by Aimee Herman
MY LIST OF THINGS I HATE
(Dad says it’s not nice to hate, but don’t you think some things are deserving of it?)
1.Shopping of all sorts (clothes, shoes, household stuff). Wait, actually I do like food shopping, but that’s because sometimes there are free samples.
2.Elvis music. Flor once told me that you are either a Beatles or an Elvis fan. Obviously, Beatles for me. They are just the coolest. I guess I feel like you shouldn’t have to move your hips all weird and wear sparkles to get your point across. I don’t hate hate him, maybe it’s more dislike. Okay, I guess Elvis comes off.
3.Mushrooms. Slippery, smelly, and they’re a fungus!
4.Homophobes. No need to really explain that one.
5.When it snows on a school day, but we don’t get off. Not fair!
6.Elevator music. I don’t know, I guess it’s just kinda depressing.
7.Math.
8.You used to be on this list, James, but I’m retiring your name. I just can’t hate you anymore.
9.Music where the singer screams at me. Minus Kurt. His screams are like necessary. And beautiful.
10.Pop quizzes.
After finally finding a parking spot, Shirley and I entered through the double doors of Macy’s at the Freehold Raceway mall. It smelled of old lady perfume and cigarette smoke. Even though there is a designated smoking section, the scent of burnt tobacco wafted throughout each floor. I think that if they ever ban smoking from this place, it will forever smell like Marlboro Reds or Shirley’s Salems. Luckily, we don’t have to go to the smoking section anymore, since Shirley pretty much quit.
We headed to the junior’s section—I hate that it’s called that, though I’m not sure why. I’ll have to add that to my list too.
Shirley and I do not share the same taste for clothing. She likes turtlenecks and jeans that strangle ankles. She wears sweaters with unidentified animals on them. I prefer my clothes to barely touch my skin. Loose. Comfortable. I don’t waste time on patterns or matching tops to bottoms. I just like to be covered. Oftentimes, I get Gret’s hand-me-downs, which I really don’t mind. The only catch is by the time I get her clothes, what once was cool and fashionable, suddenly becomes passé: Z Cavariccis, her favorite tiedyed Champion sweatshirt, and a powder-blue hypercolor shirt that, by the time I got it, no longer changed its color.
She handed me a few of her chosen pieces for me—completely ignoring my desired style—and I entered into the dreaded dressing room.
Shirley was close behind and I stopped her before I opened the curtain.
“Can you wait outside?” I asked.
“Promise to come out and show me?”
I smiled, realizing that to Shirley, this was a good time. I tried to lighten up. The thing is, I love Shirley. A lot. Sometimes it’s just difficult to be around her.
I stood naked in front of three mirrors broadcasting every inch of me. I tried not to look but couldn’t help seeing parts of me I could never reach with my eyes. It felt like a warped version of Alice in Wonderland through the looking glass, but the more I peered in, the blurrier I became. Are those really my legs and why must my breasts jut out like that? This should be illegal.
With just my underwear on, I became very aware of something. Like a wetness. Also, a slight smell. Kind of like wet pennies or the scent of my metal roller skates when I left them outside after it rained. Rusty. I peered into my underwear and knew immediately.
Sometime this past summer—July maybe?—Shirley said that if I didn’t get my period by my sixteenth birthday, we’d have to go to the doctor because maybe something was wrong. A part of me wished my period was like a package sent to the wrong address. And with no return address, it would just float in the air or attach itself to someone else or . . . I know, I know, this was weird to think. But I really didn’t want it.
James, I would never, ever normally tell you about this. But I guess I’m writing this because after it happened, nothing was the same. Funny how little we can control over our bodies. Hair grows even when we cut it, and bits of us get bigger or change shape whether or not we want it to.
“Oh, Eleanor. This is so exciting. Are you excited? How about we go to the food court to celebrate.”
You are probably wondering why I even told Shirley, when I could have easily kept it secret and just told you and you certainly aren’t going to blab. Well, I may appear morose (hello, vocab word), but I knew how happy she’d be. I’ve learned through many of my friends that menstruation is like a powerful drug.
The other thing is I wanted to be as excited as Shirley. I really did. Most girls I know wear bras and already memorized the best brand of tampons to buy. So, it should feel good to be part of “the club” or whatever. But what I was feeling at this moment was definitely not joy, but remorse. Unfortunately, we were at the mall and there was no time for sadness when my underwear was stained and Shirley was crying menstruation-inspired tears.
“How about we go bra shopping and then I take you for lunch? You aren’t going to need to wear undershirts any longer, Eleanor! Eventually, you are going to want to wear underwire, which just lifts and gives you more support, but they don’t put wires in your size,” Shirley told me.
“I don’t have a size. I barely have breasts.” Even as I said this out loud, I knew it wasn’t true. Many times, Dara told me that she thought it was embarrassing that I wasn’t wearing a bra yet because it was pretty obvious I needed one. I noticed boys noticing and I tried not to notice them.
I tried on several varieties of bras, none of which felt natural. “I’d really prefer to keep wearing my undershirts. They’re a lot more comfortable,” I told Shirley.
“You really should have been wearing one already to cover your buds.”
My buds?
“You’re a woman now, Eleanor.”
Oh my God, is that what I am now?
James, what is the equivalent of this for guys? I mean, I know your voice changes, and maybe that can be annoying, but you don’t all of a sudden wake up to blood in your underwear.
When we got home, I rushed upstairs to my bedroom and emptied the bag of clothes—including two highly uncomfortable bras—onto my bed. I grabbed the pair of jeans and striped sweater, neatly folded by name-tagged Sharon, and hid them inside the third drawer of my dresser. The bras remained on my bed, taunting me. I removed my shirt and put one of them on. The color was called nude, though it looked nothing like my skin or any skin color I’ve seen on real flesh. Whose nude is this? I turned to the side, adjusted the straps, pulled at the cotton trying to befriend my breasts. And then—
“Eleanor!” Greta walked in with a friend I didn’t recognize and I was beyond mortified.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!” I bellowed.
“Hey, meet me in my bedroom,” Gret motioned to her blond-haired friend. “I’m sorry, El. I didn’t realize—”
“Yeah, right. I know Shirley told you about this.” I motioned to the bra. “And are you going to tease me about getting my period too?”
“What? You . . . no! I didn’t know! When did you—”
“At the mall. I became a woman at the Freehold Raceway Mall. Can my life get any more humiliating?”
Greta walked further in and sat on my bed. The remaining bra bounced from the weight of her body. “You want to talk about it? I promise not to be weird.”
“What do you want me to say? It’s a lot grosser than I thought it would be. Shirley gave me a pad with wings. How is that supposed to feel natural? It’s like putting a Barbie bed in my underwear.”
“Well, I’m sure when you’re ready, you can wear tampons. They’re much better. And you forget they’re in there.”
“All my friends have had it for a while now. I’m the last one to get it. I guess I thought I’d be so excited or feel different. Feel more . . . I don’t know . . . more like a—”
“Woman?”
I shrugged.
“El, it’s okay to feel a little weirded out. I mean, I
definitely did. It’s like before my period, I was totally invisible to boys, and then suddenly I got it and my boobs got bigger and my body changed. I wasn’t cool with it at first either.”
“But you liked the attention, right? I mean, I’ve seen you in the mirror or . . . I used to see you pressing them together and pushing them up. It’s like you want people to see them.”
“I do,” Greta smiled, touching her breasts, which seemed even bigger.
“Well, I don’t want that. I don’t want them. And I definitely don’t want boys noticing. This really sucks.”
After Greta left, I took off the bra and put my shirt back on. I announced to Shirley that I was going on a bike ride. I just needed to get out of the house. It wasn’t too cold out and maybe the fresh air would help me to forget what was happening.
My bike is purple and green with a white basket. I remember when Dad got it for me. I may have gotten a little big for it, but I love the speed it gives me.
We don’t really walk places. We drive to where we need to go—Jamesway or the movie theater or the mall. There’s nothing just around the corner to pick up things. Wheels, of some variety, are always required.
Flor has told me stories about walking to and from school in New York, a mile or so walk but she never paid much mind to it. For her, there were tons of things to distract her: graffiti on buildings, places to eat and lots of noise from cars and people. In New Jersey, the only thing that grows is boredom. Outside noise comes from the tiny ticking sounds of sprinklers tricking the grass into thinking it’s raining. Or dogs behind fences. Cars don’t really honk much here; I notice this each time I go to New York where everyone likes to show off with all the sounds their automobiles can make.
When I was younger and I’d go on my bike ride, I loved stopping at the tiny strip mall with pizza and a great gift shop where I’d buy fancy paper to write letters on. The gift store went out of business two years ago and now it’s a jewelry shop (boring). I decided to stop at the WaWa to get something to drink and eat.
Shirley doesn’t keep sugary items in the house, so in moments like this when I’m in a convenience store full of Little Debbie’s and pre-packaged treats made of sweetened preservatives, I tend to get a little crazy. I don’t even think I like Twinkies or those other cake-type things, but I like that I’m not supposed to be eating them, so, in turn, they somehow become more delicious.
When Flor took me to New York, she told me that she could peg every tourist because they are the ones who look around. They look up and stare at everything. Flor calls them giraffes, stretching their necks as far as they can to see the tops of the skyscrapers. As I perused (vocabulary word) the plastic-wrapped snacks, I happened to look up and see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Even more beautiful than Madonna and Drew Barrymore combined. She definitely looked like she wasn’t from here. Ripped criss-cross stockings fishnets. Wild blond, wavy hair. She sparkled. Like Heather Locklear, but maybe a little older.
I have never felt like a tourist before. I have lived in New Jersey my whole life and my surroundings have always been familiar and boring and not much to write about. Were you born in New Jersey, James? Did you ever get to live somewhere else? I feel like the New Jersey I’ve seen is just trees interrupted by stupid strip malls repeating the same places: shoe store, chain restaurant, curtain shop or lighting store or some kind of place selling home goods. What are home goods, anyway? Bank. Grocery store. Walmart or some store that seems to sell everything you think you need but really don’t.
“Oh, am I in your way?” She looked at me and I had that same feeling in my body like when I first saw Aggie.
“No,” I utter. I admit that I was staring, but you would have too, James.
“Uh, sorry,” I dribbled out.
“Damn, this place has everything and nothing at the same time.” Her voice was deep, with like other higher-pitched instruments in there too. Hard to explain, I guess.
“Their subs are pretty good.”
“Something about you reminds me of me when I was your age. What are you . . . fourteen?”
“Fifteen,” I blushed. James, I know what you are thinking, if you were thinking, if you were still alive and could read these letters. But it wasn’t like that. I mean, she wasn’t some creepy older stranger, there was something familiar about her.
“Well, I’m just passing through, killing time before I see my mother. I’m Reigh, by the way. Spelled like sleigh.”
“I’m Eleanor. Spelled like . . . well, just the regular way. Not sure if there is another.”
“Eleanor, huh? Doesn’t look to me like there’s much regular about you,” Reigh smiled. “Dig the hair.”
I suddenly stopped breathing.
Reigh’s lips were painted stop-sign red. I remember the first time I saw Greta in red lipstick and I thought she was bleeding. I started to scream. I can’t remember how old I was, but embarrassingly old enough to know better.
“They don’t make people like me around here,” Reigh interrupted my thoughts.
“Like . . . what do you mean?”
“Sweetie, I can spell it out for you, but something in me tells me you have some idea. Uh, I’m starving! How can a place be filled with so much food and yet, nothing of actual substance?”
Reigh looked at the plastic-wrapped cupcake I was holding in my hand and raised her eyebrows.
“You look young enough to not be bothered by the shit in that, but how about I find something with at least one ingredient that grew outta this earth and wasn’t made in a lab?”
Reigh smiled and I noticed a gap between her two front teeth like Madonna’s or my cousin Tiffany who can slide her tongue between her teeth like a credit card.
I found myself mesmerized by Reigh’s voice. It had a tone I never heard before. There was a softness to it, but it also sounded rehearsed.
“Hey daydreamer, want to sit outside with me?”
“Uh...”
Reigh threw up her hands. “Oh, right. I’m a stranger. You should be leery. I mean, if some old broad approached me in a convenience store when I was your age, I’d have . . . what am I saying . . . I’d have loved it. I’d have said, ‘please, take me with you!’ You should ask me something.”
“What?”
“Strangers are only strangers until they’re familiar. So, ask me a question, anything, I’ll answer and then I won’t be a stranger.”
I looked around. I know I should have thought all of this was really weird. I mean, it was. She was right. There just aren’t people like her in New Jersey. Like her. What do I even mean by that?
“Sorry, sweetie. Am I putting you on the spot?” I looked at Reigh as she shifted her weight to the left side of her body. I stared at her hips, mesmerized by her angles. Then, suddenly, I felt guilty that I was looking at her like that.
“No, no,” I muttered. “I just, I guess . . . I don’t know what to ask.”
“Anything.”
“Well, umm . . . were you born with the name Reigh?”
“Yes, but I spell it differently now.” She looked at me as though wanting me to dig further.
“Oh,” I said.
“Next!”
“Uh, what were you like when you were my age?”
“Smarter than my brain could handle at the time. Hungry to get out of my house, my body. And annoyed that everyone kept calling me by the wrong pronoun.” Reigh laughed and her curls jiggled a little.
Suddenly, I had a million questions I wanted to ask Reigh. “Okay, I’ll sit outside with you.”
Reigh generously purchased snacks for both of us. I was so wrapped up in staring at her that I completely forgot that I was still holding that cupcake in my hand. We took a seat on a bench right outside the store. Reigh looked at me and laughed.
“Well, I’ve stolen far worse in my lifetime.”
“No, I . . . I didn’t mean to steal this. I just—”
“No matter. One less toxic cupcake haunting the shelves. How about you leav
e that here on this bench for someone in need of a non-nutritious snack. Oh, I got you this.”
Reigh handed me a granola bar. I tried to hide my disappointment.
“Don’t think that’s all there is. Here.”
Reigh pulled out a small jar of Skippy peanut butter from the plastic bag, untwisted the cap and pulled off the paper seal.
“I love dipping my granola bars in peanut butter. Makes it a hearty snack. Oh, jeez, I must sound so hippie dippy. But it is really good. Try it.”
I unwrapped the bar and dipped it in. Then, I brought it to my mouth and took a big bite. It was really delicious.
“My spirit guide tells me that we were supposed to meet.”
“Your spirit guide?” I barely uttered, my tongue caught on the thickness of peanut butter.
“Oh, that’s what I call my intuition.”
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, sweetie, I have been on the move my whole life. It’s hard to remember where it all began. My first birth was in New Mexico.”
“Your first birth?”
“We arrive many times in life, Eleanor. The first time was out of my mother, but I was birthed again when I came out.”
My granola bar plunged into the peanut butter and I stuffed the rest of it into my mouth. I barely had room for my tongue with all the oats crunching around between my teeth.
“Do you know what a transsexual is?”
I swallowed the mass of food in my mouth and could feel the hard bits dig into my throat. I almost choked on the persistent oats refusing to make their way down. Reigh looked at me and I noticed that she had a bit of peanut butter stuck to her lip, but I was too nervous to tell her. Then, as if she could read my mind, she stuck her tongue out, light pink like her fingernails, and licked it away with one quick swoop.
“I’m sorry. This is why my mother and I have a difficult time getting on. She hates the way I just blurt out my truths. Or any truths, for that matter. In my circle of friends, we always check in with each other in case we ever go too far. So, this is me checking in. Too far?”
“Yeah . . . I . . . no,” I said. I liked the bluntness of Reigh. How easy her words just floated out. I immediately made a thousand wishes that I would be like that when I get older.
