Trinity (27)

Today is Ash Wednesday. For me, it means three things.

One, it means I’ll have to remember to avoid going anywhere with my parents, because we’ll all have ashes smeared on our foreheads. I normally rub mine off pretty quickly, but not quick enough to make it seem like it’s on purpose. I'm still not sure if I'm technically allowed to rub it off, or if it's considered rude or something.

I remember when I was in second grade, back before we moved, I went to the grocery store with my mom and this old woman licked her finger and tried to clean my forehead for me. She’d thought I was just a messy child. Then my mom had turned around, revealing the identical grey smudge on her face, and the woman had scoffed and muttered something. No one’s ever tried to wipe my face again, but we do get a lot of bizarre looks. I've wished ever since then that we'd all just wipe the ashes off.

The second thing Ash Wednesday means is that we have a school service, the one where we get the ashes rubbed on our heads. This is fine, because classes are short, which means less schoolwork.

However, the third thing--and this only applies this year--is that it’s the day of Mr. Gleason’s science test. He claims that he shortened it so that we’d have the proper amount of time, but I still work up until the bell. I didn’t even answer one of the questions, but that was having to do more with my lack of knowledge than my lack of time.

These three things combined make for a rather awful day, if I’m honest. I see Pearl in science, of course, but we don’t talk because of the test. The only other times I spot her throughout the day she seems to be in a bad mood, perhaps because of the school service, since those tend to have that effect on her. And seeing her makes me nervous, and the science test (even when I’m done) makes me nervous, and talking to Maggie makes me nervous because she keeps asking me if I’ve texted Kelly yet--and I haven’t.

When I get home, I march right upstairs and stand in the bathroom in front of the mirror. It’s just me, in a regular Saint Paul’s uniform, with regular short hair and a line of ashes still on my forehead. I look like everyone else, I look boring, I look like me. Most days I’m comforted by my uniform, because it’s easy to put on in the mornings and I never have to think about what to wear.

But today, I hate it.

I tear off my uniform cardigan and kick off my blue and green skirt, leaving me in my white blouse and a pair of tight-fitted shorts and my silly white socks from the uniform store. I turn the sink on and wash my forehead until it turns pink.

Usually after school I put on a random old hoodie--recently I’ve been wearing one that’s from a girls in engineering camp that my mom convinced me to go to in the summer after seventh grade. I decided after that not to pursue engineering.

Today I root through my closet, then my drawers. Finally I happen upon a knitted pink sweater, forgotten behind a stack of pants because it has a big pull on one sleeve. I shuck off my blouse and put the sweater on. It’s a little airier than a hoodie, but I leave it on and get started on my homework. I need to finish an entire week’s worth of math homework before Friday. I haven’t done any of it yet.

I’ve only just scraped my way through Monday’s math problems when my dad calls me for dinner. I stand and hesitate at my door. In the end, I pull the sweater off. It’s not that my parents would mind me wearing it, it’s just that it’s not what I usually wear. I don’t want to feel like I have to explain something being different.

. . .

I stand in the bathroom before school, uniform on, ready to leave. But I’m staring at my reflection again, wanting something. If I was allowed to, I’d wear something new and different, I think. If I had the confidence, anyway.

But the best I can do is wear my green pull-over instead of the regular dark blue cardigan I always wear. The cardigan has pockets, so it’s objectively better, but I go with the green sweater anyway.

I try approaching Pearl when I get to school, but she’s already talking animatedly to someone.

It's Henry, back from suspension. He and Andrew Ryan both, though I don’t really care what Andrew’s up to.

Henry’s leaning with his back against the row of lockers, one leg propped against the locker behind him. His hair is casually tousled, and his body language, at first glance, suggests nonchalance. I’ve learned to read him better though, because as I near I can see his arms are crossed tightly over his chest, his leg is bouncing nervously against the locker, and his mouth is screwed into an unhappy line.

“He’s a jerk,” Henry mutters to Pearl as I approach. He’s eyeing the hallway behind me warily.

Pearl’s talking over him, books flying from her backpack to her hands to her locker and back again. “If it wasn’t for her, this wouldn’t have started in the first place. She must have been telling all kinds of lies about you! For ages! How long have you been apart? Like forever, she must have some kind of issue--”

“What’s going on?” I ask. Pearl freezes up and Henry blows out a sigh. I notice that his eyes are following something just past my head. I turn to see that the something is a group of his football friends. None of them even look at him. Maybe they’re not such good friends after all.

“I got into a fight with Andrew Ryan,” Henry leans in to tell me quietly when they pass.

I can almost hear myself blink. “Well. Duh.” I sputter out a laugh, and glance at Pearl, distracted enough to expect to see her grinning back at me.

She’s staring down at her tennis shoe as she rubs a toe against the ground.

And that’s how the day goes. Whenever she’s around, Henry’s also around. He’s sulky--rightly so, because the school is still buzzing about his fight, and his friends aren’t sticking up for him. But it puts me a sour mood.

His drama isn’t my drama.

Except it is, because Pearl and I seem to be the only two people in all of Saint Paul’s that aren’t gossiping about him or whispering insults behind his back. I hear all the things they’re calling him. Gay, of course, but a lot worse than that as well. Ugly words.

If I was someone else, I’d defend him. If I was, say, Pearl.

So, no, I don't get a chance to talk to Pearl about our differences and our issues and all the things we’ve never said to each other. Because she's busy combating the rampant speculation about her friend.

And she starts at the source. Where most of Saint Paul’s rumors begin, or where they become amplified, at least. She starts with Maggie.

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(first part: https://theprose.com/post/432343/trinity)

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(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/448269/trinity-26)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/449246/trinity-28)