Modette liked the bluebirds the best. The brown ones ignored her and the white ones always tried to steal whatever food she happened to be eating. However, she knew it was ironic for her, Modette the monstrosity, tucked away up in the bell tower because of her hideous face to judge anything by its appearance. The brown and white-colored birds deserved appreciation, too. So she held out the leftover food in her hand for the birds to dive into, and once satisfied, they flew off.
Modette used to love her home in the bell tower; she really did. For years she thought it a comforting barricade against the outside world but despite herself again, she could not say that any longer. It was dark up there, it was dank, she heard scuffling in the walls. The constant ringing of the bells was starting to give her migraines. The light only peered into the room when the sun was tilted at a certain angle-12:30, to be exact (and even then for only about five minutes). Modette had been swaddled and introduced to the tower as a babe twenty years ago by the leader of Notre Dame's ever-pure, ever-holy order of Catholic nuns Froella. But who she just called Mother.
However, after two decades of being forced to stay upstairs, suffice it to say that it made Modette a bit restless. The creaky flights of stairs made it not conducive to stepping out for air in the night or even for Heaven forbid sneaking out. But why would she want to? Everything she needed was up here. Her dear friends made of stone-whom she called Victoria, Hugo and Laverne-provided her with great company and musical numbers. Except Modette could not talk to them when Froella was near, or she would get twelve lashes on her back to counter insanity.
Just then, the door swung open. It was her mother, Froella, with a basket. What could it be? Modette's mouth began to water. A treat? But it wasn't even Saturday.
"Hello, pet. Ready for our lesson today?" Froella gave a sweet smile that seemed to stretch tightly across her mouth, accenting her wrinkles. She pulled the cloth back to reveal grapes. Red—Modette's favorite.
"Yes, Mother. I would like that very much… " Modette scurried around the room, getting the tablecloth, setting the table for alphabet review. She was at the point now that she could get to P blindfolded—paedobaptism. Froella set her napkin on her lap and began. "A?"
"Abomination," Modette said.
"B."
"Blasphemy."
"C?"
"C-c-contrition."
"D?"
"Damnation."
"E."
"Eternal damnation."
"F."
"Festival-"
Froella almost choked on her drink. "What was that?"
"Forgiveness! I-I meant forgiveness."
Froella rose from her seat. "I heard festival."
"No… !" Modette covered her face. Here it comes…
"I hope you're not thinking of attending that festival, crawling with raucous noise and the pagan bottom-feeders of Paris that I as a nun of the highest religious order in the world must cleanse." Froella walked over to the mirror and straightened her coif.
"No, Mother. I was just thinking about somet—"
Froella shook her head. She lowered herself to her daughter's height and took her chin. "Modette, my dear, how many times must I drill it into your head? Your deformity would make it utterly impossible for anybody in the world to accept you. Your wart sits above your right eye, your nose turns up, you have a bald spot in the middle of your head, your face is shaped like an upside-down triangle and you are unable to stand up straight. Do you really think you could enjoy yourself at such a spectacle? Where the lot of them would be making a spectacle of you?"
Modette shook her head and her eyes started to water.
"Ohh tsk my dear, don't cry, don't cry. Try not to take it so hard. What is it that have I taught you all these years?"
Modette straightened up, as best as she could. "The world is cruel. The world is wicked."
Froella nodded. "I have an obligation to protect you, so that is why I tell you: trust no one. The people out there don't care—I care. Now let's pray."
She took her daughter's hands and led her in asking the Lord's forgiveness—the word Modette missed. Then Froella kissed her daughter on the forehead, shook her habit free of dust, and swept out of the door.
Modette's mouth would not stop twitching and the last tear fell as she watched her mother go. She sat there like a lump on a log for what felt like hours. It wasn't fair—Froella got to attend the Feast of Fools every year while Modette heard the colorful sounds from above. And although her mother passionately explained to her that she did not enjoy a moment, it did not stop Modette from wanting to see for herself.
But what would God think? Would he still love her if she betrayed the mother who kept her, fed her, dressed her? She hated this contrition, derived from simply her thoughts.
She hated it so much that the sentiment sparked something in Modette. A rebellion of sorts, that caused her to grab her coat and leap over the balcony to the celebration below.