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48 St. Peter,  I walk to Safeway helping Sister Genevieve carry groceries back to the convent, my braids as blue black as her habit, swishing back and forth, her rosary beads clicking like the genuflector cricket during high mass. I can’t speak, she keeps the silence, peering down at me to keep me in place. My homemade wool flannel jumper is itchy, my muslin blouse bleached a ghostly white. I stay after school, avoiding the Italian kids calling me squaw, hurling rocks like bullets. I receive a scapular from Sister, and wrap it around my neck with the others, tucked away under my ghost shirt. ...

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