One day I got tipped off that Scott intended to snap my bra, knowing that I wouldn’t be wearing one, so he could announce to everyone (including Joey) that I was missing the ever-popular undergarment, thus leaving my self-esteem in the toilet.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I go to the nurse’s office and fake sick? Should I go to the locker room to see if someone accidentally left a bra lying around that I could borrow? I considered an emergency run to the nearest store, but my school was conveniently located nowhere near a mall. My options weren’t great.
After math class, I shuffled out into the hallway with all of the other kids, glancing to my left and right to find Scott. I figured if I knew his whereabouts, I might just have a chance at hiding from him. When I spotted him coming out of Mrs. Walsh’s class, I ducked, but it was too late. He had seen me too and was making a beeline toward me. If I turned to walk away, he’d have an easy target. If I broke into a full sprint, I would get in trouble for running. So I just stood there, back against the wall, holding my books in front of my less-than-voluptuous chest. He sauntered up, his eyes mocking me, saying nothing.
I don’t know exactly what he expected me to do, but I think what he did not expect me to do was face him head on. As the class bully, he was pretty much used to getting his way. So I just stared him down with my powder blue-shadowed eyes.
Finally with my voice shaking, I warned, “Scott, don’t touch me. Not now. Not ever.” Then I ducked past, turned my back to him and walked away.
At that point, Scott could have gone through with his plan. My back was in a position of easy access for the “Braless Bra-Snap Caper. ”With one motion, he could have attempted to make my life miserable. But he didn’t.
As I headed toward my next class, I didn’t look back. Heart racing, breathing heavily, I feared what would happen next. But nothing did. I waited through my classes, through lunch, through the end of the day to hear something. I anticipated my worst fear coming true when Joey Jackson would walk up to me and say, “So when are you going to wear a bra like everyone else?” But he didn’t. No one did.
By the next day, all of the kids in my class had moved on to some other topic of conversation, like Larissa’s new too-tight pants. By the next week, I started wearing a bra. And by the next year (or two), I had begun to develop my much-anticipated front side. All was right with the world.
Julie Workman
NO RODEO ®
NO RODEO. © Robert Berardi. Used by permission.
ARB
What you can’t get out of, get into wholeheartedly.
Mignon McLaughlin
“My mom says I have to get a bra,” I told my best friend, Wendi, as we ran around the school field, training for the cross-country team.
“I won’t hate you when you get it,” she said.
“Thanks.” I was afraid I was going to be the only girl in fifth grade with a bra. The boys would snap it, and the popular girls would make snide comments. Everyone would notice.
“I don’t need a bra,” I protested to my mom the next day as we walked into the lingerie section of the department store. The closest I’d ever come to this section was in the summer, when the bathing suits were hung beside the nightgowns. I scanned the aisles for a sign of my classmates. Mortified wouldn’t even begin to express how I’d feel if one of them showed up.
“You’ll survive, Alison,” my mom said. She guided me toward the rows of creamy pink boxes. “The girls in your class will catch up to you soon.”
“No, they won’t.”
A saleswoman approached us. I tried to hide behind my mom. This was the worst shopping trip I’d ever been on.
My mom’s voice sounded like it belonged on another planet as she said, “We’re looking for the training bras.”
The sales woman looked down at me.
“For her?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, she doesn’t need a training bra.” The saleswoman bit her lip as she studied me. I was elated. Mom was wrong! The saleswoman continued, “She’ll need at least a B cup.” My heart dropped as the saleswoman wrapped a measuring tape around my chest. “Yep, just as I thought, 32 inches. Follow me.” I looked furtively around as we followed the woman to another section. The saleswoman told us to give her a wave when we’d found some to try on.
“The letter is the cup size,” my mom explained, “and the number is the width around your chest.” She pulled a bra off the hanger and held it out to me. “What do you think?”
It was a white cotton bra with a little bow in between the cups.
“It’s alright.” God, I hoped none of my friends were out shopping today. “We should get you a bunch to try on. Is there any particular one you like?”
“No.” They all looked the same. “Those look fine.” I could rip off the bows.
“There’s this style, too.” I found myself holding four white bras (two with bows and two without) as I walked into the fitting rooms.
“Let me know if you want me to come in, dear,” the saleswoman called. I slid the slotted door shut. I knew what I was doing. And if I didn’t, I definitely did not want any help.
There wasn’t much difference between the bras as I tried each of them on. They all felt horrible. I couldn’t imagine running cross-country with them on, especially the ones with the bows. The straps dug into my shoulders, and the tags itched. But somewhere below all my discontent with the foreign apparatus, I felt tingles. The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more I liked what I saw. I didn’t look like an awkward, loud ten-year-old who wore the wrong shoes, got her ears pierced at the wrong place and cared more about sports than boys. The shape that my chest rounded into with the bra on made me feel like a movie star. I thought that I looked more like a tall, sophisticated almost-teenager.
“Are you okay, dear?” The saleswoman knocked at the door. “I just want to make sure your straps are adjusted properly.” I snapped back to reality.
“They’re fine.” I’d play around with the straps later. I unfastened the bra and threw my T-shirt back on. My chest felt looser without the bra on as I walked out of the dressing room. Glancing around the surrounding aisles first, I shoved the two white cotton bras with the white bows in the center into my mom’s hands. “I’ll take these.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “This is an important decision. Do they fit well?”
“Yes.”
“And you really want the ones with the bows?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, you’re the one who has to wear them.” She carried the bras up to the cash register. “We’ve settled on these two,” she told the saleswoman.
“I’ll be over here, Mom,” I called, wandering as far away from the transaction as I could.
Monday morning I walked into class wearing the darkest colored shirt I could find over my new bra. I kept my back arched, hoping to hide the strap lines. Thanks to Wendi, word got out fast that I was wearing a bra. During recess, boys dared each other to snap it. By Friday, the novelty had worn off. I’d made it through cross-country and soccer practice without incident. And I’d even worn a white T-shirt to gym class, showing the bra straps proudly. After all, I was the only girl in the fifth grade who owned one.
Alison Gunn
Headgear
The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.
Dolly Parton
The moment he spoke those dreaded words, I knew my life was over.
“You need headgear!” Dr. Newman said, pointing to the horrible-looking device on the table in front of me.
I’m pretty sure the tears sprouted almost immediately. I knew I had crooked teeth. I was reminded everyday by one of my classmates calling me “Bugs.” I could handle braces or a retainer, but I hoped and prayed since my mom brought me to the orthodontist that straightening my teeth would not include having to wear an ugly head strap attached to a metal wire. There was already a girl in my class with neck gear. She got teased constantly, and she
only had the part that went around her neck and was easily covered by her hair.
But my hair would not easily cover the thing sitting on the table in front of me. In fact, it would be covering my hair, meaning an extreme amount of bad hair days in my future.
“Is this something she has to wear all day or just while she sleeps?” my mom asked.
This question caused the tears to stop for a brief moment as I hoped that he would say it was just something I could sleep in. That way, no one would ever have to see it.
“She should wear it for sixteen hours a day.” Desperately, I began calculating the hours in a day and the hours spent at school. I was so distracted, I could barely focus on his explanation of how I would be fitted for the device and when I would get it. I figured out that if I wore it from the minute I got home until I left for school each morning, I could get by without wearing it to school.
“So, I don’t have to wear this to school?” I interrupted.
Dr. Newman nodded. “Not as long as you wear it the full sixteen hours. But you also must take into consideration that you can’t eat with it or wear it while playing sports.”
I added in the hours at soccer practice, and I figured I could eat really fast. No matter what, I was going to avoid wearing it to school at all costs. Bugs Bunny was a much better nickname than what I imagined them calling me if they saw my headgear.
“You get your choice of two colors, tan or blue. You can have one to match either your hair or your eyes.” He pointed to the two different versions of the same ugly headpiece.
“The one that matches my hair,” I reluctantly answered. Only it didn’t really match my hair. The light brown color did not blend in with my blond hair. On top of that, it would be impossible to wear my hair any way other than straight. The only style that wasn’t in the way of the head straps was two ponytails sticking out the two sides like horns. There was no way I’d wear my hair like that.
I looked at him like he was insane. He must not have noticed my complete meltdown. My only consolation was that I was able to not wear it out in public. I kept to my plan, wearing it the minute I got home from school to the minute I left in the morning, minus soccer practice and meals. I hated the thing so much I began to limit any activities that might involve seeing anyone outside of my family when I had it on.
My mom finally got sick of me refusing to go anywhere. One day after school, she forced me to go grocery shopping with her. The worst part is she made me wear the headgear inside the store.
“You’ve only worn it for an hour today, and you have to wear it the full sixteen hours,” she insisted as we drove to the store.
I didn’t understand how wearing it for fifteen hours only one day would harm my teeth. But she wouldn’t budge.
“You have to get used to wearing it out in public. I promise no one will stare at you. I bet you won’t even see anyone you know!”
We didn’t see anyone I knew for the first few aisles we went down. But as we turned down the soup aisle, I spotted Jeff. Jeff was one of the most popular—and meanest— boys in my class. Whenever my friend Trisha and I would walk by him, he’d call out, “Look, it’s the nerd herd!”
I quickly ran to the next aisle and hid behind a display of cereal to avoid being spotted by him. My mom followed me.
“Thanks a lot! Jeff is here. If he sees me, I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll be scarred for life,” I told her.
She rolled her eyes, “I think you are being overly dramatic.” She peeked down the aisle. “Is he the boy with the brown hair?” she asked.
I nodded and pulled her back. “Don’t let him see us!”
My mom grinned. “Who cares if he sees us? I promise he won’t make fun of you. Plus, I need soup.”
I tried to protest, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me down the aisle. Of course, Jeff and his mom were standing right in front of the soup my mom wanted. I would have given anything to be invisible at that moment. I prayed that he wouldn’t notice me. Once we got closer, I realized that he was trying to hide behind his mom. That’s when I saw it. He had headgear, too! Not only that, he had neck gear. He had two white straps on his head and one white strap on his neck. Both were connected to a metal wire like mine on his teeth. Neither one of us said a word to each other.
My mom was right for once. The next day at school, Jeff acted like nothing had happened. When my friends and I walked by him, he ignored us.
“Jeff is quiet today,” Trisha commented. “He usually loves to pick on us. Not that I’m complaining. I wonder what’s up with him?”
I shrugged, “No clue.”
Stephanie Dodson
Did She Say “Ovary”?
You don’t have to be afraid of change. You don’t have to worry about what’s being taken away. Just look to see what’s been added.
Jackie Greer
“And so you see, the OVARY is really the mother of all human life!”
Silence filled the school library. Mrs. Bancroft’s lecture seemed inspiring to just her and her alone. All of us sixth-grade girls were disgusted. Not just by the huge projection on the wall of a woman’s parts, which strangely resembled a cow’s skull, but by the joy that Mrs. Bancroft seemed to take in grossing us out.
My best friend, Erin, was ticking off tally marks on her paper every time the woman said “ovary.” It seemed to be the word of the day. Luckily, we were saved by the bell.
After “life processes” class was over, Erin and I went to our lockers. Her long black hair sashayed beautifully over her back as she walked. She turned to me and whispered, “Tasha, my ovaries may be the mother of all human life, but my mom told me they are also the root of all evil. In fact, if and when I ever start my period, my mom told me sharks will actually hunt me down and kill me if I even think about going swimming in a bikini at the beach.”
Erin’s mom always told her funny things that I thought sounded a bit wrong. But I couldn’t help wondering who was right. Was it Mrs. Bancroft, with her excitement over the amazing science of it all? Or was it Erin’s mom, who felt that women’s functions were shameful and should be kept private? Or what about my mom’s crazy-hippie, free-love ideas?
My mom grew up in the era of openness and feminism in the 1960s. The minute I turned twelve, she felt compelled to tell me every detail about why I should be totally excited to be a woman. Mom informed me about the “magic” of menstruation and how special I was because only women could create life.
The day after that lecture at school—and I cannot believe this—my mom actually started talking to Erin and me about all this stuff, loudly, in a shoe store!
“Tasha, you need to think about the kind of shoes you wear because you want them to reflect well on your body. The body is sacred. You will be a woman soon and . . .”
“Mother!” I gasped, mortified. She knew when I called her “mother” that she had crossed the line. My face felt hot with little pin prickles all over it. Those were the times when I wished we were a repressed mother-daughter duo that never talked about anything. But Erin was actually very interested in what my mom was saying.
Mom continued, this time in whisper-tones: “Honey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of! The changes in your body will be the beginning of you becoming powerful. It’s the start of a wonderful journey that only other women can understand.”
“Okay, okay, I get it!” I said, my eyes darting down the sandal aisle, hoping no one had heard. My heart was thumping in my ears as I grabbed my purse and ran to a bench outside the store. I knew my mom was trying to share something with me in her weirdo way. I knew she loved me and wanted me to welcome the changes that, unfortunately, were coming any day now. But I did not want to talk about it, and I certainly didn’t want to share anything about the power of my ovaries with Erin and the shoe salesman.
When we were driving home from the mall, Erin asked my mom to tell us more about what kind of power she was talking about.
“Please, Mom, don’t!” I snorted, through gritted te
eth. I was suddenly embarrassed by her tie-dye tank top. I wanted to disappear. I felt suffocated by the odor of her patchouli perfume that filled the car.
“Oh, come on, I’m curious, and you know my mom will say it has something to do with attracting all manner of insects and rabid dogs,” Erin pleaded.
“Well,” Mom began, looking over the top of her purple sparkly sunglasses. “Some cultures send girls into menstruation huts, in order to protect the other villagers from their power. That is, until the girl is given the knowledge she needs to wield that power responsibly.” I thought, What kind of power could a teenager in Glendale, California, have? I couldn’t even ride the city bus by myself yet. This seemed a little too wacky. I sat there in silence, while my mom rattled on . . . blah, blah, blah. . . .
After that day, my mom actually listened to me and did not talk about this kind of stuff in front of my friends. Erin and I endured the remaining week of “life processes” class with Mrs. Bancroft, and we passed the female biological systems test. But Mom continued to bring things up when she and I were alone together, every now and then, just to make sure I understood. She told me about breasts and how they make the perfectly nutritious food for babies that no scientist can imitate in the lab. No matter how I squirmed and hid my face, she told me every gory detail of the blood that would be coming out of me and about my ovaries releasing eggs. These eggs, she said, were the root of creation.
She quoted a verse by the Indian poet Mirabai, “Understand the body is like the ocean, rich with hidden treasures.” The hidden treasures I saw were tiny bumps I hid behind a padded bra and zits that I covered up with concealer. Then she followed it up with, “Tasha, when you start your period, when your body changes, this will be just the beginning of your ability to realize that you can be a positive womanly force connected to everyone you meet. It’s a physical reminder of all that is sacred about women. You can create life with a husband who values all that you are.” I thought she was probably delusional.
Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul Page 21
