Habit To Heels Chapter 17

Braided Tiny Flowers/ Whining Noise

After the Abbot's visit, in Sister Tara's apartment, Alexa and Asia finish taping up the last few boxes. They're chatty, easy, and on an energy high.

"Let's change for the concert," Asia says, tugging a worn Dead T-shirt from her duffel.

Moments later, the two young nuns emerge from the bedroom laughing, dressed in faded jeans and colorful tie-dye shirts. The shirts have Grateful Dead Bears dancing across their braless, perky tits. Asia has even braided tiny flowers into her hair.

Tara watches from the hallway, arms crossed, shaking her head at the two young nuns.

The sound of Bert's van honks once.

"Right on time," Alexa says, bounding out the back door.

As the two hurry off, Tara smiles and waves. "Have a good time. Thanks for helping me pack up."

Cocky as ever, Bert (Egbert, really, though he'd never answer to it) leans against the pale white van, all sunglasses and smirk. He slides open the side door as the girls climb in.

"Later, Tara. See you tomorrow at morning prayers," Alexa calls from the window. With one hand, she crosses her fingers, and with the other, she flashes a peace sign.

Asia leans out the other side window and lets out a "Wahoo!" as she pulls up her concert shirt and flashes her tits, celebrating her newfound night of freedom.

Tara lifts a hand but doesn't smile. The van backfires with a loud boom/thud and disappears around the corner.

The place is quiet; the Grand River doesn't even add the usual sound effect. Everything that once filled the space is now contained in cardboard.

Tara's phone still hangs on the bare wall. She hesitates, then dials.

"Emily? Can you meet me at The Silver Mirage? I'll take you up on your offer. I do need you to do my makeup. Is that okay?"

Tara listens for a bit. "Okay, thanks." She nods. She repeats the instructions given to her over the phone. "When I get there, I need to find Pubha--right, Pubah. Spelled, P-U-B-A-H. He's the manager. And tell him that I'm a friend of yours, and the new stripper. Got it." Tara hangs up the receiver.

She picks up and dials again, this time to the convent. Sister Eugene answers.

"It's Tara," she says. "Is Sister Tabby There?" Tara listens, pauses, "Oh she has stepped out. OK, can you tell Sister Tabby I'm staying one last night in my apartment? I'll be moved in by morning, and I'll be at morning prayers."

Sister Eugene doesn't ask questions.

"Thank you," Tara says, and hangs up.

She leans back against a box, the room dimming around her as dusk descends upon Grand Rapids, Michigan.

At Gold Ave. Exercise, Dollya spots Deb, who is wiping down an exercise machine. Dollya marches over with determination.

"Deb," Dollya says. "You know, I've been meaning to tell you something."

Deb straightens. "Yes, you keep beating around the bush. About Tara, right? What is it? What about her?"

Dollya hesitates for just a second, then blurts it out. "Tara's a nun!"

Deb stares at her. "Excuse me?" She begins to laugh.

"A nun," Dollya repeats. "As in, took vows. She's really Sister Tara from St. Rose."

Deb, still in disbelief, raises her voice. "I've done her makeup! Three different times! Once for that photo shoot, and twice when she danced. I coutured a nun!"

Dollya crosses her arms. "Well. You weren't the only one in the dark. I didn't know until recently."

"My nephew goes to St. Rose!" Deb's voice cracks with disbelief. "He's in the first grade. Sister Tara? Are you kidding me?"

"I wish," Dollya says. "Now I find out she just canceled her gig tonight at Bonita's. And I have to cover for her. That girl--first a nun, now this. Grrr."

Deb runs a hand through her bangs, furious and stunned. "I saw Sister Tara dance stark naked on stage. A nun!"

Dollya smirks and nods. "Yes, my friend. Tara is a nun."

Tara jams the last of the boxes into her overloaded Buick Skyhawk, affectionately known as the Sky Chicken. The apartment is now empty and stripped bare. She closes the door without looking back and drives off toward The Silver Mirage.

Not long after, Jenna, from Maple Tree Rest, shows up at Tara's now-empty apartment. Jenna is ready to confront her. She rings the doorbell--once, twice--but no answer. Jenna goes to the side window, cups her hands on the glass, and peers in through the closed window, searching for a sign of Sister Tara.

She yells out to no avail, "Tara. Tara. Tara, are you in there?"

Sister Tara is already gone.

Just then, a familiar white van with the St. Rose Convent logo pulls up.

Jenna turns around, standing in front of the door.

Out steps Sister Tabby. She eyes Jenna with polite confusion.

"Is Sister Tara at home?" Sister Tabby asks the short, strange, goth-looking Jenna.

Jenna knows this nun--she remembers her days as a grade school student at St. Rose. It has been a while, but she will never forget Sister Tabby. The same nun who, back in fifth grade, had cracked her knuckles with a ruler in front of the whole religious School class for passing notes. Jenna still passes private notes (as she did in Chapter 2).

Jenna vividly remembers Sister Tabby. Clearly, Sister Tabby does not remember Jenna.

Jenna quickly decides to cover for her friend Tara.

"Oh! Sister Tabby," Jenna says, forcing a smile. "Tara just stepped out for a second. She went to get moving supplies."

Sister Tabby looks over Jenna's shoulder toward the silent apartment. "Were two younger nuns with her?"

Jenna nods, already in deep. "Yes. She asked me to wait here and help her finish moving. And yeah, there were two other nuns with her."

Sister Tabby relaxes, reassured. "Good. She's on schedule then. Thank you." She climbs back into the van and drives off, none the wiser.

Jenna exhales sharply. She's covered for Tara--for now. The confrontation she came for will have to wait.

Driving to The Silver Mirage, Tara is blaring the radio and jamming to the music as the Sky Chicken bounces down the pothole-riddled road, filled to the brim with her belongings. The music buoys her good mood. She has weathered the Abbot's interview, packed her apartment, and is excited as the night's adventures await. The stripping nun keeps the heavy beat by drumming with open palms on the steering wheel as she bounces in her seat. The familiar guitar riff of David Bowie's "Panic in Detroit" is so loud, the music is audible to other cars passing by.

Suddenly, the Sky Chicken makes an eerie whining noise. The taped-up boxes jostle in the backseat. The Buick sputters, then lets out a bang, followed by a hollow clunk. A burnt, acrid smell fills the cabin. Smoke curls up from under the hood.

"Come on..." Tara mutters, wrestling with the wheel.

She barely manages to steer the dying car to the curb before it rolls to a slow, wheezing stop.

Tara sits in silence for a moment, gripping the wheel. She turns the key. Nothing. The starter doesn't even turn over. The cabin lights flicker once, then go out.

The Sky Chicken is dead. It will never roll another inch under its own power.

Tara shakes the steering wheel, then bangs her head forward against the dashboard, looks up, and screams.