Saint Claire

by Caridad Cole

Image credit: JJ Jordan on Unsplash

Claire was a Catholic schoolgirl. She shortened her skirt, put safety pins in her shirts, and skipped mass on Tuesdays. She was in my sister’s year and was the choice topic of adult conversation. Did you hear? Claire got sent home again today. She was flashing people outside of the girls’ room. She was smoking by the bike racks. She tore her uniform in front of the monsignor. I remember when my sister would come home from school and, before answering the questions of how her own day went, would launch into fantastic tales of Claire. Today she wore short shorts to gym class. Today she did cartwheels down the hallway. My parents would give their long-winded speeches of the dangers of Claire, and my sister would continue with more unwanted details. I was often asked to leave the room, but I listened from the doorway. Claire was a fictional girl; I was sure of it. She was the embodiment of rebellion that my sister wished she had the nerve to achieve herself. Claire was a creative mixture of television mean girls and a Hot Topic loiterer. She wasn’t real. Still, I soaked in the stories and the way my sister would wave her arms around during some parts and lean in to whisper other parts as if I were being let in on a big secret.

My sister once said that Claire was her best friend. This worried my parents, of course, but as long as the two girls didn’t do anything mischievous, they kept quiet. When Claire came over to our house for the first time, the living room became a gallery, and she was on display. She sat on the couch, as polite as expected from a Catholic schoolgirl. She crossed her legs at the ankles, tucked her brown hair behind her ears, and asked for a glass of water. I, being too young to know that teenagers act differently in front of other people’s parents, was in awe of how incorrectly my sister had portrayed this girl. I sat on the carpet, looking up at the two of them, waiting for something magical to happen––for Claire’s hair to suddenly change color or for little horns to sprout from her forehead. Nothing happened until my sister made an annoyed sound that signaled to my parents it was time for them to leave the room. As soon as they reached the upstairs, Claire scooted to the edge of the couch, leaning down toward me. She could have said anything, and I would have been surprised. My sister and her friends never gave me attention, but somehow, I hadn’t been kicked out of the room yet. She made an odd face, like she suddenly knew everything there was to know about me, just by looking into my eyes. She then sat back, gave my sister a look, and turned back to me.

“How many boys have you kissed?” was the first thing Claire ever said to me. It made sense when I think about it now. If anything, Claire was obsessed with having a “reputation.” She wanted everyone, at all times, to be aware of what she had done, and with whom. She never even heard my response to this question, which would have been one, and she wasted no time giving up her own statistics. I remember the way she spoke: she slowed down each word and raised her eyebrows a lot, as if to emphasize her sarcastic undertones, like it required so much effort just to get the words out because everyone was always making her tell these stories. She said she could try to count the number of people she had kissed, but that she had to give up after twenty. My sister seemed impressed. Claire added that some of her kisses were with girls. She described soft skin and delicate hands “fluttering” down her back. I’ll never forget, she said it just like that: fluttering. She was also quick to mention that the majority of her rendezvous were with older boys and that she had a lot of boyfriends who only lasted a day. According to her, boys were too clumsy and used too much teeth.

Image credit: Loc Dang on Unsplash

I learned more about boys from Claire, that afternoon in my living room, than I ever had from school or my siblings or my parents. Somehow, her unreliable musings translated to wisdom in my mind. She asked me if I had a boyfriend and if he was mean to me. This was strange, I thought. Why would anyone have a mean boyfriend? Apparently my sister did. She snuck around with a secret boyfriend and had to secretly break up with him too. Claire instructed her how to forget him: avoid your usual hang-outs in case he shows up, throw away everything he gave you, stop talking to your friends who might bring up his name. Do all of these things until his face is blurry in your memories and you have no more tears left. Eventually you will find someone new who is soft and sweet. I watched my sister internalize these instructions and hoped they would help. She nodded gravely in my direction, silently telling me to follow them as well.

As far as I could tell, the Claire in front of me couldn’t have done any of the things my sister had told me about. She seemed honest and open, willing to help other girls, and was even a little vulnerable. I couldn’t imagine her jumping a fence or running from security guards. She was sipping water and talking to a kid, sitting nicely on the couch, in her school uniform. When she stood up to use the bathroom, I spotted a little marker heart on the back of her knee.

The thing about Claire is that all I know about her is from the stories I’ve heard, so really, I know nothing. Maybe there always has to be one. One girl above the rest, to decide what matters and what doesn’t. Plus, her friendship with my sister was short-lived, perhaps because my sister couldn’t do the things she could do. They couldn’t shoplift together, they couldn’t go to clubs together, they couldn’t ride in cars with boys together. After Claire stopped coming over to the house, our parents asked about her. Turns out, she was welcome anytime. Later that night, my sister confessed to me that she had kissed a boy who tasted like cigarettes and soil, and that Claire had been kicked out of school.

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Caridad Cole

Caridad Cole is a writer and filmmaker from forested Northeastern America who has appeared in Coffin Bell, Vocivia Magazine, BarBar, An Anthology of Rural Stories by Writers of Color 2024 (EastOver Press), and elsewhere. She is a 2025 Pushcart Prize nominee, 2025 BarBe Awards finalist, and was the 2018 recipient of three grants from Words for Charity for her work in magical realism. In 2023, she founded the speculative literary and art magazine, Moonday Mag. Though very busy searching for the sea witch who swallowed her charm bracelet, Caridad can be reached on Instagram @astrocari and at caridadcole.com.