Page 17 - WTP Vol. XI #6

both ignorance and sin. Allison is a sensitive child, and her parents are happy to send her somewhere that they know will try to keep her safe from the dark demons
of the world. They fear for her, inasmuch as their love is imperfect, and unable to cast out the fear they feel. Allison knows, deep down, that there is no safety from those demons. They have already found her. They found her the day she was born into a world that was already maimed, a will-be sinner smeared with blood, one who carries innumerable sites of fear and grief through her waking hours.
~
As a child, Allison was happy between moments when the hands clutched her. Now, those moments last for days. She is glad that PE class was hard. She likes when PE makes her want to throw up, because being physically exhausted was a break from the never- ending exhaustion of holding back the darkness and holding the cold hands inside her body. The weariness is a distant cousin of peace. She strips down and wipes her limbs with a damp paper towel and pulls her uniform khaki pants on, digging through her bag for her change of clothes.
“Have you ever, like, kissed anyone?” Carly asks, interrupting the quiet. Esther, Allison, and Carly have been going to this school longer than anyone, since first grade. Carly knows both girls’ answers; Esther shakes her head, still in her shirt and underwear on the counter, stretching her hamstring. Allison folds her dirty PE uniform into a pile and stuffs it into a plastic Safeway bag. These are becoming precious; the ban on plastic shopping bags will take effect soon. The three of them usually change last, deferring to the girls who are more embarrassed to change in front of others.
Allison shakes her head yes, but shrugs. “Does kindergarten count?” she asks, knowing she is making a joke that isn’t funny, but will protect her from becoming a punchline. Later, she will imagine that she
said something funny, will come up with a good joke that would have sent laughter to every corner of the mildewed grout. But she doesn’t say a funny joke, and twists her mouth into a cartoonish smirk so that the other girls will know that she knows she is a prude, that she is a virgin, that she isn’t working on changing it. This is not a surprise to anyone: they are the few members of the tiny school housed inside their exceptionally large church. There is no one in the room who has secrets from Allison; she can be trusted. She knows this, and the feeling that settles beneath the hands in her gut leave her dirty and ashamed. She keeps her own secrets in her darkness; her grief is paralyzing, she knows that no good and repeatable story will come of it. No one, not even her parents, know how often she wants to die. No one, not even herself, knows what to call the feeling that haunts her. Her sin is the sin of being afraid, of feeling the deep pain that does not end. The hands are in her sides.
“Do you want to practice?” Carly asks, leaning in. Allison smells the intensity of her body spray mixing with the other body sprays, a smell that reminds her of the water at the bottom of the planter boxes when the fruit is ripe, and catches her breath. She is painfully aware that her uniform is in her hands. She does not want to cough in Carly’s face, and so instead is shocked into held-breath stillness, and recoils. She does not know how to escape this situation without making herself look ridiculous. Instead, she feels her face contort into fear.
“Oh my God! I was just joking!” Carly says, offended.
“Sorry, no! I got a tickle in my throat, honest! I...” Allison cannot finish her sentence, and Esther takes pity on her.
“We know, dude. It’s all good. You know Carly!” Esther interjects, keeping the two girls from stepping on each other’s fragile hearts. This dance is familiar
to all involved, with their history crackling under the conversational sparks. Allison is afraid that Carly will think that she wants her, when she was just choking
on the smell. Carly is afraid Allison will judge her as promiscuous, something she would call herself but cannot bear in another’s mouth. She skates along the surface of their faith; it is closely related to walking on water. The difference is infuriating to Allison. She is good at doing things right. She is not good at living.
“You know me, Al. Just a slutty, slutty church hoe!” Carly held up her left hand, still weighted with the purity ring her father gave her the day she turned twelve. She laughs to herself, and Allison wonders if she is the one who should apologize. In a school with so few, less
than twenty people per grade, there is not room for unintended insults. Allison thinks of herself as Carly’s
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