“Okay, you say it first,” says Ruth.
“Catholic,” says Rhi. It sounds like a word; it reminds Ruth vaguely of incense.
“Now you,” she says.
“Catholic,” says Topaz, and in her mouth it’s filthy: a shirt untucked and a sullen pout, short plaid skirts, guilt and rulers; cigarettes in a grubby green bathroom–her first tampon, secrets, the hungry eyes of bullies. It sounds like too late on a Friday night, passing around filched peppermint schnapps, bad lighting and whispering the Hail Mary while somebody feels you up.
“See?” says Ruth.
“No!” says Rhi.
“Is my favorite flavor,” Topaz adds, grinning.