Shirl

I dragged the blunt wood edge of an eyeliner pencil across my lower lid this morning, too rushed to find a sharpener. For two minutes I was alone, if you don’t count my children’s knocks and pleas on the other side of the door. As I slipped the silver cap back onto the eyeliner, the memory of an old schoolmate, “Shirl,” flashed before me. She was in the eighth grade at Highland Middle School in Louisville when I was in the seventh. No matter when I went into the girls’ restroom during the school day, Shirl was there, laying down eyeliner.  Leaning towards the mirror with her generous belly pressed against the sink, she’d say “Hey,” without turning her head. Unlike the other girls who lingered in the long, echoey bathroom, Shirl harbored no malice. Just make-up. I’d study her through the gap of the stall door. Her jeans were so tight you could count the tines of the comb in her back pocket. I’d hear the flint of a Bic and watch her dip the eyeliner into the flame. One quick blow on the pencil’s end and she’d swipe it across her lids, defining her close-set eyes as if with a Sharpie. If it burned, she didn’t show it. Shirl was bussed to the Highlands neighborhood from the south side of town.  More separated us than a year. “Time to hit it,” she’d say, returning the lighter to her pocket and zipping her bag.  One day in the hall between classes, I heard the music teacher mutter something as Shirl walked past. After that, when I saw Shirl in the bathroom, I’d try to leave at the same time so I could hold the door.