held the door jamb to keep from falling. It took me a few deep breaths before I could walk again. Sister Margaret was sitting at her desk, writing in that black ledger all the nuns have, the ones with the graph pages and the pebbled black covers. She didn’t raise her head, but I saw her following me with her eyes while I went to my desk and pulled my books from under the seat. I unfolded my tote bag and shoveled the volumes in: religion, math, history, geography, spelling, two different copybooks.

It was going to be torture, weighing me down like a cinderblock chained to my ankle when all I wanted to do was to get home and strip. Bear your cross cheerfully, Sister said once. Great will be your reward in heaven. I was coming back down the aisle, with the tote banging against my knee, when she finally looked up.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, Sister,” I said.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, sit down.”

“I’m OK.”

She got up and turned her chair to the side for me.

“No, please.”

What could I do? A sister tells you to sit down, you sit, even when you’re dying to get to the girls’ room and take your panties off. In a million years, though, I could never have predicted what she did next: she got down on her knees in front of me, and she held my hand.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Did your talk with Father Ransom upset you?”

“Do I have to say?”

“No, but I see he have you one of his medals. He blesses them himself, you know. He must think you’re special.”

“I don’t think so. He said it would give me strength if I — was tempted to do something bad.”

“Are you?”

“I thought everybody is.”

“That’s very true.”

I’d never seen her with such a sympathetic expression, like she wanted me to know she cared. Sister had a pinched, square face that almost disappeared inside the headgear she wears, with its white ear flaps and the black veil hanging from the white crown on her head. Her cheeks are glossy, like little convex mirrors, and she’s got hard brown eyes. Well, usually they’re hard. Now there was a softness in them. Her lips, too, which are always flat and firm, like she’s seconds away from yelling, had thawed into a grin. I couldn’t tell how old she was, but there wasn’t a wrinkle I could see.

“I know just the thing to pick you up,” she said. “You know, Our Lord washed the feet of his apostles. It was his way of showing them he had come as a servant. Think of it ― the Lord God lowering Himself to serve us.”

She kept her eyes on mine as she held one of my feet in her lap and untied my shoelace.

“And every year, the pope washes the feet of a beggar in imitation of Jesus.” – We bowed our heads. – “It shows that he’s a servant, too.” – She pulled my shoe off and went to work on the other one. “I always thought that every spring, we teachers should wash the feet of our students.”

“Really?“

“I know you think we’re in charge of you, and we are, to some extent.” ― She got the other shoe off and tugged at the sock, which she was careful not to turn inside out. “We have to discipline you and make sure you follow the right path. I know that makes us seem hard.” ― She got the sock off and tucked it inside the shoe. Then she raised my other foot and pulled that sock down, too. “But the truth is, we are here to serve you. We serve you by molding you into good Christian men and women. It’s the greatest service we can provide you. It would be good to remind ourselves of that.” ― She tucked the second sock into its shoe and held my foot in her lap, squeezing and pressing her thumbs into the sole.

“How is that?”

“It’s nice.”

It was. It was a strange feeling, like all the stiffness and weariness in my neck and shoulders were draining down my legs and into Sister’s fingers. For a few seconds, I forgot about my wet panties.

“Did anyone ever tell you have pretty feet?”

“No, Sister.”

“Well, you do. I wish you girls didn’t have to wear these dreadful shoes. You should all wear sandals, like the apostles did. Or go barefoot. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Sister. – Oh! Do that again. Please?”

She’d pressed both thumbs under the ball of my foot, and the pleasure had shot right up my leg and into my vagina.

“You mean this?” she asked, and she pressed again.

“Yes. Oo!”

The pleasure reached my vagina again. It was almost as intense as touching myself. The sin meter was ticking.

“There’s nothing like a foot rub,” Sister said.

From the pocket in her skirt she brought out a white foil packet that said “Moist Towlette” in blue letters. Sister always had some with her. She’d wipe her hands with them in class, after writing on the chalkboard. She tore the packet open with her teeth and plucked out the damp gray square, which she unfolded slowly, like she was preparing her own private sacrament. I smelled the alcohol. It evaporated the instant touched my foot, and it carried the sweat and the heat away with it.