Mathilde
I was not a nice little girl. One time when I was eight I saw a fawn eating dandelions in my backyard. Its legs were spindly, like my friend Clotilde’s legs. Clotilde had three freckles under her left eye that looked like tears; when she laughed it was always because someone else was suffering. She told me she wanted to leave home some day, and I told her that she shared her name with a slave ship.
Ambroise
There was a boy in our class who was a saint–“Saint Eugene.” “Do you know what it feels like to be on fire?” we asked him one day. He said no. That afternoon, with gasoline and matches in hand, we cornered him in a forest with intention to burn. The instant someone laid a hand on him, it rained. He forgave each and every one of us and kissed us on the forehead.
Bernadette
Inside me there are a thousand souls fighting to get out. I walk dirt roads and never cut my feet. In the summer my skin gets darker than my eyes, darker than anything anyone has ever seen. I had a brother, once, whose name was going to be Joseph, but I uttered a curse that killed him in the womb, and now he lives within me.
Otto
They call me a saint, too. We are a generation of saints, I guess. There is something holy in this world we live in. I know because one night I spent three whole minutes staring at a single star. And then it flickered out.
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