Trinity

by Ryan Pearl

This time of year, Middlesouth is hotter than fish grease. On the cross behind the altar, I lock eyes with Jesus, who looks sad. I smile, partly out of respect and partly out of guilt. I only stop to take a bow before I’m through the back door, prancing past Father Bogart’s office, where he’s asleep at his desk, and Miss McCoy’s office, decorated with pink-framed portraits of her many fat cats, and all the way to the end of the hall and around the corner to the altar servers’ dressing room, which is so small and dark it feels more like a closet.

There is no sign of Evan anywhere.

Heat radiates from inside the room, right through the old wooden door, seeping deep into the inconsistently cleaned carpets. Before I can bring my fist to knock, I hear a noise from inside. My heart sinks. It sounds like a bug being squished under a shoe. Then, like the muffled grunting of Daddy’s classic Chevy. And then, like Mama eating a ripe mango. I know enough to know these sounds. I’ve seen enough movies. I’ve seen Gone with the Wind.

They’re kissing, and they’re not holding back.

Tears flow into the back of my throat like a sickness. I emit a weak and involuntary gasp. Before I can run through any hypotheticals, a voice on the other side says, “You taste good.”

I know that voice.

I hate that voice.

Adam.

There’s some more rustling from inside, so I scurry down the hall into Miss McCoy’s empty room on the left. The cats on the walls mock me, and I keep swallowing just to prevent myself from throwing up. I can’t cry. Not now. Not right before service.

The creaky wooden door at the end of the hall creeps open, and a set of footsteps follows. I lean awkwardly against Miss McCoy’s desk. Adam walks right by, not thinking anything of it. He looks over and I force a smile, but all he does is smirk and blow air through his nose.

Now, I shouldn’t say this as a fine Christian lady, but I hate Adam. I think he’s part of some juvenile rehabilitation program. He has greasy hair, is already starting to grow stubble, and I think he’s Mexican or Native American or something. He has these little hoop earrings and baggy jeans, always wears these stupid basketball sneakers, and doesn’t even go to our school. He’s just a bad apple. I like to think that when Daddy tells me to stay away from boys, he’s talking about Adam.

A minute later, the door creaks open again and there’s another set of footsteps—heavier this time, and instantly recognizable. Evan may not be able to pass pre-algebra, but to me, he’s perfect. He has broad shoulders and clean-cut hair parted strictly to one side. He wears crisp, polo shirts and starched khaki shorts, and he’s the finest tennis player in all of east Texas. I really enjoy watching him lap all the other boys in the Presidential Fitness Test. I know it’s wrong. I know I should focus on my studies and my verses, but I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, and he comes from a good family. His daddy is my dentist, and his mama is always over with a casserole, but unlike most of his stupid friends, he’s never approached me. I think that just makes me like him more.

He would’ve walked right past me if I hadn’t cleared my throat. Simple, handsome Evan, who’s turned out to be a lot less simple. “Oh, hi Trinity,” he says, flashing a big, beautiful smile. “Do you think you could remind me when I’m supposed to ring the bells? I always forget. Just give me a wink or something,” he says with a wink of his own.

My cheeks are so forcefully pinned up in a smile that it feels like someone is pulling them with a string. “Well, guess you ought to be getting changed then.”

He smiles, nods, and keeps moving.

********************

Mass has been a disaster. I’ve missed every cue, which means Adam and Evan have, too.

We drag our way to the homily, which Father Bogart can’t even stand to deliver. Instead, he simply asks the congregation with a croak: “Any prayers?”

As I sit between Adam and Evan, the three of us in those burgundy church chairs whose cushions have been picked at for decades, the weight leaves the soles of my Mary Janes. I stand, and, once again, my eyes meet the sad Jesus. The gravity leaves my throat. Loud enough for everyone to hear, I say, “Yes, Father. There’s someone in this congregation in need of prayer.” My arms course with static like freshly dried laundry. I step back so everyone has a clear line of sight, and I point at Adam, arm fully extended. “Lord…Adam is a homosexual!” I yell with everything in me.

I’m mad at Evan, too, but I still love him. I can’t do that to him. Evan has turned whiter than his robes, but Adam’s expression hasn’t changed. He stands up, walks calmly down the altar steps, turns to his left, and goes through the door to the back. Evan follows, running down the steps, but stopping abruptly to bow toward Jesus before charging through the same door. Now, I’m up here all alone with Father Bogart, who remains slumped in his chair, frail and old and confused, with just a few white hairs on the top of his head. I begin to sob, but, looking across the congregation, I see Miss McCoy, whose little hands are pressed to her plump cheeks, mouth and eyes wide like she’s just seen the Devil himself.

An old woman seated toward the front yell, “What? What’d she say?”

A man a few rows back calls out, “And also with you!”

Miss McCoy gets up from behind the piano and heads toward the altar, so I book it down the steps. I think about going straight past the pews and out the front door, never to be seen or heard from again, but I need to talk to the boys. They at least owe me that.

I stomp through the deep-fried carpet toward the dressing room door with feigned confidence and strength. I can faintly hear Miss McCoy fielding questions from the congregation: “You know these kids, sometimes they don’t got the sense God gave a goose.”

I rap the dressing room door hard, five times. The other side stays silent, except for the slightest click of the door being unlocked. I take a breath, straighten my robes, and burst through the door. Evan is sitting on the ground, his legs crossed and his eyes glossed over, wearing nothing but a white undershirt, socks, and his boxers. Adam is leaning against the cupboards in a black tank top, dark flared jeans, and his basketball sneakers. Both their robes are in a messy pile in the middle of the room. I expect Adam to yell at me, but he just stands there, watching me, studying me. I realize how stupid I must look in my robes.

“It’s hot as Hades in here. I need to change,” I say with a pout.

I always keep an extra romper in the bottom drawer. This one is denim, and luckily it’s cute. I don’t want to get in trouble and look like a cow. I go behind the curtain to change, but I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.

“What in the heck is going on here?” Miss McCoy says from the other side.

“Oh, Miss McCoy, I’m changin’!” I call from behind the curtain.

“Aw, shit!” she says, whispering the last part. I know her fat little fists are clenched.

Adam snickers as she tip-toes away to report back to the congregation. I emerge from behind the curtain feeling slightly more presentable, and Adam asks, “So why’d you do that?”

For one of the first times in my life, I’m speechless. I flick my tongue around my mouth out of habit, but can’t find the words. I glance at Evan, who looks like a little kid in time-out. “Do you love him?” I ask Adam, feeling the emotion creeping into my throat again.

He laughs. “No, and he doesn’t love me either,” Evan shakes his head from the floor. Adam continues, “We just…we’re figuring it out.”

“Figuring it out,” I scoff. “That doesn’t sound like what I heard in here earlier.”

Adam nods slowly, putting it together. “Well, God doesn’t give with both hands.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That even though you’re beautiful, you’re not bright.”

I blush. “Wait. But…you just mean that…wait, what do you mean?”

“You are…kind of self-centered,” Adam says with a wry smile.

“I’m working on it,” I say without breaking his gaze.

“Yeah, well if you must know, I swing both ways.”

Instinctually, I flick my tongue again to ask, “Wait, what does that mean?” but I bite it and take a second to process. I nod. “And…” I glance at Evan, who shakes his head again. I swallow. I didn’t realize he never had a girlfriend. Only that he’d never been with me. I take a step toward Adam and ask, “You aren't mad at me…that I did…that?”

He looks confused. “Was it supposed to be an insult?”

I don’t want to think about that right now, so I change the subject. “Did you mean it you think I’m beautiful?”

Without leaving my eyes, he says, “I’m really attracted to you, Trinity, even though sometimes, you’re kind of a bitch.” He runs a hand through his thin, black hair. “I’ve liked you for a while now. Both of you, I guess. I don’t know why. I just do.”

“So, do you just like everyone, then?” I ask with my hand on my hip.

He pauses for a moment, then shrugs. “Just figuring it out.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say skeptically. Then, I turn toward Evan. “Well, I love you, Evan. I always have. That’s how I feel, and I can’t help it.”

He doesn’t even look at me.

Adam smirks. “You don’t love him.”

“Yes I—”

“You don’t love him. You don’t know him, you don’t even like him. You don’t even know yourself. You just think what everyone around you wants you to think. You don’t love him,” he repeats for a third time, shaking his head.

I take a step forward. “How can you say something so horrible and then also say that you like me? And how old are you by the way, creep face?”

“Because I like you. I don’t like your family or your money or how you dress. I don’t like this fucking shithole of a church that my nana—who’s out there right now by the way—makes me serve at. Fuck! I like you. And I’m sixteen, turn seventeen next month.”

I’m surprised that Adam’s only one year older than me. I take another step toward him. “Why didn’t you just run out the door and leave?” I ask, raising my voice a little.

“Because it’s the same out there as it is in here. It’s hot, and the people, like you, fucking suck.” He smiles to soften the blow.

I laugh because he’s right. I’m close enough now to see the details of his face. His eyes are green and brown. His stubble coats his full and defined cheekbones, and his eyebrows are sharp. He reminds me of a lion.

Adam reaches out a poorly manicured hand and invites me to sit on the floor with him. I grab his hand and plop down in between the two, sweaty boys. I’m drenched now, too. I can feel the hair protruding under my headband, sticking to my forehead.

Tap tap tap. Another knock at the door. “Now, I’m startin’ to think there’s something going on here with you three,” Miss McCoy snarls.

“We need some privacy, Miss McCoy, please and thank you!” I yell from the floor, not having heard her footsteps return outside the door before she knocked.

“Oh, shit, Peach’s first sin,” Adam whispers excitedly.

“Oh, Trinity Rose, you know I can’t open this door! Aw, hell!” This time, she stomps away, and we put our hands over our mouths to stifle our laughs. She hollers from down the hallway, “I will be callin’ up your folks about this!”

That comment kills the comedy of the moment. Evan hugs his knees tightly to his chest.

Adam gets on his knees and turns toward me. He’s tall, so his chest is at my eye-level. Beads of sweat run down his neck into the craters of his muscular collarbones. He puts his arm out, and I think he’s going to hug me, so I rest my head on his humid chest. He smells of fresh leather, like a new car or belt. I realize he’s actually reaching his arm behind me to console Evan by rubbing his sweaty back, but he doesn’t flinch at my affection, even though I do. Instead, we all just scoot closer into one sweaty, amorphous being.

Adam straightens his back so he’s on his knees even taller, and he goes in for a kiss with Evan. I shrink down so I’m at face-level with their bellies. I feel claustrophobic, but, surprisingly, also safe. Then, I feel a hand at the nape of my neck. We’re all so close now I have to look up to see whose it is, and it’s Adam’s. He moves his hand down to my shoulders to help guide me up onto my knees so we are all at eye-level. I look to my right. Adam and my eyes meet, and the next thing I know, my eyes are closed and our faces are squished together. It’s wet, and his lips are soft. Maybe a little too soft, like an underdone cookie.

I pull back, examine them both, and get a tingling feeling like the one I’d had earlier on the altar. I put my hands behind both of their necks and pull them in close, next to my face. Then, at the same time, all three of our lips meet in the middle. I can’t tell who is who, and I keep hitting random parts of their faces. I feel Adam’s stubble, and at some point, I knock teeth with one of them, but I’ve never had so much fun.

When we’re done, we laugh. Then, Adam says, “I’ve got an idea.” He pops up onto his feet and opens the cabinets. Inside are jars of Communion hosts and bottles of red wine. There’s a corkscrew, and for some reason, Adam knows how to use it. We lay on the carpet eating crackers with crosses on them, passing back and forth a bottle of wine.

About the Author

Ryan Pearl is a writer from Brentwood, California, who graduated from the University of Oregon, where he studied journalism and creative writing. He took part in Oregon's Kidd Creative Writing workshop for poetry in 2023, but enjoys writing fiction just as much. You can follow him on Instagram – @_pearl.machine and Substack – @ryanpearl.