“What religion is this again?”

“Lutheran, I think.”

We sat there, Claudia and me, watching the activity on the altar. I could tell the guy doing the talking was cool because he wore a short-sleeved black shirt with his clerical collar. He was animated and funny. He held up a gold coin like the ones I got at Circus Circus in Vegas when I was 10; either that or he had the waxy chocolate ones with Menorahs on them we got in our Christmas stockings.

If I were a cow, which I am, moo, sup? From now on I’d think twice about oncoming cars, especially the ones with their lights on full moo, blindin’ my eyes, makin’ my tail go all wonky and clenched sphincters.

When Peg walked into the Recreation Center, Leila McCoy was standing by the old upright, eyes squeezed shut, warbling “Holy God We Praise Thy Name” like some hip hopper on American Idol. Peg waited until Leila finished and James Hickey, the choirmaster, spotted her.

“Hello, Peg,” he said. “Are you here to audition?”

“I am.” Peg felt the heat come to her face. James was bald now, and his belly hung over his belt, but he’d once been the sharpest boy at Our Lady of the Blessed Sorrows.

It finally happened. Somehow he knew it was only a matter of time before he said something so utterly offensive to his teacher that it ripped a hole in the space-time continuum.

Timmy knew his mouth was impressive. As a 4th grader, his peers had told him that he knew how to swear at at least a 7th-grade level (if not higher!).

“You know what would be great?” Spector spread a smile over his face. “If we took this here,” he held up the severed foot. “And put it here,” he pointed at where the man’s hand used to be. “I think that would be great.”

Clark frowned. “You want to put his foot where his hand was?”

Spector rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to just put it there. I want to sew it there. Like, with surgery.”

“You want to put a foot where a hand’s supposed to go?”

“Sew. I want to sew it there.”

“Where a hand’s supposed to go.”

“Yeah. With surgery.”