Trinity (7)

As the hours drag on, my day only gets worse. First, I’m assigned a five-to-seven page paper for religion class, and I need to pick a topic by tomorrow. Religion. Not even English. Next, Pearl acts concerningly chipper in Mr. Gleason’s class, which normally wouldn’t worry me, but kind of does today. But most concerningly, Henry Foley stops me in the hallway on my way to eighth period.

I see him barreling down the hallway, his mouth set in a firm line, and I look behind me, expecting to find some of his football friends. But no, it’s just other students.

Before I have time to face forward again, fingers have wrapped around my left wrist and are pulling me to the side. In a millisecond, I whip my head around and come nose-to-nose with Henry and his dark brown eyes.

I’m too in shock to do anything but squeak.

Henry drags me down the hall a few feet and into the library, which is infamously devoid of students. In fact, at the moment it’s devoid of all people, because Mrs. Leonard, the librarian, likes to go to the parking lot between classes to take a smoke. She’s tried burning candles to cover up the smell, but our principal shut that down pretty quickly for safety reasons.

I really wish Mrs. Leonard was here now.

Henry lets go of my wrist roughly, and my arm swings back and bangs into the shelf behind me. I’ve backed so far into the bookshelf I’ve almost folded up and become a novel myself.

And I think I’d prefer it, too, because Henry is looming over me, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed.

For some reason the only thought I keep having is, Oh God, please don’t try and kiss me.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

“Have you told anyone?” he asks, his voice strained. It strikes me as strange that I can’t immediately tell if he’s trying not to yell or trying not to cry. Obviously yell, though, from the way he’s glaring at me right now.

“Sorry, what?” My voice is so whispery that I’m not sure he can even hear me.

“I assume Pearl told you. So, who did you tell?” He grounds out the words, his eyes never leaving mine.

I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto the set of a crime drama. I press myself into the bookshelf behind me, trying to form more space between us--trying to take a breath.

I don’t have to ask him to clarify; I know what he’s talking about. “She did,” I quickly admit. “But I didn’t say anything to anyone!” There’s a book spine digging into my shoulder blade.

Henry takes a step away from me and rakes a hand through his hair, gaze pointed at the ceiling instead of at me for once. “Damn.”

I cringe, but I don’t say anything.

He raises his arms like he’s going to punch the bookshelf nearest to him, but then he lets them swing down to his sides. “Everyone knows. They keep talking. Damn. Damn.”

I still can’t believe I’m having this conversation with Henry Foley.

He begins to pace. “It’s just rumors. Right? I mean, you didn’t say anything. Pearl wouldn’t say anything. Right? Of course. Pearl wouldn’t say anything.” He’s muttering to himself, and I wonder if I can just slip out of the room unnoticed. The bell’s going to ring soon.

“Uh, yeah, I’m sure it’ll all be… fine,” I offer weakly, scrambling for something to say. I don’t know what to say. Sorry the whole school thinks you’re gay? But you are, right? So…?

He throws his hands up again, and I try not to flinch, even though he’s not close to me anymore. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you of all people.” Henry laughs incredulously, eyeing me from the other side of the library.

I narrow my eyes--but I think the desired effect is lost because my eyes have been so wide this whole time--and say, “What does that mean?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair at the same time that the bell rings, and for the second time today I jump, nearly dropping the books in my hands. Late again.

I take two large steps towards the door, but not before I hear Henry, who hasn’t moved an inch, say, “Nevermind.”

. . .

I pack my backpack extra fast at the end of the day, shoving in all my notebooks just in case, and slamming my locker shut. I find Pearl as she’s closing her own locker, and I follow her down the hall towards the school’s front entrance.

“Oh, Trinity, I actually can’t stay after school today. I texted my parents, and they want me to come straight home,” Pearl tells me over her shoulder as we walk.

I tighten my grip on the straps of my backpack. “What? But we were going to…” I trail off, because I’m not sure what we were going to do. Have a chat in the hopes of somehow curing this sudden ‘weirdness’ that’s been lingering between us for the last few days?

“Yeah, I--you know--have to take the bus. They can’t pick me up so I better--” Pearl shoulders through a couple of students and out the front doors.

I jog to catch up and reach a hand out, grabbing her forearm and spinning her towards me. “My parents can take you back home. Just stay for a little bit,” I find myself pleading.

Her wide eyes blink at me. “My parents won’t be happy about that,” she says, a strangely twisted smile appearing on her face. “Thank you, though.” She disappears into a wave of students, and I see her about to climb onto her bus, and its engine is idling, and students are still getting on but the bus at the front of the line is starting to drive forward--

“Wait!” I’m running now--or close to it--and I hear a shout from behind me.

“Miss Reeding! No running.” It’s the unmistakably low and disapproving voice of Sister Bertha, who I swear is literally always watching me.

Pearl is also watching me, a hand on the bus’s door, a foot already on the steps.

I’m still a distance away from her, but I freeze at the sound of Sister Bertha’s warning. I’m close enough to the bus to hear the busdriver shout at Pearl to get on or off, and I’m close enough to hear Pearl say, “Stop me, then.”

Maybe it’s the reserved yet impish smile spreading across Pearl’s face, but I run. My backpack knocks uncomfortably against my back and arms, and my flats almost fly off, and Sister Bertha yells again, but I run and I pull Pearl off the bus steps and onto the sidewalk.

Other students look at us, but right now they’re just a blur of blue and green plaid. Pearl’s grinning at me, and she grabs my hand and laughs out the words, “Oh my god, Trinity,” as she begins to pull me along. Pretty soon she’s running and Sister Bertha is definitely still yelling but I’m not listening anymore, and I’m laughing because I can’t believe any of this and her hand slips out of mine as she runs. I jog after her, self-conscious, but by now we’re too far away from school for it to matter.

I laugh again and choke out the words, “Slow down!” as I watch her blond hair fly out behind her, and she looks back at me with a grin.

We collapse in a patch of grass at the closest end of the park, under a large, droopy tree.

Once we both catch our breath, I ask, “Do you think we’ll be in trouble tomorrow?” And it’s a serious question, but when Pearl starts to giggle I do too.

“It’s after school hours, what could they possibly get us in trouble for?” She’s lying on her back and she rolls over and props her head up on her hands.

“You’re going to get your blouse dirty,” I can’t help but point out, but there’s still the ghost of a smile on my lips.

She sits up suddenly. “You’re right,” she says and unbuttons it. It’s a blue tank top today with three white hearts embroidered onto it. She lays back down on her stomach, and we sit there for a minute just listening to the breeze.

“Are your parents going to be mad?” I ask tentatively. I’ve only met Pearl’s parents twice, and they seemed awfully nice, but she usually doesn’t talk about them.

“Furious, for sure,” she says with a grin. I grin back, but I’m not sure if she’s joking or not.

“Now tell me about your weekend?” She twists a blade of grass between two fingers.

I nod. “Ok, and then you tell me about yours,” I say as light-heartedly as I can manage. I wish that all of our conversations could be like this, in the sunlight and filled with little laughs. I have a feeling that her weekend was filled with neither.

“Of course,” she says with a soft smile, eyes cast down to the grass in her hand.

So even though I want nothing more than to hear what she has to say, I begin recounting my weekend.

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

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(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/435187/trinity-6)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/437661/trinity-8)