Guilt

Chapter 1

“Let’s start at the very beginning. It’s a very good place to start.”
Rodgers and Hammerstein, The Sound of Music

Isabella
The first class hadn’t even begun, and the nails of Isabella’s left hand were already bare. She had started painting them a couple of weeks earlier, so she would learn to stop biting them in time for the start of term. It had worked, but only because she had replaced the biting with painstakingly scratching and picking away at the gleaming back polish. At this rate, she would have run out of polish to scratch off by the middle of the morning and would be reduced to biting away the last two weeks’ delicate growth. She should have thought ahead and bought the bottle with her, so she could re-do them during her lunch break.

Of course, she shouldn’t have brought that bottle of nail polish at all, because she shouldn’t have got it in the first place. It was made by a mainstream cosmetics company – she couldn’t remember which one, as she had torn the label off the bottle because she felt guilty just looking at it – and was almost certainly tested on innocent animals and filled with all sorts of noxious chemicals. She should have bought the nice soy-based nail polish she’d found online, but that only came in pink and red and those were the sort of colours a Stepford wife would wear. Then again, the whole nail varnish thing reeked of gender conformity and patriarchal beauty standards. She shouldn’t be wearing it at all. She began to pick hurriedly at the still-polished nails, but her left hand was too clumsy to do it fast enough. She put her fingers in her mouth and scraped it off with her front teeth and looked with relief at her clean, unadorned fingers.

She looked around the room, trying to work out from the faces of her new classmates what the year would be like. She noticed with approval that they all dressed in the same non-conformist way she did – either in black or riotous colour, with long flowing expanses of crinkled linen, or with slogan-bearing sweatshirts and loose fitting corduroy trousers. As a matter of fact, most of them outdid her. She saw intricate Celtic tattoos, pierced eyebrows, and their hair – such hair! – it dazzled her with its indigo and vermillion, emerald green and deep purple. Her dark brown hair suddenly felt ugly and freakish.

Then one of them said something and the rest of them started to laugh.

She suddenly realised that she was the only person to have sat down at a desk – everyone else was standing or lolling on tables. What’s more, they were congregated in one corner on the other side of the room, and had already begun talking animatedly. She wanted to get up and stand with them, but at the same time she felt too foolish to move. It abruptly occurred to her that the laughter may have been directed at her. She shrank inwards, like a sea anemone, and began nibbling on the nail of her little finger.

Clara

Her mother had bought her the largest white blouse at the school uniform shop, but it still felt like she was trying to squeeze all her flesh into a smaller person’s skin. The sleeves were so tight she could barely raise her arms. The shirt front gaped open between the buttons. Now she was in the sixth form, she didn’t even have a tie to cover the gaps with. She stood outside the classroom with her arms crossed over her chest, but she would have to move them once lessons began.

She tried to work out whether dressing so immodestly was a mortal or venial sin. After all, nobody but a lonely, short-sighted and somewhat confused whale would be tempted to lust by her body. And it wasn’t like she’d set out to show her flesh. But then she remembered shopping with her mother at the beginning of the holidays. “Look, this is the biggest one they have. I’m not taking you to an adults’ clothes shop – you’re barely fifteen. You ought to be able to fit into one of these. You’ll just have to shrink into it.” Sloth. Gluttony. Those sins were mortal enough, anyway.

She sighed heavily and one of the buttons on her stomach popped off and bounced gleefully down the corridor.

“Are you new, too?” It took a few seconds for Clara to realise this question was directed at her, and then she jumped. A smiling freckled face looked across at her. It asked again, more loudly “Are you new, too?”

“No,” she said, almost whispering. “I’ve been here five years.” She felt hot blood spread through her face and wondered why.

“Great! You can show me where my form room is, yeah?” Was this a demand or a question? Clara nodded nervously.

“I don’t bite,” said Smiley New Girl. Clara nodded seriously, then realised she was supposed to laugh. She forced a chuckle and felt her face turn even redder. She was being uncharitable. Here was a New Person in need of a welcome and all she could think about was her stupid embarrassment. Sin of Pride. She’d make a full seven by lunchtime.

Smiley New Girl was still smiling, but rather more weakly. She was staring expectantly at Clara. Clara wondered if she had noticed the button, then realised she was required to say something. But her mind was blank and her throat felt like it was closing up.

“What form are you in?” she mumbled, desperately.
“Um, 13 GB.”
“It’s at the other end of this corridor. There should be a sign on the door.” She felt her heart rate drop and the blushing begin to subside. Why was the simple act of speaking to a stranger so terrifying? Sin of Cowardice. Is that one of the seven? She can’t even remember.

“Do you know who my form tutor is?” said Smiley New Girl. Inside her head Clara screams What is wrong with you? Why can’t you leave me alone? She is filled with a sudden desire to slap her. Sin of Anger.
“Mr Ballantyne.”
“What’s he like?” What is wrong with people? Does everyone else in the world have some disease where their jaw seizes up unless they’re constantly making small-talk? Why do they have to turn everything into a conversation?
“He’s ok. You won’t see much of him though – he only teaches boys’ P.E. and year 7 French.”
The bell goes and at last Smiley New Girl makes her way to her form room. Clara breathes a sigh of relief and another button bounces down the corridor.