Plaid Skirts By A.A. Malina “Shh,” I whispered as she giggled. She pressed her mouth on mine and pushed me against the tile wall behind a row of stalls in the tiny bathroom just outside of our study hall. We jumped apart when the door squeaked open. I rushed to wash my hands in the sink and she went into a stall, slamming the door behind her. The intruder was just some freshman. Her face was blank as she opened a stall door, but a cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety shot through me. I felt sick at the thought of anyone finding out­­be it a student, a teacher, or worst of all, my family. ​
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I dried my hands and waited outside. My heart pounded when I saw her coming out. “We shouldn’t do this at school any more,” she whispered. “It’s so hard not to,” I answered, biting my lip. “We have to get back to study hall. I’ll go first. Wait five minutes before you go in.” She trudged away in her ratty brown birkenstocks. I sighed and leaned against the wall, absentmindedly reading the flyers that covered the hall. “Pro­Life Club Bake Sale on Tuesday!” “Late Start on Friday: Holy Day of Obligation!” The intruder was walking out of the bathroom, so I made myself look busy by drinking from the water fountain. I glanced up at the clock. 2:55. Twenty minutes until I had to endure a whole weekend without seeing her. I had stayed at her house so many weekends recently that my sister was starting to get suspicious. I asked her to stay at my house for a change, but her parents knew about us. They preferred me visiting so they could be sure we were rarely left alone. Though the usual risks didn’t apply to us, her parents thought that if they left us alone for too long it was bad parenting. At least that’s what they implied. But from the looks her father gave me when I held her hand, I suspected it was something else. I looked up again. The face on the crucifix above the clock seemed displeased. I fiddled with the hem of my skirt. The threads were coming out from all my picking. 2:58. I slumped back to study hall and slid behind a desk beside her. This was the last study hall of the day, dubbed “Mass Study” because every day at this time, students could either go to Mass or a silent study hall. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I had spent my entire freshman year of high school actually going to Mass during Mass Study. I thought about the feeling of cool holy water dripping down my forehead and the nauseating smell of incense filling the hushed, thickly carpeted chapel. These things used to afford me respite but now all they held for me was a vague sense of guilt, and even that was lessening. The light that broke through the stained glass windows highlighted grotesque faces of various Catholic saints. They were meant be beautiful images, but people depicted in stained glass always looked rather terrifying to me. 1 In the beginning of my infatuation with Hailey, I still went to Mass every Sunday with my family, but I’d squirm on the hard wooden pew, feeling painfully displaced. And every time homosexuality came up in the sermon, I’d redden, fearing everyone was looking at me. When I told my dad I wouldn’t be going to Mass any more, he simply shook his head and closed my bedroom door in my face. We never spoke of it again. I looked over at Hailey and smiled. She handed me a note: “Bathroom after school?” My heart pounded as I scrawled back: “I can’t wait.” “Ladies,” said the proctor in a nasally voice, “I ​
hope ​
we are doing our ​
homework​
.” I looked down and pretended to read the history textbook in front of me, mentally replaying our bathroom tryst. I wondered if my sister would be angry that I wasn’t coming straight to the car after school. She still hadn’t caught on but I dreaded what would happen if she ever did. I tapped my pen against the page. The clock ticked along with me. 3:10. Hailey crossed one leg over the other and I made a conscious effort not to look at her exposed thigh as she did. She drummed her fingernails against her desk. They were painted a deep purple that day and had already started to chip. 3:12. I practiced writing my signature a few times. I leaned down to pull my knee socks a little higher. We were almost there. I watched the second hand as it inched up to the twelve on the clock and I held my breath. I jumped up and the room was filled with the sound of girls chattering, desks moving, and backpacks zipping. I caught her eye and smiled. She blushed as we walked out, surrounded by a sea of plaid skirts. We lingered by our lockers, pretending that we were trying very hard to decide what books to bring home with us. The halls cleared out quickly and the yelling and laughter died down. The stragglers slammed their lockers shut. I followed her into the bathroom where I pushed her against the wall. Our starched skirts made a swishing sound when they touched. The beige stalls and beige walls blurred behind her dark curly hair and my mind went blank. I let my hand creep up under the front of her shirt. I held my breath, waiting for her to protest. I had just reached her bra when the buzz of the intercom broke us apart. “Theresa O’Connor, please come to the front desk.” ​
a voice squeaked over the static. I sighed heavily and pulled away, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “I’ll call you tonight,” I whispered. I shuffled down to the atrium. I wished Mass Study hadn’t ended. My sister could have continued praying obediently in the chapel and I could have stayed in the bathroom with Hailey. My sister was standing by the front desk with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. “Where ​
were ​
you?” she demanded. I shrugged and followed her out to the car, thinking about that flash of thigh beneath a green plaid skirt. 2