Sinners and Saints

Sinners and Saints Chapter 3 - Why Claire Hates Politics

Father Jonas looks worried. Not a normal look for him, "Get in the van," he points to an aging Ford Astrovan, "Hurry up. We're meeting with others and it's bigger than my office can hold."

"Kay," I shrug and grab the shotgun seat before Jojo can. Our benefactor climbs in the driver's seat and passes both of us envelopes, "Your pay," he gruffs, fiddling with the ignition until it catches, "You both will be passed another envelope during our meeting, but don't open them until we are in private again."

"Why?" Jojo asks.

"You'll soon see," he replies, backing out of the space and throwing the van into drive.

We arrive at a nondescript Waffle House some twenty minutes later. I wrinkle my nose, but say nothing. Awful-Waffle hasn't been on my agenda since I was eleven. All the same, I have very little control over this situation and Drake's warning still rings in my head.

The Father leads us past the hostess station and into the nook that houses the bathrooms, "For the love of everything holy," he exclaims, digging in his pocket for his rosary, "This is a business meeting. You two look like rejects from Jersey Shore."

Well, that's a little harsh, I think, I almost always have all of my body-parts covered. He rubs a bead, the scent of roses coming to me faintly. Rosewood. But I have no idea what bead he rubs or what the significance is. My foray into Catholicism stopped when I was six. He puts hands on Jojo first and her sweatpants and t-shirt morph into a dress and linen blazer in turquoise and emerald, teal kitten-pumps replacing her Keds. Her hair, darker than my caramel brown, forms waves and ringlets worthy of a runway and makeup like it was airbrushed appears on her face.

Father Jonas looks her over critically, adding a simple gold cross at her neck, "Much better," he nods, "Now for you," he frowns, "Do you have some kind of girl-crush on Susan Powter?" he asks.

"Who?" I respond. I don't like where this is going.

"Never mind," he sighs and fingers another bead, touching my head. I hiss instinctively, feeling my hair grow. It doesn't exactly hurt; more of a buzzing along all of my scalp that I can't shut down. Like speed, but worse. He continues to touch me in completely non-sexual ways. My shoulder, my knee, my foot, my forehead. Heat and cold. Pins and needles. It is thankfully over in a few seconds.

"Go primp," he points to the ladies room door, "Be out in three minutes."

We walk through the door and stare at ourselves in the mirror. Then at each other. Then at the mirror again.

"How did he?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think he's?"

"No, I don't."

"You look."

"I know - huh? So do you."

"I like."

"So do I. And yours."

We stare at ourselves again. Jojo looks flawless, her coffee-colored hair framing her face angelically and her eyeliner and mascara making her big blue eyes look like the Caribbean sea. Her lips are a pouty pink and fuller than they normally are. The dress and jacket look custom-tailored, hugging her curves and showing off her more-ample cleavage without looking slutty.

But my transformation, as I obviously had more to transform, is astonishing. My quarter-inch buzz cut is now down the middle of my back and far fuller than what nature intended. There's a chunky highlight of strawberry-blond that sweeps from my part on the left side all the way across my crown and over my right ear, curling at my shoulder before it drapes down my back.