Strangely enough, I wasn’t jealous of Gianna. In fact, I was happy enough to enjoy all the best that high school had to offer from the relative safety of the sidelines. Yes, I wanted boys, but they were a little scary, especially to a plump teen who was more used to being teased than wooed.
Of course, there was a downside to sitting on the sidelines of a so-called fabulous high school life. And that was that I lived in Gianna’s shadow. As an insecure high school student, I took comfort in this role. But as a woman, I recently realized, it could be suffocating.
If Gianna and I had survived the closeness we shared as young girls, it was because life had put some comfortable distance between us after high school. I went off to college while Gianna went to work. Gianna spent most of her twenties living on Long Island before joining me in Manhattan. It wasn’t until we traveled to Italy together in our thirties that our teenage past caught up with us.
I’m told that the best way to find out if you can survive marriage with a prospective spouse is to take an overseas vacation with him. I think you can apply this to best friends, too. Of course, our trip to Italy wasn’t the worst of times. How could it be? We were two single women on a whirlwind tour of Milan, Venice, Florence, Positano, and Rome. In some ways, we complemented each other as travel partners. For instance, I’m not much of a picture taker, preferring instead simply to experience my surroundings. Still I was grateful for the photos Gianna, an avid photographer, brought home for us. While Gianna preferred to “wing it” when it came to the daily itinerary, I spent time poring over guidebooks for information. And while I barely spoke a paragraph’s worth of Italian, Gianna was fluent.
Which should have been a good thing. And it was. Most of the time. Except my lack of foreign-language skills forced me to be socially dependent on Gianna in a way I hadn’t been. At least, not since high school.
Suddenly I found myself on the sidelines again, watching as Gianna tested out her Italian on just about every man who crossed our paths. Sometimes this was fun. Like when the two older gentlemen on the train treated us to dinner, each vying to buy us the better entree or glass of wine. Or when we found ourselves in a karaoke bar outside of Venice being serenaded with Beatles songs by two otherwise-Italian-speaking lotharios.
Other times, I felt like I was playing a game in which I didn’t know the rules. I had to rely on Gianna for cues, which wasn’t so easy. In Milan, we nearly missed seeing The Last Supper because Gianna was too busy testing out her Italian on the caretaker of our hotel. In Naples, I was forced, by humiliation more than anything else, to get into the backseat of a car that belonged to a man I instinctually didn’t trust because Gianna insisted he was friendly enough. There were the waiters who heaped her dish fuller and poured on the charm and I dare say, affection, simply because she spoke their language. In one restaurant, the enchanted waiter even slid most of the pasta from the serving bowl onto her plate before he realized I was sitting there. By the time we got to Positano, Gianna seemed to have forgotten the English language altogether, not even bothering to translate for me anymore and leaving me to figure out what was going to happen next. The straw that broke this camel’s back was when I found myself on a boat I thought was headed for Capri, only to find myself stuck on a deserted island while Gianna and her latest paramour wandered off down the rocky coast for a romantic tryst.
Needless to say, by the time we got to Rome, I was ready for a divorce. And since one of Gianna’s beaus had followed us there, I figured I could at least try for a trial separation. I was tired of being on Gianna’s vacation. It reminded me too much of high school, where I existed in her world. Now that I was an adult and had found my own independence, I discovered we had very different interests. For one thing, I came to Italy to see Italy, not just the men. So when Gianna told me that Stefano would be joining us for dinner our first night in Rome, I professed a desire to tour a church on the other side of the city.
And that’s when everything exploded. Gianna declared me selfish for wanting to go off on my own. “Selfish? Me?” I replied, amazed that she could see it that way. I couldn’t believe she thought so little of me that she thought I actually enjoyed being a third party to her International Dating Festival.
I think it was that realization that brought me to embarrassing tears, surprising me with the depth of pain I’d felt living in Gianna’s shadow. I was reminded of that fat girl in high school, willingly banished to the backseat of the car, watching Gianna sitting in the best seat, with the best guy. The only saving grace was that I was certain I was no longer in danger of being that girl anymore.
I went to the church. To be honest, I no longer even remember which one it was, only that I got down on my knees in one of the pews and prayed for peace of mind. And I’m not a praying kind of gal. I took my time on the way home, deciding against the metro, meandering back to our hotel along cobblestone streets, taking in the crumbling facades, the crowds of people.
By the time I reached the hotel, I felt like myself again.
Gianna, however, was a wreck. In fact, she was practically dangling out of the window of our upper-floor room, apparently looking for me.
“Thank God, you’re back. I was so worried about you!” she declared once I made my way up to the room. Then she went on about how she was afraid I was lost, how scared she was for me. But the whole thing didn’t ring true somehow. I was a grown woman. Did she really think I wouldn’t be able to get by on my own?
It was then that I realized she was all dressed for a date, though her date was nowhere in sight.
“What happened to Stefano?” I asked.
Stefano was delayed for reasons that seemed mysterious enough for me to distrust him. And in the conversation that ensued, I learned that despite all the romance she shared with him, Gianna didn’t trust him very much, either. And that’s when I realized something new about the woman I had known for over twenty years.
When it came to men, Gianna had a few fears herself.
Suddenly I wondered if I had been as much a crutch for her in high school as she’d been for me. Just as I felt safe watching life and romance go by from the backseat of a car, maybe she felt just as safe having me there. With her best friend at her back, nothing could go wrong with the boy she was flirting with in the front, right?
I went to dinner with Gianna and Stefano that night. Mostly because I couldn’t abandon my oldest friend to a man who now seemed more dangerous than dangerously sexy.
But once back in New York, our relationship was forever changed. Mostly because I was determined not to be that girl in the backseat anymore. Until Italy, I didn’t realize I always gave in to what Gianna thought best out of habit. And old habits die hard.
I had to learn to say no to the all-night dance parties. Dancing was something Gianna loves, not me. I no longer desired to sit through blockbuster movies featuring the hunk du jour simply because that was Gianna’s pick. Rock climbing? No way. Competitive sports? Not my thing.
These days, we spend less time together. On bad days, I wonder if my compliancy was the glue that kept us together. On better ones, I know this isn’t true.
Just a few months back, Gianna called to tell me she met someone new. She sounded different this time. He sounded different this time. For one thing, he wasn’t her classic bad boy. In fact, just the reverse: Jackson is a bonafide hero who was voluntarily down in the rubble in the days that followed 9/11. For another, it’s clear he genuinely cares for Gianna.
I am so happy for her. I’m happy for me, too. Because the truth is, now that she has a boyfriend, I find our relationship is easier. As if I no longer have to be her everything. Maybe it was my problem thinking I had to be everything. Perhaps because we’ve both been single so much longer than we’d ever expected, we’ve gotten into that habit of being there for each other. I offered her a place to stay when the heartbreak of losing a man she loved made her not want to go home again. And she was at my side when I buried my father a few years ago. I will always worry t
hat her impulsive nature will keep her from planning for her financial future. Or that she’ll never give up smoking, despite the risk to her health. She will always worry that I worry too much.
I suspect we will be friends forever. Best friends? Sometimes we are, but most of the time, we can’t be. I think Stephanie put it best when at the end of Just As Long As We’re Together she declared that “close [friends] is as good as best.” Even Rachel has to concede to Stephanie’s point, if, as Rachel says, “you’re talking about true friends.”
Yes, we’re talking about true friends. Because despite our differences, I know for sure Gianna is one of my truest.
If you don’t believe me, just read Judy Blume.
Lynda Curnyn is the author of four novels and several short stories. When she’s not writing books, she can be found hanging with best friends in New York City. Say hello at www.lyndacurnyn.com.
The Importance of ABC’s
Kayla Perrin
Ask any sixth-grade schoolgirl and she’ll tell you that size matters. Like, majorly.
Totally.
Big time.
Size—it’s the key to dating the cutest guys.
No, not their size—yours.
Your breast size.
When you’re eleven going on twelve, like Margaret in Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, it’s the thing that matters most in your life. Do you have breasts or not? And if you do have them, there’s an even more important concern: are you an A, B, or C?
A—perfectly respectable. You’re well on your way to womanhood. B—wow, aren’t you rounding out nicely? C—hmm, a little risqué for someone in sixth grade. No, make that very risqué. Adolescent boys walk by you in the hallway and gawk. You’re the subject of all sorts of racy rumors. Just ask Laura Danker, Margaret’s big-busted sixth-grade classmate. No, you don’t want C’s (or, God forbid, D’s!). Being too big is possibly worse than wearing a training bra, because at least you can stuff a training bra to the size you like. But you can’t hide those titillating C’s.
Or maybe C’s aren’t that bad. At least you’ve got breasts. Pretty breasts that other girls envy, even if they start rumors about you. Maybe the worst thing of all is being flat-chested in a sea of girls who are blooming like daffodils in spring.
Regardless of your cup size, one thing is certain. When you’re a sixth-grade girl, you want more than anything to fit in. Like Goldilock’s trying out the Bears’ hospitality, you don’t want a chest that is too big or too small. You want one that is just right.
I should know. Like Margaret in Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, I suffered the frustration of being a late breast bloomer. And just like Margaret, I moved after fifth grade and had to start a new school in sixth grade. Having to make a whole new set of friends is daunting enough without going through the drama of puberty at the same time.
I was desperate to fit in. To be as normal as the other girls who were talking about getting their periods and having to wear bras. And yet I had no breasts to speak of. I stared in the mirror every day, looking at my flat chest, wondering when-oh-when I’d grow breasts. Oh, I had those little beans that were developing in each nipple, but they were taking a damn long time to grow into something decent.
Like Margaret, my breasts just weren’t growing fast enough, and I knew I had to take fate into my own hands.
I would have to fake it.
Trust me, there’s a lot of pressure in faking it. But then, if you survived sixth grade, you probably already know that. Faking it is not as simple as sneaking one of your mother’s bras. You have to choose the right one—an old one she won’t miss, and you hope to hell that the cups are small enough to manipulate to meet your needs. This certainly won’t work if your mother is stacked like Dolly Parton, but thankfully my mother wasn’t.
When I knew I couldn’t stand another day of going to school and seeing other girls with bras visible through their shirts, I finally got the guts to take action. I went through my mother’s things, delicately lifting black lacy bras, sturdy white ones, and even some with no straps. It was all very complicated, but I finally decided on one of the sturdy white ones. It was the best one to hide what I’d be filling the cups with. I practiced putting it on and stuffing it with a little bit of Kleenex. I practiced over and over again until I was ready. Then, one Monday morning, I hid the bra in my school bag and took it to my junior high, where I immediately went to the bathroom. There, I locked myself in a stall, pulled my shirt off, put on my mother’s bra, and, just as I’d practiced, I used some toilet paper to fill in the empty cups.
I had no clue what size bra my mother even wore, but now I know it was a C cup. C cup was way too big for me, of course, but I discovered that my diligent practice paid off. I filled the bra with a little toilet paper and it was fine.
I was nervous that first day. Would everyone know I was faking it? Would someone say, “Hey, Kayla—you grew breasts over the weekend!” But no one did, and my first day of faking it was a success.
Of course, at the end of the day, I had to repeat the bathroom ritual so that I’d go home sans bra. Because God forbid my mother saw me wearing it. Now that I’m a woman, I’m sure my mother would have done nothing but perhaps have a little chuckle over my ingenuity, but then, as an emotional preteen desperate for breasts, I figured if my mother caught me, it would be the end of the world.
I mastered faking it but felt entirely uncomfortable about it. Like Margaret in sixth grade, I just wanted the real thing already. I can tell you, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret touched me like no other book did in junior high. I read about Margaret, suffering my very same predicament, and I didn’t feel alone. I knew that although I desperately wanted to cross that line to womanhood so that I wouldn’t be different, there were other girls going through exactly the same thing. Maybe other girls in my very class were faking it, too, just like I was. But even if the only other girl going through my drama was Margaret, that was enough for me.
I loved Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. And I adored Judy Blume. Her stories touched me right in the center of my emotional core. I read her books knowing that someone understood the trials and tribulations of grade school kids, and even more important, someone cared.
And that’s huge when you’re young and often feel alone.
I quickly got used to living the lie of having breasts in sixth grade. The tricky time was gym period, but I mastered the art of covering up so that no one would wonder what exactly was in my bra. God forbid a nosy friend like Margaret’s nosy friend, Nancy, would notice my bra was more Charmin than womanly flesh.
But here’s the thing about living a lie: one day, that lie is going to come back to haunt you. That’s something you don’t think about when you’re twelve and simply want breasts.
My day came when my class went to see the Philharmonic Orchestra.
Imagine this—you’re in the first row of the audience, enjoying the orchestra’s music, and the conductor suddenly asks, “Can I have a volunteer to conduct the orchestra?” Your hand flies up and you wave it around excitedly like all of your friends do. You want to be picked, because being picked means you get to be the Cool One, at least for a little while.
And cool you are, because the conductor chooses you.
So you happily head onstage and conduct the orchestra, paying only half attention to the cameras around you. You don’t care about the cameras; you care about bragging rights.
A short while later, you learn that the cameras are from the local news station. Which means that you’re going to be on the six o’clock news.
Normally, a reason for excitement. But now you start to panic. You can think of only one thing.
I’m wearing a bra!
Dear God, please don’t let my mother watch the news. Please let her be doing something else. Like shopping for new shoes.
Of course, your mother is home when you return from school. And you can’t stop worrying. You keep wondering if you’ll really be on the news. A
nd what you can do to distract your parents from watching.
But tonight is not your lucky night, because when six o’clock rolls around, your father turns the TV to the local news station. Of course, the newscaster announces that one of the upcoming stories will feature students who were at the Philharmonic Orchestra.
Your father turns to you and says, “Hey, isn’t that your class that went to the orchestra today?”
You need a hole to crawl into. A very large and dark one…
You can hardly breathe during the news broadcast, because of course they show the clip of the student getting to conduct the orchestra. And of course you just know that your mother is going to squint her eyes at the TV screen and ask, “Kayla, are you wearing a bra?”
Your life is over. You just know it.
Dear God, please let me die a quick and painless death…
But your parents are far too excited at seeing you on TV to say anything else. Still, you’re sure your mother is going to ask you about the bra. You promise yourself you’ll never wear one of your mother’s bras again.
Neither your mother nor father says anything. And that’s when it finally dawns on you that for most of the news clip, the camera caught you from behind.
Like the moment when Margaret first starts to get her period, this is proof that there is a God after all.
Still, the drama of almost getting caught faking it is enough to make you completely uncomfortable going to school the next day with your mother’s confiscated bra. Yet you don’t want to be braless. What if Nosy Nancy notices?
So you get the courage to ask: Mom, pretty please—can I get a training bra?
Thank God, your mother takes you shopping the next day. Finally, you have a bra you can proudly call your own.
Even if you don’t quite have the breasts yet.
I don’t remember how long after that incident I actually grew decent-size breasts. But I do remember that nearly-being-discovered-as-a-fraud-by-my-
Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume Page 21
