Catch of the Day by Kristan Higgins

just say something?” I call out, waving to dear, kind Father Tim.
    “Oh, stop her, Daddy,” Christy murmurs, her voice urgent.
    No! They will not stop me! I scoot with surprising agility around our table, only bumping into six or ten chairs as I make my way to the front of the room, where Father Tim stands smiling with a little uncertainty.
    “Can I have the mike?” I ask him. I am not so drunk that I miss Mrs. Plutarski’s mouth purse in jealousy. Yeah. That’s right. Because I’m Father Tim’s friend. She’s not the only one who adores him.
    “Ah…sure, Maggie,” he says, handing it over to me.
    I’ve never spoken into a microphone before. It’s kind of neat, holding it. I feel a little like Ellen DeGeneres, like I have my own show. I wriggle onto the edge of the stage where last year’s confirmation class butchered Godspell and blow into the mike. The rushing sound reassures me that it’s on.
    “Thank you so much, Father Tim,” I say, proud not to slur. “Oh, that’s funny! I sound like Christy!”
    Everyone laughs. I’m a hit!
    “So, I guess I just wanted to say how grateful we all are to be here, on this beautiful planet, in this great little town. It’s so nice, isn’t it?”
    My mother is staring at me, her face a mixture of disapproval and horror. I think she might be mad at me. “Hi, Mom!” I say, waving. “Anyway, I also want to say thanks to Father Tim. We are so lucky to have him in our parish, aren’t we? I mean, remember Father What’s-His-Name, that weird little fat guy? The guy at Christy’s wedding? He was no fun, no fun. Uh-uh. Not funny, that guy. And now we have Father Tim! He’s so good, right? I mean, he’s like a holy man, don’t you think?”
    “Thanks, Maggie. I’ll just be taking that microphone back, shall I?” Father Tim says, making a move toward me.
    “No! No, no. No.” I scoot back farther, then stand, so that if Father Tim wants to get me, he has to come and get me. Ha! I point to him as he stands frozen, and waggle my index finger. “This is good. You should hear this, holy man. Because we all love you. Really. Don’t we?” I ask the assembled guests. They are certainly paying excellent attention. “Everyone here loves you, Father Tim. Me, too. I just… You’re such a…and we all just… I love you, Father Tim.”
    I keep talking, but now I can hardly hear myself, the place has gotten so loud. Will is suddenly standing next to me, clever lad, and he takes the mike from me.
    “I wasn’t done,” I protest.
    “Oh, you’re done, honey,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

CHAPTER SIX
    F RAGMENTS OF LAST NIGHT WHIZ around in my brain like ice being crushed in a blender. Snatches of conversation, images, a deep concern that yes, I really did say that.
    It’s three-twenty in the morning. I’m not really sure what time Will and my father tucked me in. My brain grinds against my skull, and my right eye apparently has an ice pick in it. My teeth have sprouted fur, and my mouth feels like something reptilian and evil died in there.
    I stagger into the bathroom and swallow two Motrin and two Tylenol at the sink. I know this isn’t good to take these on an empty stomach, but I don’t care. The thought of drinking milk causes ugly things to happen in my digestive tract. I take a shower and feel that I’ve advanced an inch toward normal humanity.
    My apartment feels stuffy and close, and I certainly don’t want to be around food right now, so the diner is out. I pull on my coat, my wool hat, mittens, and grab a flashlight.
    “Colonel,” I say, and my brain recoils from the awful noise. “Come, boy,” I whisper.
    Colonel has never needed a leash; he just follows me everywhere with breathtaking devotion. We head out into the pitch-black morning.
    The town is quiet; there is only the gentle sound of water shushing against the rocky shore. The wind is still at this hour, and the moon long gone, making the stars glitter in the inky black