Catholic Anonymous

This is chapter 2 of my novel, “The Algorithm.” Here is where you can read chapter 1.

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“Blow out the candles, birthday girl!”

Kara leaned forward, drawing in as much air as her lungs could hold. The eighteen flames wavered in the cozy kitchen light, reflected in the polished glass of the window above the sink. She exhaled in one long, steady breath until the candles were nothing but tiny curls of smoke.

Her parents clapped.

“Happy eighteenth, honey,” her father said. “Well—almost. Two more hours and it’s official.”

Kara’s eyes drifted to the counter, where a small box sat wrapped in gold paper and tied with a silver ribbon. It was small enough to hold a pair of keys, and she could almost feel the weight of a solar motorbike in her hands.

“Can I open my presents now?”

Her father chuckled. “If we start now, you’ll miss your bus. We wanted you to know we haven’t forgotten—but the big celebration’s tonight.”

Her mother cut a generous slice of cake and slid it toward her. “Take this for the road. No daughter of mine shows up to school on her birthday with an empty stomach.”

Kara took the plate, and her mother reached across the table, brushing a lock of red hair behind Kara’s ear. Her touch lingered a moment longer than necessary. “I love you. You’ve always been my favorite… don’t tell your dad.”

It was the sort of thing her mother said every now and then—half-joking, half entirely serious—and Kara never quite knew which part weighed more. There was a closeness between them that didn’t need explaining: the late-night kitchen talks, the unspoken understanding in a glance. She smiled now, trying to hold that warmth a little longer before the day began.

—

Outside, the air was cool and still. The neighborhood was waking in its usual rhythm—sprinklers hissing across tidy lawns, the scent of cut grass mingling with fresh coffee, porch flags hanging limp in the calm. It was the kind of place where you knew the names of the people who waved from their driveways, and nothing ever really happened except in stories told over backyard fences.

The bus rumbled down the street. Kara climbed aboard and spotted Molly and Ably halfway down the aisle.

“Two more months and we’re out of here,” Molly said as Kara slid into the seat. She sighed, fogging the window glass. “I can’t wait. Where are you going to college?”

“I don’t know. Probably somewhere close. My mom doesn’t want me too far away.”

“You don’t want to get out? You’ve lived here forever.”

“Maybe,” Kara said, watching the blur of pastel houses and neat trees as the bus pulled away. “Honestly, I feel like I belong here. If I left, I wouldn’t know where I belong.”

“That’s the fun of leaving,” Ably said. “You get to find out. I’m gone the second they say, ‘Graduating Class of 2100.’”

—

History was her last class, and Mr. Acorn’s classroom was already filling when she slipped in a minute late.

“Late,” Mr. Acorn said without looking up from his tablet.

“Sorry. Birthday cake.”

His eyes flicked to hers. “Cake? For what occasion?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Hmph… Next time, bring enough for the rest of us,” he said with his signature scowl.

As he resumed writing, Kara’s tablet buzzed. *Happy Birthday, Kara!* from Town Dental. Another ping—*We at Civic Records wish you a wonderful eighteenth year!* The notifications kept trickling in: her childhood dance studio, the public library, the veterinary clinic where she’d volunteered one summer. None of them were places she’d been to in years, yet each message felt oddly personal. She clumsily deleted every notification as quickly as she could and stuffed her tablet back in her bag.

Mr. Acorn’s voice cut in. “We’re discussing the Great War of 2050. Who can tell me the political situation in East Asia before it began?”

Silence. He scanned the room, frowning. “No one? Then let’s ask the birthday girl.”

Kara scrambled for her tablet again. “Um… something to do with the Philippines?”

He stopped mid-step. The stillness lasted long enough for Kara to wonder if he was about to collapse.

“Mr. Acorn? Are you okay?”

“Yes, Kara. I… think it may very well have had something to do with the Philippines.” His voice was mild now, almost pleasant. “Does everyone agree?”

A ripple of nods moved through the room.

“I mean, unless it didn’t,” Kara said, uneasy. “I’m sure you know, though.”

“Are you asking me?”

“Well… yeah.”

“In that case, I’d say the war was between what was then called China and Taiwan, and it ended—”

The bell cut him off. Chairs scraped. The room emptied too quickly, leaving Kara alone with a grinning Mr. Acorn.

—

Her parents were waiting at the door when she got home.

“Ready for presents?” her dad asked.

Inside, Molly and Ably jumped out from behind the couch with a “Surprise!” After gifts, Kara asked, “Can the three of us stay out late tonight?”

“How late?” her father asked.

Kara tested the waters. She knew in these parent/daughter negotiations that if she aimed later than she wanted, she could get what she wanted. “Three a.m.?”

“Fine,” her mother said without hesitation.

“Dad?”

“Why not? You’re eighteen. Have fun.”

“Guess I might have to miss school tomorrow!” she said, grinning.

“Great idea!” her father chimed.

The easy agreement made something deep in her chest tighten.

—

The three of them headed toward the Virtual Theater, streetlamps beginning to glow against the warm evening.

“You know what? You’re right,” Ably said. “We should stay in town after we graduate.”

Kara stopped in her tracks and blinked. “You’ve never said that before.”

“You convinced me,” Ably said. “This is where I belong.”

“Me too,” Molly added. “There’s no place like home.”

“That’s… a turnaround,” Kara muttered.

A few blocks later, Molly spotted a shop window display and stopped to admire it. “These floral dresses are so cute. We should match sometime.”

Kara stared at her. “Since when do you care about matching outfits?”

“They’re comforting,” Ably said from behind.

“And romantic,” Molly chimed.

“You two hate this kind of thing. Always have.”

They smiled. “We just want you to be happy.”

A chill worked its way up her spine. “Okay… I think I’m going home.”

“That’s fine,” they said in unison.

—

As Kara walked, they followed. Always three feet behind. More people joined—shopkeepers, old neighbors, faces she’d seen on the sidelines at school games. By the time she reached her street, at least fifty people were trailing her, all wearing that same faint smile.

She bolted inside and locked every bolt. Her parents hadn’t moved.

“Something happened,” Kara panted. She told them about the strange agreement, the crowd.

Her mother tucked Kara’s hair back, the same way she had that morning. “It’s okay, honey. Just tell us what you need.”

They stood too still. Their eyes shone with expectation, like actors waiting for a cue.

Kara’s voice trembled. An idea flashed into her mind. “Dad. Turn on the stove. Put your hand over the flame. Keep it there.”

Without hesitation, he did—smiling at her.

Kara screamed and ran. The street filled behind her—friends, strangers, the young and old alike—running with tireless steps.

Her lungs burned. The sound of their synchronized footsteps pounded in her ears. She risked a glance back. Her mother’s hair streamed behind her, the familiar face now a mask, eyes fixed on Kara with that eager, empty look.

It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was the sharp, tearing grief of watching someone she loved become unreachable.

She stumbled, then forced herself onward, every muscle screaming. “Go away!” she cried. “Go! Go!”

For a heartbeat, nothing changed—the crowd kept coming, eyes locked on her. Then, as one, they stopped. A stillness fell, heavier than the chase. Without a word, they turned and walked back to their homes, as if nothing had happened.

Kara stood there, chest heaving, the ache of loss sharper than the relief. Then she kept running. This time, she didn’t look back.

©Cath Anon 2025