THE BOY who knew Carlo Acutis
While Carlo Acutis was a real person, this is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Under the direction of Romain Lizé, President, Magnificat Editor, Magnificat: Isabelle Galmiche Editors, Ignatius: Vivian Dudro, Gail Gavin Proofreader: Samuel Wigutow Layout Cover Designer: Gauthier Delauné Layout: Text’Oh Production: Thierry Dubus, Audrey Bord
THE BOY who knew Carlo Acutis CORINNA TURNER FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES
Contents Saturday: Diagnosis Day........................................................ 7 Sunday: Day 1....................................................................... 13 Monday: Day 2...................................................................... 17 Tuesday: Day 3...................................................................... 21 Wednesday: Day 4................................................................. 25 Thursday: Day 5.................................................................... 29 Friday: Day 6......................................................................... 35 Saturday: Day 7..................................................................... 41 Sunday: Day 8....................................................................... 49 Monday: Day 9—Prognosis Day........................................... 57 Official Prayer Asking for the Canonization of Blessed Carlo Acutis...................................................................... 63 Official Novena to Blessed Carlo Acutis................................. 65 Discussion Questions............................................................. 69 More Information.................................................................. 71 Acknowledgments.................................................................. 73 About the Author.................................................................. 75
7 SATURDAY: DIAGNOSIS DAY October 3, 2020 You have leukemia. I keep hearing the doctor’s words in my head. I keep seeing the doctor’s eyes over his mask, darting from me to my parents. Mum burst into tears. Dad started pounding on the doctor’s desk with his fists. I just sat there. Leukemia. How can I have leukemia? I’m fifteen. Stuff that bad doesn’t happen to people my age, right? But the tiredness… the bruising… You have leukemia. When we got home from the hospital, Mum started getting ready for the vigil Mass as usual. Dad never comes along these days, but tonight, he started yelling at Mum. “How can you possibly think there is a God if He could let this happen to Daniel? How can you think He is good?” Mum shouted back, “God is his only hope; can’t you see that? Do you want Daniel to die?” They were still screaming at each other when I slipped out of the house and walked to church. I don’t think I’ve ever come to church on my own before. I felt self-conscious. Any other week, I’d have grabbed the chance to skip Mass. Today, I am angry with God, I suppose…? But I’m also really, really scared.
8 And I really wanted to escape the shouting. Mum never showed up for Mass. I got a text during the First Reading: “Daniel, where are you?” I texted back: “At church.” An old lady glared at me over the top of her environmentally unfriendly single-use mask. I fell asleep during the homily. I’m just so tired all the time. I got glared at again. Now everyone’s gone, and I’m still sitting here. I’m afraid to go home in case Mum and Dad are still arguing. Or in case they want to talk about it all. I feel numb. I haven’t even taken my mask off, though I’m alone. You have leukemia. Do you want Daniel to die? Am I going to die? Words from one of the Scripture readings I heard before I nodded off come to mind: There is no need to worry; but if there is anything you need, pray for it. “God, please don’t let me die,” I whisper. God doesn’t reply. Maybe Dad’s right. Pulling my mask off at last, I shove it into my pocket, my hands shaking. “God, I’m scared.” Nothing. Well, nothing except that the numbness shatters, and suddenly I really feel the fear, which turns my belly into a black hole, cold as a… morgue? I bury my face in my hands as the sobs rip from me. Am I going to die, Lord? Distant footsteps from the front of the church. They pause, then tread briskly along the aisle. Toward me. Oh no. I wipe my face, desperately trying to stop the gasping, heaving sobs. Snot smears my sleeve. Yuck. “Hi, Daniel.”
9 Reluctantly, I glance up, my shoulders still shuddering. It’s Father Thomas. He’s young and kind of cool, sweeping around in his long, black dress—sorry, cassock—without a trace of embarrassment. I wish I had his total lack of self-consciousness. “Hi, Father.” My voice wobbles. Play it cool, Daniel. Just pretend you’re fine and get up and leave. “Are you okay?” “No.” I’m shaking my head. What happened to leaving? And then I’m blurting, “I’ve got leukemia.” His lips part as though I just punched him in the gut. “Oh, Daniel…” He settles into the pew, several feet away because of social distancing. He sits sideways to face me, his eyes narrowed in concern. “Heck, I thought you were going to say you had been bullied or something. That diagnosis is a hard thing to face at any age but especially when you are young. When are you starting treatment? Did they say… what the prognosis is?” “Prognosis?” I sound like an idiot. Oh, whether I’m going to live or die, he means. “Oh, uh… well, I just got the preliminary test results today. After more tests on Monday morning, the specialists will make a plan, and I’ll see them the next Monday, and… well, that’s when they’ll tell me… you know. They think I’ll start treatment almost at once.” “That’s good. Just enough time for a novena.” “What?” He pulls out his wallet and flicks through several business cards before pulling one out. “This is the saint for you. Well, a Blessed, technically. In fact, he’s not a Blessed until next Saturday, so I shouldn’t really be giving these new cards out yet—but under the circumstances, I think it’s okay. Here.” He leans over to hand me the little card. “Almost-Blessed Carlo Acutis. He had leukemia when he was fifteen. Best prayer buddy you could have right now. I think there’s a novena on
10 his website.” He sees my vague look. “A novena is when you team up with a saint for nine days to pray for something.” “Oh yeah, I remember.” I accept the card and slip it into my pocket, though I’m not sure I want it. With the numbness gone, I am starting to feel pretty mad at God. Isn’t He supposed to love me? A wire of white-hot rage tightens painfully around my gut, and I scowl toward the tabernacle. Dad’s right. How could He let this happen to me? What did I ever do to Him? “Have you ever made a pot?” asks Father Thomas suddenly. “Or a painting?” What? “Uh, I make 3D art on my computer. Loads of it.” “Ah, that’s right. I knew you were an artist of some kind. Say you created a 3D pot, then. Would anyone have forced you to make it?” I look at him blankly. “No. I would’ve done it just because I wanted to.” “Could you, like, virtually smash it?” “In my program? Sure. More or less.” A surge of happiness flows through me at the thought of my state-of-the-art 3D design program… then wilts. What good will it do me if I can’t beat this thing? “Could you take the pieces of your ex-pot and make them into a mosaic that was far more beautiful?” “If I wanted to.” “And that would be okay? Breaking your pot and remaking it into something better?” “Of course. It’s my pot. I made it, right?” “And then you could keep your beautiful mosaic forever, right?” Forever? I may not have a year, for all I know. Belatedly, I figure out what he’s on about. “Oh, very clever. But I’m not
11 a pot! It’s not the same!” “No, it’s not the same,” Father Thomas agrees, unperturbed. “We’re far more important to God than some 3D pot. Or even a real one. He loves every single hair on our heads—and He knows exactly how many there are.” “Great!” I snap, leaping up from the pew and storming away from his infuriating calm. I yell over my shoulder, “I’ll be sure to remember that when they start falling out!” But I catch his soft words, just before I slip through the door. “I hope you do.”
75 ABOUT THE AUTHOR Corinna Turner has been writing since she was fourteen and likes strong protagonists with plenty of integrity. Although she spends as much time as possible writing, she cannot keep up with the flow of ideas, for which she offers thanks—and occasional grumbles!—to the Holy Spirit. She is the author of over thirty books, including the Carnegie Medal–nominated I Am Margaret series, and her work has been translated into four languages. She was awarded the Saint Katherine Drexel Award in 2022. She is a lay Dominican with a master’s in English from Oxford University and lives in the United Kingdom. She is a member of a number of organizations, including the Society of Authors, Catholic Teen Books, Catholic Reads, the Angelic Warfare Confraternity, and the Sodality of the Blessed Sacrament. She used to have a giant African land snail, Peter, with a six-and-a-half-inch shell, but now makes do with a cactus and a campervan.
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