Pearl (51)

Trinity reaches out and takes my hand, and a warmth rushes through my body at her touch. Part of me wants to draw her closer, but I don’t.

I didn’t want to come to the Easter-Monday-show-and-tell-whatever-it’s-called, but I’d volunteered myself to run the bake sale with Henry, so here I am. It’s taking forever for him to get here, though, because Jackson’s car broke down on the way. He did text me that they got it jumped and they’ll be here soon.

In the meantime, I’ve been pretending to have something to do while also avoiding speaking to anyone, when possible. I’d wanted to sit with Trinity, but I don’t think Maggie likes me and I didn’t really want to talk to Maggie anyway. Once she starts speaking I swear it never stops.

It was a surprise to find Trinity backstage, which was the perfect place to hide because everyone’s so busy thinking about themselves that they don’t bother to notice that I’m standing around. Hiding in plain sight, I guess.

But Trinity had that look on her face, the one she always has before presentations or when a teacher calls on her in class. She gets this glassy-eyed kind of look, like she’s thinking of either nothing or everything in the world. I know she’s nervous, and I’d meant to stop her and offer some words of encouragement, but right now, all of the English language has fled my brain. She’s holding my hand like she can suck energy out of me and funnel it into herself--and I’d let her if she could.

She pushes out a breath. “Oh, Pearl.”

I give her a smile--because what else can I do?--and I glance down at our hands, joined at last, and-- “Did you cut yourself?”

I drop her right hand and pluck her left out of the air. She’s got a ruby smear on her index finger, but nothing serious.

She tugs her hand back and sucks on the cut, which is a tiny bit yucky, but mostly adorable, and also draws too much attention to her mouth, which, let’s be honest, I spend enough time thinking about.

The cut. Right.

“Come on,” I say to her, tucking my hands into my pockets and walking away from her so that I don’t reach out to her again. I know from my free periods spent in the office that there’s a first aid kit on the wall in there.

We can hear Mr. Sumner start droning into the microphone as we turn away from the gym, and the halls are empty as I lead her to the office. Inside, I hand her a disinfecting wipe and a band aid.

“Do you think I could… not read my essay?” Trinity’s voice is small, her eyes locked onto her finger as she wraps the band aid around it.

I lean against Miss O’Keeffe’s desk, then shift some papers around so I can sit on the front edge of it. Hopefully she won’t mind. “No one’s forcing you to read it,” I offer.

She sighs. “Never mind. You’re right, I’ll read it. It’ll be fine.”

I let out a little laugh, and her head jerks up to look at me. “I didn’t say that,” I say, amused. “I said they’re not forcing you, so you don’t have to read it. You don’t even have to be here; it’s not a school day.”

“My dad’s here,” she says, scuffing a shoe on the ground. She’s wearing dress-code appropriate flats, and part of me finds that funny. “And Rory, but Mom has work.”

“I didn’t know Rory was here.”

Trinity just shrugs. I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about her brother, and I’m about to speak when she says, “I’m just nervous, is all.”

“That’s normal,” I tell her. She scoffs. I roll my eyes. “You know, if this was a class presentation, I’d tell you you’re great and you can do this and everything will be fine, but--”

“But you don’t think I can do it?” she interjects. She doesn’t even look offended, just stunned.

I hold up my hands. “No, you could do it. Just let me finish.” She nods, and I continue. “This isn’t for a grade. There’s no reason you need to be out there if you don’t want to be. It’s not anybody else’s decision but yours.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” She wets her lips, hesitating. “I can’t not. I mean, Dad’s expecting me to do it, and Mrs. Vena, and Katherine even--”

Her. “I don’t care what Katherine Davies thinks. I care what you think.”

I can tell from the way her mouth is set that she wants to argue with me more. She wants to list all the reasons she needs to do this. I shake my head and hop off of Mrs. O’Keeffe’s desk. “Fine, do it. I’ll be at the bake sale table, waiting for Henry,” I tell her, hand on the office doorknob.

“You won’t even come watch?” Trinity’s voice is laced with disappointment, and my stomach tumbles.

Turning back to her, I say, “Tell me right now that you’re doing it, and I’ll come watch. Or you could come and sit at the bake sale table with me.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction, which makes me smile, and suddenly she smiles back, just a little. “It’s not for an hour, I can sit with you for a while,” she tells me.

That’s not a definitive answer at all, but I just shake my head and hold the office door open. I wish I could make decisions for her sometimes, instead of her agonizing over them for ages, but I can’t. She has to figure some things out on her own.

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

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