Full of Grace

"Full of Grace" was originally published in Issue 04 of the Literary magazine Wizards in Space in March, 2019.

It’s the first Friday of the month, so they’ve got us all crammed into the school chapel. Just a freakin’ sea of maroon sweaters, itchy skirts, and gray knee-highs filling in the creaky pews. The two of us are sitting right next to each other and I can hardly stand it. Bernie’s got her skirt rolled up. No idea how she didn’t get dress-coded, but there’s, like, a solid half-foot of bare thigh showing above her knee. I keep staring at that birth mark I’d told her looks like Elvis in profile over the summer. His eye peeks out from under her plaid skirt, the fabric cutting him off just under the nose. She’d laughed then, and she’d laughed when I’d confessed later that it had been a lame attempt to distract myself from how dry my mouth had been when she’d walked out in that yellow bikini. Now Elvis has become something she teases me about when she comes over after school to “do homework,” having the absolute nerve to call me a dork while we’re making out.

All I want to do right now is hold her hand. That’s not going to fly. Bernie’s leaned back, arms crossed, eyes straight forward. She looks pissed. Every time I glance at her face, my gut twists, so I’m looking at Elvis instead.

This whole situation is Sarah’s fault, really. She’s on the other side of Bernie, her stupid blonde ponytail hanging down the back of her head. We’d been in homeroom, me and Bernie talking like usual, leaned in all close, when Sarah came bounding up and started spouting off about prom. The theme, the dresses, the et cetera. All fine. Then Sarah had to go and ask if we were going. I’d leaned back, away from Bernie. It came out way too quick and way too harsh. “No. Not together.”

It was one of those answers you give before realizing the other person had asked something completely different. The damage was done, though. No amount of trying to laugh it off with Sarah would change the way Bernie had looked right then. When we read Julius Caesar sophomore year, I’d thought the whole et tu, Brute thing was kind of overdramatic. But in that moment, I totally got it. Bernie switches to anger real quick when she knows she’s been wronged, but that split second of hurt and disbelief was something else.

That was homeroom. Now it’s halfway through third period and she hasn’t talked to me since.

We all stand for the Our Father, hands palm-up in front of us. I’m hoping she’ll tap the back of her hand on the palm of mine like she usually does, but there’s nothing. I consider tapping hers for a second, but she’s standing so stiff that I know it would only make her angrier.

Father McConnell brings his hands together over the altar and says his line, “Who live and reign forever and ever,” and the chapel “Amens” kinda sorta in unison. Our hands drop. Father McConnel says, “The Lord’s Peace be with you.”

A little thrill goes through me. The Sign of Peace. She has to hold my hand during the Peace.

I knew if I finagled a spot next to her, I’d get a hand-hold during the Peace. When Bernie gives me the Sign of Peace, she always shakes me hand a little longer than everyone else does and says, “Peace be with you, Reenee,” really soft. It gives me this big dumb smile on my face. Ree-nee. She’s the only who calls me that. It turns my heart into a little gay puddle on the floor.

The chapel rings with “And with your spirit,” a couple of Christmas-and-Easter Catholics slipping up with “And also with y—oh.” Father McConnell raises his hands. “Let us offer each other the Sign of Peace.”

The chapel devolves into “Peace be with you”s, giggles, mini conversations, and flashes of peace signs across the aisle. Bernie’s got her back to me, shaking with Sarah first. Sarah says or does something to make Bernie laugh. I fist a hand in my skirt. When she turns, I catch her eye and stick my hand out. Her lips form a thin line. She puts her hand in mine, barely shakes it once, mutters “Peace,” and turns away.

Her hand is there, and then it’s not. I feel worse than before. I’m not listening to Father McConnell as we sit back down, tens of pews groaning in unison. Bernie re-crosses her arms. The waves of pissed just roll off her. I lean back to glare at Sarah’s ponytail. Prom isn’t for another three months, but no. She had to bring it up in January.

The girls in the front row stand up for Eucharist, only the occasional non-Catholic staying seated. Bernie shifts next to me, turning a bit toward the aisle, leaning forward, and jiggling her foot. She’s always getting ready to head up for Communion way too early. I tease her about it the way she teases me about what a dork I am. A little half-chuckle comes out. I can’t help it. She’s cute. Her head turns toward me and my smile drops. She gives me that same tight-lipped look from the peace. Her foot stops jiggling. Slowly, she leans back into the pew and crosses her legs and arms. Before she looks away, her face changes. Her mouth unclenches, and she looks like she did earlier. Et tu, Brute? It wasn’t Sarah who’d made her look like that.

When it’s our pew’s turn to stand, I follow Bernie into the aisle. I walk up to Father McConnell, head bowed, and stick my hands out. Father McConnell places the communion wafer in my hand. I “Amen” and stick it in my mouth. It’s stale and dry. Jesus looks sadly down at the whole line of us from His place on the crucifix behind the altar. He reminds me of Sister Margaret’s WWJD poster. Jesus was never a teenage lesbian with a pissed off girlfriend, so I don’t really know. At the end of the day, this is His fault, isn’t it? Not really a nice thought to have while Father McConnell’s handing you the Body and Blood, but He’s going to have to cut me a little slack. At every turn, I’ve just felt more and more trapped. The stained-glass windows that used to be so beautiful are just depictions of martyrs looking miserable. The old, dusty corners that used to make the place feel cozy are claustrophobic and antiquated. God’s supposed to be love and joy, but all my capacity for love has brought me in that corner is shame. They won’t let me get married. They won’t even let me go to prom without wrangling a male date. Even if I did ask Bernie to prom, it’s going to be a whole complicated thing. We’d have to get Joey and Mark from St. Francis to come with us just so we could get in.

Mary’s somber and benevolent in her little niche to the left of the altar. There’s a shiny part on her foot where girls have dragged their fingers over it over the decades, wearing down the metal. I’ve never bothered—haven’t felt the need to. Now, I drag my fingers across the smooth metal as I pass, hoping just a bitty little piece of her grace will somehow drop into my life and fix my problems.

I file into the pew behind Bernie, all of us sitting instead of kneeling. No kneelers in the chapel. Elvis peers up at me again. It feels like the whole pantheon is upset with me: Jesus, Mary, Elvis. I lied, after all. I’ve been telling Bernie for months I’d tell my parents, that I didn’t care if people figured it out, and then I went and no-homoed my own girlfriend. I didn’t even want to tell Joey and Mark. And they’re dating.

Sister Margaret turns around in her seat in front of us. “Bernadette Gardener,” she hisses, “Fix your skirt.”

Bernie’s cheeks turn pink. She hikes her sweater up an inch and raises her hips, unrolling her waistband and tugging down the hem. Once Elvis is covered up again, she plops her butt back down in the pew with a huff. It’s a display of utter gracelessness. I get hit hard in the sternum, like when you’re listening to classical music and you don’t know why, but out of nowhere you feel like you’re going to burst into tears. I love her. I really, really love her. It feels good. Holy. That has to be worth something.

When I reach across my chest and pull on her arms, she resists for a second before uncrossing them. I keep my hand around her bicep—she’s on the tennis team, you know—and slide my right hand in her left, lacing our fingers together and holding tight.

We sit like that for a second, girls parading past us down the side aisle next to me and back to their own pews. They can see our hands easy where I’ve got them resting on my lap. Bernie’s not pulling her hand away. Her hand is there, and it stays.

When I let another few seconds pass in silence, she sighs and starts to pull her hand away. “Irene—”

“I want to go to prom with you.”

She stops. “What?”

“I’m sorry I was an idiot and no-homoed you in front of Sarah.”

Down the pew, Sarah looks over at us, grinning. “I knew it—”

“Shut up, Sarah,” Bernie hisses.

When Bernie turns back to me, she’s radiant. All the pissed-off is gone from her big, dark eyes, and she’s got her happy little grin.

“I want to go to prom with you,” I whisper. “Yes, homo.”

She squeezes my hand hard, and I get the feeling that if we weren’t in the middle of the Eucharist, she’d kiss me. “You’re not an idiot. I want to go to prom with you, too.”

“Good. Okay. Great.” My heart’s beating hard and fast, and the words come out kind of huffy. She beems at me and I scoot closer, so our sides are pressed together. The girls walking past on my left are looking at us. I care a little bit, but I don’t lean away. This time, I stay right where I am.

Soon I can’t resist talking to her anymore. I’m bubbling inside, like some kind of gay soda that’s been all shaken up. “My parents aren’t going to let you do homework alone at my house anymore when I tell them we’re together.”

This mischievous little grin shows up on her face. “I figured. It’s too bad, because math just gets me sooo—”

Sister Margaret turns around in her seat and gives us the Look. We go quiet and turn our eyes somberly to the floor.

When Sister Margaret turns back around, Sarah leans over to us. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“’Cause it was none of your business,” I hiss back. We’re all smiling. “And for the record, ‘I knew it’ isn’t exactly the ideal response—”

Bernie’s got a hand over her mouth to repress her giggle and Sarah and I shut up when Sister Margaret turns her wire-rims on us again. “If the three of you can’t save your conversation for lunch, you can have it in detention.”

We all mutter an apology and face dutifully forward. Bernie and I are still grinning, still holding hands. Mary, Jesus, and Elvis look on benevolently.