Tara’s Bio:

Tara Cowie lives and works in New York City. Tara received her BA in English from Colgate University and her MFA in Fiction from New York University. Tara is passionate about words and writing, and is currently at work on her first novel. In addition to writing, Tara enjoys riding her horse, reading, traveling, and exploring the world.

Confirmation

By Tara Cowie

The place is filled with candles. Every time the door opens or closes, they all flicker as if they’re taking a breath. It’s kind of eerie, but erotic at the same time, even more because we’re sitting in a church and I’m squeezed between my mom and grandma. Soon all I can think about is sex, and it’s weird to think about it here like this. But, it’s easier at the same time; my thoughts wander loosely while I fidget in this hard-backed pew. The church was shut down yesterday. The congregation was lumped together with a few others into a giant conglomerate church a few blocks away. The power was turned off last night, and some of the members called for a sit-in to protest this injustice. It means little to me. I only came tonight because I didn’t have anything better to do. And I liked the idea of trespassing.

I keep crossing and uncrossing and re-crossing my legs and every time I move, my bare leg grinds against my grandma’s scratchy skirt, some type of harsh wool, though it’s warm today, and even warmer wedged in here. There were a lot of people when we first came in, but now we’re almost the only ones left. My mom keeps resting her sweaty palm on my knee and giving me this real meaningful look, and I can’t keep this smirk off my face because I know she wants to raise her voice into the rafters but she can’t here, not in God’s house.

My mom has a flashlight in her lap and I grab it when the door whooshes open again and she turns around. The flashlight is heavier than I thought it would be, and it feels good in my hands, strong and solid. I’m running my hands up and down it when my mom turns back around.

“Don’t drop that,” she says.

I almost laugh but I sit up straighter instead, arch my back and squeeze my thighs together.

I watch an old couple in the first row stand and cross themselves and then shuffle all the way down the long aisle, hand in hand. The old man has a thick white mustache; the hairs are long and look sharp as quills. My boyfriend has the faintest layer of stubble across his chin and jaw and I imagine his almost scratchy face tracing between my thighs.

My mom’s hand is on my knee again, pinching this time. She slides it back into her own lap, and I listen to the whisper of her silk skirt as a red mark forms on my knee. I position the flashlight over that angry tattoo. I glide my fingers along the lip of the flashlight, warm now from my hands. I bring it to my mouth and grip the rim with my teeth. My lips push against it; a metallic smell wells in my throat.

“That’s filthy,” my mom says, batting the flashlight away. She frowns and furrows her eyebrows real tight, creasing her forehead.

Grandma’s had her eyes closed this whole time, fingering her strand of rosary beads. The beads are small and clack lightly against each other as she works them. I’m waiting for her to fall asleep so I can wind the beads around my wrists. Last night, my boyfriend wrapped his hands all the way around my wrists and held them over my head when he came. He is strong, the muscles in his arm like three clenched fists, and I liked being trapped like that.

“Grandma’s tired,” my mom says all of a sudden. She reaches across me and pats Grandma’s arm. “Let’s go, Ma,” she says.

We make a lot of noise when we stand up. My mom places her hand on the small of my back. I tap the flashlight against my thigh all the way down the aisle. It’s still warm outside, but the wind is as sharp as a knife. The street is crowded and everyone is walking fast. A tall man eyes me as he passes. He makes some quick movement with his lips; they look for a moment as if they will jerk right off his face. I huddle closer to my mother and hug my arms across my chest. At the end of the block, I turn around and bury my gaze in the dancing colors of the stained glass windows, and then I follow my mom and grandma across the street.

***