The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,18

Her mouth turns into a cruel curve. “Wait in the hall for me.” She stabs out her finger, and my body moves without a single thought from my brain.

It’s blessedly cool in the hall, blessedly quiet.

I can hear them speaking, but I can’t understand a word through the closed door. I press my back against the wall and close my eyes, gathering myself with effort.

If the tingling between my legs is anything to go by, I’m going to have a hell of a time getting Brother Zachary out of my head today.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly acting like a teenager with raging hormones?

Yes, technically I am still a teenager, but I’ve never been—

A hussy?

When Sister Miriam comes out, she looks a touch calmer than she did going in. Zachary seems to have that effect on everyone except me.

“Follow me,” she says in a snippy voice.

“Uh…I have English—”

“Not today. I’ve already spoken with your teacher.”

Miriam leads me to the main building, then through the dining hall and into the big kitchen. A few people move around the large space—I guess if you’re feeding so many students, meals take hours to prepare.

There’s a guy kneading bread nearby. His arms are dusted in flour up to his elbows, and his long blond hair swept under a hairnet. He looks up when we enter the kitchen, and his eyes stay on me the entire time as Miriam leads me across the floor.

There’s something familiar about him, and I only catch on right before Miriam opens another door and leads me through.

He was the one with the video camera.

I turn, glancing back over my shoulder.

He’s standing up straight, a smudge of flour on the tip of his nose. He’d be handsome if his features weren’t so gaunt.

I hesitate, and then wave.

He gives me a smirk.

The laundry room’s air smacks into me like a warm, damp towel. There are a handful of women and two younger boys in here, all drenched with sweat. Massive washers rumble along one wall. Clean linens drape a row of tables in the center of the long, narrow room.

Further down, racks of pressed uniforms stand waiting to be delivered to the boys’s rooms.

“Strip,” Sister Miriam commands.

I stop walking and cough like I’ve swallowed a fly. “Excuse me?”

She turns, clasping thick arms over her stomach. “I need to take your measurements. Ruth!”

An older woman looks up from folding a bedsheet, and hurries over.

“Did you find any?”

“Yes, Sister.” Ruth detours and heads over to one of the emptier racks. Hangers clatter as she drags it closer to us on squeaky wheels. With a glance in my direction, she starts going through the clothes hanging on the rack.

“Are you deaf?” Miriam asks. “I said strip!”

I glance at the other people in the washroom. All of them have their back to me, but the two boys are staring so hard at their soapy buckets I know for a fact they’ll peek over their shoulders as soon as no one’s looking.

I grit my teeth and force down a swell of irritation. Fighting this won’t do me any favors.

I slip off my dress and hand it to Ruth. I move my hands around to take off my bra.

“Leave it.”

My skin crawls, but a quick glance at the boys shows they’re still engrossed in their task.

“Turn.”

I pivot on my heel, and then hold up my arms so Miriam can measure me. It’s the weirdest thing—standing still while a complete stranger takes stock of how big and small you are in all the important places.

My parents raised me not to be vain, but there’s no way you can sprout a pair of breasts and not stare at yourself a little longer in the mirror. I know I’m far from perfect—my hips and thighs are too large and my breasts too small in comparison. I kinda hoped they’d grow a little to balance things out but that never happened.

Invisible eyes drag over my skin again.

Not the boys. Not the other washerwomen.

I scan the laundry room.

“Got it?” Miriam says.

“Yes, Sister. But I don’t think any of these will work.”

“They’ll have to. I can’t stand seeing her walking around like this.”

Their voices become white noise.

The laundry doors, like the ones on either end of the dining hall, have little windows set at eye level. I barely noticed them on the way in.

The baker is on the other side of the door. With his hair net gone, his long, sandy hair hangs in his face. He drags