by Bob Purssell
It was Mr. Cardozza, one of the math teachers. A large, heavily built man, known for his sense of humor, he did not appear ready to crack a joke. Scared, I froze.
Immediately, Melissa answered. “We were having a discussion and things got a little hot. I apologize, sir.”
Looking at a crowd of onlookers that we had attracted, Mr. Cardozza ordered, “All of you go to your classes.” When she did not move, the teacher said, “That includes you, Kim.”
Happy to escape, Kim gave Melissa a worried glance before walking away.
Initially, I had planned to explain to the teacher that Melissa was a bigot and that I was the victim of her prejudice. However, my experience playing ice hockey with the boys saved me. Realizing I was about to brand myself as a snitch and a fink, I rethought my initial response.
Mr. Cardozza turned in my direction and asked, “What happened, Barbara?”
Recognizing that the only socially acceptable course was to unite with my adversary of a few moments ago, I answered, “Melissa’s right, sir. In gym class, we were playing rough. It carried over, sir. I apologize.”
If Mr. Cardozza had wanted to check, he would have found that Melissa and I did not have the same gym class, that my explanation was simply a falsehood. Instead, after looking at me for a few seconds, he switched his gaze to Melissa and asked, “Is that what happened?”
Melissa answered, “Yes, sir. We had an argument and it carried over.”
“Is this argument of yours over now?”
Instantly the both of us answered, “Yes, sir.”
“You know I should send the both of you to the principal’s office?”
Again simultaneously, Melissa and I responded, “Yes, sir.”
“Is this going to happen again?”
In unison we replied, “No, sir.”
With a hard stare, first at Melissa and then at me, Mr. Cardozza said, “Alright, I’ll take you at your word.” After a pause, he dismissed us with a stern, “Go to your classes and behave.”
That afternoon, on the way home, mortified by what I had done, I sat by myself on the school bus. Only with the greatest of efforts did I keep from crying. Discreetly, I sniffled and wiped the few tears that trickled from my right eye.
* * *
When I got home, I went to my room, closed the door, covered my head with my pillow, and cried. I felt sick. I had done the very opposite of what my mother had counseled. She had told me to walk away, not to get involved, but I had started a fight and then told an out-and-out lie. Appalled, I wondered, how could I have done such things?
The next morning, I wanted to start running and never stop. Of course, I didn’t. Instead, very depressed, I got on the school bus hoping the world would just ignore my presence. At school, I noticed my fellow students looking at me. I reasoned, they must think I am a jerk. A couple of times, I felt that the teachers—even teachers who were not my instructors—were observing me. Had I become the school’s discipline problem?
Sitting by myself at a lunch table, head down, trying to be invisible, I was picking my way through an unappetizing plate of one of my favorite meals, sausage and spaghetti. Two girls, whom I did not know, sat down and, ignoring my presence, started talking. The First Girl began, “While you were out yesterday, we had another bitch fight.”
The Second Girl asked dismissively, “Which one of our she-men was it this time?”
“Melissa.”
“She is such a bitch. I suppose that suck up Kim was involved somehow.”
“She slithered away,” replied the First Girl.
“Which one of our husky-voiced female athletes was the other participant?”
“Here’s a news flash: it was a super geek. O’Leary’s her name.”
“You’re telling me,” exclaimed the Second Girl, “it was drugee-athlete versus super geek?”
Doing a fair Valley girl imitation, the First Girl said, “For sure, for sure.”
“Will wonders never cease?”
The First Girl continued. “News flash number two: the geek started it.”
“O’Leary, honey, are you dumb and blind? Melissa’s a mean bitch. A big, strong, mean bitch.” Then after a pause, the Second Girl asked, “Melissa kicked her ass?”
“Cardozza broke it up, but they were really going at it.”
With obvious disbelief, the Second Girl asked, “Like it was a draw?”
“For sure, for sure.”
“This is interesting. So what happened then?”
The First Girl explained. “Cardozza went nuts. He was yelling at them and everything.”
“Don’t tell me; O’Leary did a boohoo and ratted on Melissa?”
“No, she was cool. They both talked their way out of any punishment.”
“Thou shitist me,” exclaimed the Second Girl.
“I shit thee not.”
“So, O’Leary’s not a geek.”
“I talked to one of the boys who knows her,” confided the First Girl. “He says O’Leary is real smart, but she’s unstable. That’s why her folks homeschooled her. One moment she’s cool, the next she’s freaking out.”
“Is she on Ritalin or something?”
“Yes, big time, but she doesn’t take her meds.”
“This is interesting,” exclaimed the Second Girl, who then asked, “Is the girl Columbine material?”[19]
“Some of our drama queens think so.”
With obvious disdain, the Second Girl responded, “Consider the source.” Then being dismissive, she added, “O’Leary’s probably nothing more than one of our fucked-up super-girls coming apart at the seams.”
The First Girl disagreed. “I’m not sure. Fucked up is … fucked up.”
Convinced, the Second Girl replied, “It’s official. The girl’s fucked up. Leave alone; do not touch.”
Having heard all I could take from these two, I quietly got up and left the table.
Tongues continued to wag. Melissa and I had become the talk of the school. All day rumors flew: we had battled; we had thrown punches; we had pulled hair. In some accounts, I went to the nurse with a bloody nose. In others, I had injured Melissa. Eventually, a story emerged that contained few elements of the truth: Melissa and I had a long-standing animosity years in the making and that had led to a shoving incident. When Mr. Cardozza appeared, Melissa and I had done the noble thing and not ratted on each other. Instead, we had united to put one over on a teacher.
That night, while I lay in bed, I thought, if the kids at school don’t want to be my friends, then I don’t have to be theirs. I didn’t need them before I went to the stupid high school, and I sure don’t need them now. Angry, hurt, I decided, I’d go my way and they could go theirs.
Sidebar #1: Melissa, a mediocre student, lettered three years on the lacrosse team. In spite of our common interest in athletics, we remained distant. Moving in different circles, having no desire for her friendship, I had little to do with her. As for Kim, she was just average.
Sidebar #2: At graduation, Mr. Cardozza, who was very popular, took me aside and asked, “Do you remember when you and Melissa argued?”
Cautiously, I replied, “Yes.”
Smiling broadly, he said, “A word of advice: when you misrepresent the truth, take care to make your story plausible.”
* * *
After my first report card, since I had received an A in each of my subjects, my parents let me try out for the girls’ ice hockey team. Because I had played mostly against the boys, right from the beginning I had better skills than many of the older girls already on the team. Competitive, well conditioned, I made the team easily as a freshman.
* * *
Just before I started my sophomore year of high school, my pediatrician recommended I see a gynecologist, and my mother made the appointment. Intent on being thoroughly prepared,
I diligently searched the Internet and read articles about puberty because I wasn’t very pleased with how my reproductive system was developing. Already fifteen, I had yet to menstruate. While other girls talked knowledgeably about cramps and bloating, I could only read about what might occur, someday.
Feeling that I was nature’s idea of a practical joke, half-convinced my body was producing testosterone by the gallon, I sat in the gynecologist’s waiting room reviewing, for the umpteenth time, my questions.
In the examination room, the nurse helped me into the stirrups and then told me, “It’ll be a few minutes. We’re running behind.”
Twenty minutes later, another nurse stuck her head through the door, then yelled into the hall, “O’Leary’s ready.”
The gynecologist, a man in his late thirties, entered the room, introduced himself and said, “Let’s take a look.”
With that, he began the examination. As he poked about, the doctor spoke cryptic sentences in medical jargon, which the nurse wrote down on a clipboard.
In a couple of minutes, the doctor finished with his examination. Standing over me, he informed me, “Everything looks great.”
I started to ask the first of my questions, but the doctor had already reached the door. As he stepped out of the room, he motioned toward the nurse and said, “If you have any questions, Cynthia will answer them.”
As she helped me out of the stirrups, I started to ask Cynthia my first question, but another nurse poked her head into the room and asked, “Can we put Mrs. Travis in here?”
Cynthia told me, “It’s really hectic today. Why don’t you get dressed?” Then pointing to a rack, she added, “Read these two brochures. If you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them.”
Confused and upset, I dressed quickly and stepped out of the examination room. Cynthia approached, guiding a many-months pregnant woman. As they passed by, Cynthia said, “Let me help Mrs. Travis. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I stood in the hall, read the brochures—they were simplifications of what I already knew—and waited for Cynthia. Another nurse asked me if I needed help. When I told her I was waiting for Cynthia, the nurse stuck her head into the examination room. After exchanging a couple of sentences, she told me, “Cynthia’s busy. We’re way behind today. Can I answer any questions?”
Standing in the hall, I could see one woman coming out of an examination room, a second woman entering the examination area, and the two receptionists. I thought about asking one of the seven personal questions that I had written out, but I said, “I think I understand everything.”
The nurse asked, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
At that moment, my doctor came down the hall. Moving past me, as he entered the examination room that contained Mrs. Travis, he told the nurse, “Put her in my office. I’ll see her and her mother when I get a chance.”
My mother and the doctor arrived simultaneously at his office. After seating her, he headed for his desk, saying, “Just let me do one more thing, then we can talk.”
On the phone, the doctor said, “Frank, this is John. Can you do an ultrasound on a patient, stat?” John, my doctor, then described Mrs. Travis’ troubled pregnancy as I listened. When he was done with the call, my doctor told my mother, “I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Leary. Emergency.”
My mother smiled at the doctor.
As he hurriedly read from my medical record, the doctor fired off a series of factual questions at me, which I answered with either a “yes” or a “no.” When he finished, the doctor asked, “Do you have any questions, young lady?”
My mother nodded to me, and I asked, “Why haven’t I started to menstruate?”
Looking at my medical record, the doctor declared, “You’re what? About fourteen … no, here it is, fifteen. Perfectly normal, happens all the time. Don’t trouble yourself.”
I was about to ask question number two, when Cynthia stuck her head into the doctor’s office. “We’re ready to move Mrs. Travis.”
Rising from his chair, the doctor said, “You’ll have to excuse me; this is an emergency.” As he left the office, the doctor told my mother, “Your daughter is doing fine, Mrs. O’Leary. It’s a shame that other young women aren’t as careful with their health.”
My obviously pleased mother replied, “Thank you, doctor.”
Before vanishing, the doctor added, “Nice to meet you … Bonnie.”
I wanted to scream.
* * *
I am walking down one of the long hallways at school. Except for one other girl fifty feet in front of me, the hallway is empty. She is Elizabeth Sue, and she is heading in the same direction that I am. Elizabeth Sue is new to our school this year. She is a beautiful girl, arguably the prettiest in the whole school. Flowing blonde hair, slender, well-proportioned, perfect complexion, gorgeous features, the guys cannot get enough. The girls, especially me, are jealous.
I watch how she walks. Almost like a model, but not as exaggerated. Her skintight jeans leave no doubt that Elizabeth Sue has beautiful legs, and her butt wiggles in a way that almost screams out, “I am sexy.”
Coming out from a side hall, George emerges just behind Elizabeth Sue. He is powerfully built, on the boys’ ice hockey team, and handsome, handsome, handsome. Neither of them is aware that I am watching. George quickly, but quietly, sneaks up behind Elizabeth Sue. In a sudden move, he slips his left arm around her waist and in one continuous motion, lifts her clean off the floor, twirls her around and sets her back down.
Elizabeth Sue beams and takes George’s hand in hers. Together, rubbing against one another, giggling, they walk down the hall, oblivious to my presence. At a closed classroom door, Elizabeth Sue gives George a peck, and he pats her behind. Not at all offended, Elizabeth Sue flashes George a big smile and then enters the classroom. George, still unaware that I have seen all, walks down the hall with a happy step.
I would give all if a George would twirl me around and then pat me on the behind. With a sigh, I realize that will never happen. Even though we see each other almost daily, I doubt if George even knows I exist. Crushed by my own inadequacies, I head to my honors class in European history.
* * *
My mother and I were both slender, but that’s where the similarity ended. When I was fifteen, she was sixty-one and six inches shorter than my five foot, ten inches. Her pale, Anglo skin looked nothing like my deep olive South Asian complexion. An attractive woman, my mother always dressed smartly in a skirt or a dress—she did not like pants on women—and looked much younger than her age. She still had a trim, very feminine figure, as opposed to skinny me. Because she took care of herself so well, my mother looked better than many once pretty, but now uncaring women twenty years her junior.
No different than a zillion other teenage girls, I wanted to be beautiful. With my tall, beanpole figure, I was decidedly not. My shape or, more correctly, my lack of shape troubled me. I would look longingly at the Victoria’s Secret catalogs and the pictures of the voluptuous models with their outsized breasts, hourglass waists, and rounded butts, and then think of me, the human toothpick.
I fixated on one picture. Purportedly taken in London, the super-endowed model was wearing a heavy, white sweater, tight pants and stiletto-heel boots as she ostensibly prepared to cross a street in a fashionable part of the city. I cut that picture out and put it on my bulletin board. When my mother asked me about the picture’s significance, I told her, “That’s what I want to look like.”
My mother studied the picture and then, with a quizzical expression on her face, she commented, “Something’s wrong. That girl’s too big.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell my mother not to disparage my ideal of feminine beauty. I wanted to rail against what nature had done to me, but I replied in a most prissy way, “I think she’s very attractive.”
My mother let the matte
r drop.
* * *
Elizabeth Sue became my role model. Not that I told her; not that I told anyone. Desperate, I became obsessed with emulating her beauty. Of course, I did not possess her pretty features or her wonderful curves, but I was slender. In fact, given my height and lanky body, I was as slender as she was. At least, in that one area, I could be an Elizabeth Sue.
But not with my comfortable, loose-fitting jeans. No, I needed the tight fitting jeans like Elizabeth Sue wore. And I needed boots like hers. If I had those two items, at least a part of me would become as feminine as she was.
Longingly, I studied the clothing websites. Obsessed, in a couple of weeks I became a “jeanologist,” my knowledge probably rivaling any critic of the garment. Prepared, I put my plan into action. Seeking out my mother, I told her, “I’ve grown again; I need to buy some things.”
Smiling, she replied, “You’re such a pretty girl; you should buy something nice.”
“Something nice” was a code phrase for dresses or skirts. Turning away, so she could not see me, I rolled my eyes as I wondered, why does my mother insist on me dressing like a total dork?
I bought a pair of super-tight, low-rise stretch jeans and a form-fitting, long-sleeved yellow turtleneck online. I also purchased a pair of high-heel boots. Now I waited for the clothes that would transform me from kid to woman, from clumsy geek to alluring female.
During the week, while I was waiting for my purchases, my mother asked, “What did you get?”
Knowing she wanted me to get something nice, something conservatively practical, something truly dorky, I answered, “Nothing much, just some ordinary stuff.”
* * *
Both packages arrived on the same day. Hardly able to contain myself, I grabbed my treasures, flew up to my room, shut the door and, with the care of a doctor doing some delicate surgery, opened the packages and spread their contents on my bed. With the greatest care and anticipation, I put on my new clothes.
