I removed several rose-scented candles from my bath box I kept in the closet of my room. And poured in my trusty bubble bath. I still like the comfort of the pink Mr. Bubble packaging. With my tubful of suds I pretended to be a Hollywood starlet in a glamorous sunken tub. “It all started,” I said to an imaginary interviewer, “when I met these three crazy ad people….”
Mom may have hated my new situation, but I was thrilled to be on my way. Exactly where I was going, I wasn't sure, but since meeting the three maniacs at Out of the Box, I really did feel the thrust of motion in my life.
I clicked open the bathroom door when I was done. I was wrapped in the white Turkish terry robe I'd gotten for Hanukkah, and wearing one of Mom's many bath turbans. I was just about to open my bedroom door and change into my sushi-print pajamas when I heard my father say, “How did you get along with Martin today?”
Martin was my mother's new boss. I met him when I worked for her office the summer before. He struck me as dull as sawdust, but she never really talked about him to me.
My mother's voice was noticeably unsteady when she answered him. “Such a pain. He wants printouts of my e-mails, so I give them to him.”
“E-mails!” Dad cried.
“And he calls me in and says he doesn't like diagonal staples. He is a man who 'likes neat, horizontal stapling.' “
“That's insanity. After you turned around that comet book in a month? You said Dana said it was a bang-up job.”
Dana is the president of my mother's publishing company.
“I'm not kidding. He was eating carrots at the same time, and little orange bits were all over his teeth—I think Bugs Bunny is out to get me. I was so depressed about it I had to leave early.”
I didn't think that was so funny, but my father did. “Bugs! That's exactly who he looks like.” His laughter leveled off. “Listen, you keep perfect records. You haven't had anything but positive evaluations. You are a meticulous woman with a gift for introducing hard concepts to young kids. No one's going to touch you.”
“You always back me up, honey. I love you for that.”
“If Bugs goes after you, I'll make rabbit stew out of him.”
I was shocked that Mom had any trouble on the job. But it was comforting to hear my parents' connection. It amazed me once again how much my very different parents clicked.
There's a little ledge in the hallway, between our apartment's two bedrooms, where my mom has framed various family photos, including a slew of ancestors who expired eons before I was delivered exactly at noon uptown in a Mount Sinai Hospital delivery room. One I've always been drawn to is of my mother's grandmother when she was a young girl with ringlets. In this picture she is sitting on a small slatted chair on a grassy field, and her feet are bare and a little dirty. She is smiling big. Mom says it was taken in some town on the Polish-Russian border.
Could my great-grandmother Yetta have been a left-brained person too?
Was my Olympic mascot idea anything these three crazy ad people would appreciate? Was I a creative like them with a capital C? I wrote a big note about my idea in the private second notebook.
At least from the meeting I knew Daisy's boss Victor hadn't chosen a premium yet. What if he wanted to go back to them for more ideas? The Olympics was a huge deal. There was bankability in it, wasn't there? There was a teeny possibility they'd fall in love with my idea, wasn't there?
Paulette waved from behind her computer screen. Marcus, standing over her, gave me a silly grin for his morning hello. As they seemed busy with a project, I simply said hello and got to work with the filing pile. It wasn't too bad, about ten minutes' worth, and then I would be done and wait for my next instructions for the day. There was a nice smell in the area, and I was slightly shocked to realize that it came from Paulette. She hadn't worn perfume the other times I'd been around her. I looked at her briefly, but she was still clicking, with Marcus watching not directly over her shoulder, but nearby. Something else about Paulette was different that I just couldn't figure out yet.
“The B'52's played in New York?” Marcus asked Paulette. “Are they still alive?”
Maybe they weren't so busy.
“Don't read it!” Paulette shrieked. How did she even know that Marcus was reading what she was scrolling? Sometimes Paulette was like a housefly, with eyes that could see all around.
“What's your problem?” Marcus yelled right back.
Paulette kept scrolling along. “You're going to finish the damn review before me, and then start commenting on it. You know they're still my favorite band, so stop it! That's like opening a gift before the recipient.”
“You are the most hypersensitive—”
Joel walked in with a can of peach soda. I shook my head to warn him of the tension in the room.
“So any word from Burger Man?” My meek attempt to diffuse the tension.
Joel shook his head. “Nothing. Nada. We're waiting it out.”
“So, what would you like me to do today after I finish filing?”
“Why don't we just focus on you,” Joel said.
“Me?”
Joel eyeballed me. “How's it coming with lover boy?”
I smiled and said, “Actually, I was early for the class we share—seventh-period precalculus—and I was buying myself some food and, well, I gave him Marcus's suggested milk shake.”
Even Paulette looked up.
“Really!” Marcus said. “And?”
“What happened?” Joel asked.
“Well, he took it. But he looked at me like I was an idiot.”
“Should have listened to me,” Paulette muttered.
Suddenly, I knew what was different about Paulette. Her hair was simply wavy, not frizzy. She had probably used leave-in conditioner.
“You have to give the milk methodology time to work its magic,” Marcus said.
Joel sipped from his soda can. “I think you need a big hat. It takes gall to walk into a classroom with a big sombrero. Any man would love you instantly.”
“That is so not happening,” I said.
“You want to know the only way to get a man?” Paulette asked, eyes back on the computer screen.
“What is that?” Marcus said, looking at her funny.
“The reality of the situation is that a woman must have big breasts. Why don't we tell it like it is?”
Marcus smiled but looked seriously uncomfortable, like this had been a heated conversation between them once.
“I've never thought I was small,” I said softly.
“Oh, you're stacked,” Paulette said. “Trust me.” She pointed to her chest, which was way smaller than mine. She was almost a pancake on top. “But you are not displaying them goods properly. Look at that baggy clothing you're wearing.”
I blushed out of shock and anger. Suddenly Paulette was the fashion expert? She was one to talk!
“If you're suggesting I go on one of those reality makeover shows, I find them disgusting.”
“But oh so fascinating,” Joel piped in.
“You have the goods already. We can do this for under thirty bucks. We need to go to Victoria's Secret.”
Joel gulped back more of his soda and asked, “Ooh, can I go?”
“That's kind of sick,” Marcus said with another big happy grin on his face.
“Who said we're doing this?” I said.
Paulette was adamant. “It's a no-brainer. How basic can you get? Breasts high, get the guy.”
The craziness of what she was suggesting finally struck me. “You're all going in the dressing room with me?”
“No. No one will be in that room but you. But they are, pains me to say this, men.”
“I told you we were men!” Marcus said to Joel. Joel laughed.
“When you emerge from the room, they can offer valuable feedback.”
“I'm not—”
“No,” Paulette said adamantly. “This is a solid plan. We'll do this tomorrow. Bring a low-cut sweater or shirt so we can really giv
e you good feedback.”
The sleepy security guard opened the door. The four of us, with Paulette at the head position, filed through the glass door like a row of ducklings.
“Welcome to Victoria's Secret,” a pretty Chinese customer service rep said to Paulette uneasily. Who wouldn't be startled by two middle-aged men and a woman escorting a teen into a bra store? “I'm Florence.”
“We need a bra for this young lady,” Paulette said confidently.
“What kind of bra?” Florence said, trying not to look worried.
“I think she needs more lift. Major va-va-voom.”
The saleswoman took a calming breath. “Well, there are one or two bras that never fail—”
“Let's see them all,” demanded Marcus. “Bring on the underthingies.”
Paulette shot Marcus a big bad look.
Florence took another nervous glance at the two grown men tagging along for the bra purchase. “Um, what size are you?” she said to me.
“Thirty-four C,” I whispered in her ear.
“Let her check, please, Jordie,” Paulette said. “Your body changes when you're a teenager. The one good thing I learned from my pain-in-the-neck mother is that you should have every bra professionally fitted.”
Before I could protest, out came a pink measuring tape that Florence tightly wrapped around my chest. “Well, it looks like you are a bit odd here, a thirty-five.”
“Whoa!” Marcus said. “I'm in the wrong profession.”
I was embarrassed beyond speech.
“I'll get the bras I have in mind,” Florence said.
She came back with one white one and two black ones. All three had serious padding in them.
I grabbed the bras and took refuge in the private changing room. The situation was so humiliating that I couldn't really stay mad. I started giggling.
After I hooked on the first one, I took a hard look in the mirror. My boobs were so high, I could balance a water glass on them.
“Let's see,” Paulette said impatiently outside my door.
After I put on my very low-cut taupe V-neck Gap T-shirt, I gingerly opened the door.
This time Marcus was the one who blushed. I didn't know he was capable of embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, my little innocent intern.”
Joel turned to me with a silly grin on his face. “Under no circumstances are you to tell my wife what I have just seen.”
“Okay,” I said, taking him at face value.
Marcus and Paulette thought this was much funnier than I thought it was. Paulette even laughed again, and I was a little confused. Was I the target of a private joke they had?
“That was a joke,” Joel whispered to me. “I'm as single as they come. But you do look amazing.”
Paulette then said to the clerk, “We don't need to try anything else on. That's the one.” To me she said proudly, “A certain Mr. Vaughan is not going to know what hit him.”
“You're right. This one is a winner,” Florence said to Paulette. “It directs your eyes exactly where they need to go,” she then whispered to me.
As I got dressed, I overheard another woman getting help with a bra. “A size A is too big?” said her salesclerk incredibly loudly. “Really? It's too big? An A?”
“Yes,” said a humiliated woman's voice. “Can you stop saying that?”
“Wow, I'll get you the double A.”
“That's a hell of a lot of money to pay for humiliation,” the angry customer said out loud to herself when the clerk had left.
How much money were these bras?.1 found the price tag on my bra. The “winning bra” in my hands was way out of my budget. I only got twenty dollars a week for my allowance, and I'd gone through my summer job savings already.
Before I could protest, Marcus grabbed the “winning” bra and took out his corporate credit card from his green Velcro camouflage wallet. “We'll put this on your account.”
“What account is that?” Joel asked.
“The Boyfriend Account. She can pay us back later when she's rich and famous.”
“But I charge interest,” Joel warned.
“Wait,” Paulette called out. “I got her a shirt in medium. Pay for this too.”
“What's wrong with my shirt?”
“They call this shirt 'Jezebel' for a reason.” Paulette held up a leopard skin blouse with a plunging neckline and a lace-up ruffled front.
Seriously slutty.
I switched into my new clothes for school that afternoon, i.e., I wore the new bra and Jezebel shirt to precalculus. When I walked into class I had my jacket zipped. Was I really going through with this cockamamy plan?
Zane saw me and shyly waved hi.
Vaughan walked in with bags under his sleepy eyes. He was yawning his head off.
“You look like hell, man,” Zane said to Vaughan. It was so peculiar how for a shy guy, other guys didn't seem to intimidate him.
“Let me tell you, bro, that emergency room is intense.”
Zane nodded. “I can imagine.”
Vaughan shook his head and blew out air. “No, you cannot imagine. But it's kind of cool, ya know?”
Cool? I had differing thoughts about that, but I wasn't about to confess my botched attempt at lining up a companion internship with him.
Someone tapped my shoulder. Jeremy. “It's really hot in here. Why do you still have your jacket on?”
“I'm a little chilly.”
“You're chilly? It's an inferno in here.”
Was I ready for my big move?
I removed my jacket and draped it on my chair, trying to look as casual as possible.
Jeremy saw my “All new! Improved!” cleavage first.
“Whoa!”
Mr. Etchingham took a small breath when he saw my chest. It also seemed to me that his little bit of normal color suddenly went out of his face.
The students in my immediate vicinity made suspicious noises. Vaughan coughed. He may have been exhausted seconds before, but he suddenly looked almost perky. My advertisement definitely caught his attention. The last to sneak a look was Zane; he was predictably bright red.
The bell had yet to ring, so Jeremy took the opportunity to pass me a note.
We were very big on notes to each other, and sometimes they went back and forth three times in a minute. That's some bra you have on.
What bra? I scrawled back.
Your boobs are Popkin out to the moon. What do you mean, what bra? What's with that?
I've worn this bra before.
No, you have not. Every guy in the room is looking at you.
Really?
Really.
Is Vaughan?
Vaughan? You too? Is that what this looking like a bimbette is all about?
Well, is he?
Yeah. Jeez. 1 didn't think you were part of his fan base.
Etchingham checked class attendance in his Delaney card seating plan book. Green cardboard Delaney cards are some leftover bit of New York public school protocol that always made me feel like we were pupils carting lunch pails in the Great Depression. For each teacher, students filled out their last name and first name and homeroom. The teacher placed the cards in rows in a Delaney book, creating a permanent seating plan for the year. At Clarkson, I never once filled out such an impersonal bit of paper. Everyone just knew who you were after a day or two.
Etchingham glanced from his Delaney book to my row and still seemed to avoid at all costs looking directly at me.
“Okay, let's have those slope homeworks. Ms. Popkin, you may want to put a jacket on.”
The class collectively gasped, and someone—I'm pretty sure it was Vaughan—laughed out loud.
We passed them up.
When the end-of-class bell rang, I pretended to search for something in my messenger bag; I wanted everyone to leave before me. I took so long looking for my “something” that Zane was the only person outside in the hallway when I emerged. He was retying his retro Air Jordans.
He stood up just as I came o
ut. He turned toward me, obviously pitying me. “So, how is your internship going?” His voice was reassuringly friendly, which, considering his shyness, was a remarkable feat. I knew he was letting me know in his own awkward way that he felt bad for my fashion error. But he made damn certain he was looking at my eyes, not my boobs.
“It's good, it's good. But I'm, uh, we're running late for French.”
I put my black jacket on and zipped it up as high as the zipper would go.
Zane and I had to make a break for French if we were going to be there before the bell. I didn't walk with him, though, and he looked a bit offended that I was obviously waiting for him to go ahead. Why couldn't he just accept that Chesty didn't want to talk to anyone more than she had to? Eventually, he got the message, and he didn't look at me when I arrived in the class. Thankfully, no one else in my French class was also in my precalculus class. And this time, I was not taking my jacket off—I didn't care if I was sweating like a road worker.
On the subway ride home, I seethed again at what I had been through. And I was mad all over again at my mentors for my disgrace. The other faces on the train blurred. My face was hot and red. But I had a really big afterthought. Vaughan might be truly handsome, but Zane was so nice to me, and I had just rushed away from him. I was going to make a point of thanking him for his kindness. I changed before my mother saw me.
That night, sleep, for obvious reasons, was not happening.
“So, so?” Paulette said when I walked into my internship office the next morning. She was about to make a phone call and was standing, a rare position for her. It was hard not to notice her black pantsuit, which really flattered her surprisingly shapely thin body. “How did our bra girl do?”
“It went well, at first.” I had hoped to keep my voice level.
“What do you mean, at first?” Marcus said suspiciously. “Whatever happened second must have been pretty rough. No offense, but you look like hell.”
“That's a nice thing to say,” Paulette said sternly.
“I had a really rough day yesterday, Marcus, okay? I may have been crying a little.”
Marcus stopped in his tracks and came and sat down next to me. He removed his (surprisingly) furry coat and laid it over the back of Paulette's chair. Despite my sour mood I was highly amused by the crazy garment he was wearing; I wanted to e-mail my sister—we've had a years-running joke about men in fur coats. Someone ought to send them all a telegram: No. It doesn't work.
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