Slant Tales

Most of my girlfriends became “women” in the seventh or eighth grade, with the exception of a couple who made the transformation in sixth grade. I sat by and watched as, one by one, each of them announced she had gotten her period. They all feigned disgust or embarrassment, but I knew the truth. They were exhilarated, proud. And if word got out to the boys, all the better. Somehow, finding out that a girl bled for five days every month made her all the more attractive.
I waited for my time to come, and when I was the only one left without a purse full of Tampax, I started to worry that my time would never come, so I faked it. I didn’t offer up any substantial proof, like Ashley Martin, who got her first period in the middle of science class and ran to the nurse’s office with a small, red stain on the back of her skirt, but I made sure everyone knew my time had come. Even at the age of thirteen, I was a seasoned liar. I kept an impeccable façade. Whenever anyone ran out of tampons or sanitary napkins or Midol, I was the first to offer help. I kept buying them, and since I wasn’t using them myself, I always had some extras on hand. The only other girl who never ran out of supplies was Missy Clark, who I suspected was also a faker, but since I didn’t want to expose my own fraudulence by questioning her standing, my suspicions were never confirmed.
Faking menstruation certainly had its perks. Besides finally feeling included in what all of my friends were going through, I could be crabby without giving a reason, and I could fake cramps in the middle of science class and go lie down on the couch in the guidance counselor’s office for a nice nap. I shared in the trials and tribulations of my fellow-mentruators, shaking my head in solidarity whenever someone complained of lower back pain or bloating. “I know. Don’t you hate that?”
In the sixth grade, the consciousness of our class shifted slightly, and everyone found out about sex. We all knew what it was, were either fascinated or disgusted by the idea of it, and couldn’t talk about anything else. This was the year that Laura Hamilton started at our school. She was an Amazon blonde, a woman in a girl’s uniform. She transferred to our school from an exotic, far-off place called Missoula. She was popular before everyone even knew her name, becoming the newest addition to the growing league of over-developed eleven-year-olds.
My mom would whisper, “Look at those breasts! And what is she, five-eight?! That girl could pass for twenty one. That’s just not right. What are her parents feeding her?!”
My mother’s constant gawking at my classmates’ endowments did little for my self-esteem. I was the runt in a class full of shiny, trotting purebreds. I was so uncomfortable with myself, physically, that I overcompensated by being funny. I was the class clown. I deflected everyone’s attention away from my appearance by making them laugh, and somehow because of it, I managed to claim a spot in the cool crowd. Best of all, Laura Hamilton was my best friend.
Deep down, Laura was wacky and strange like me, but somehow got gifted with a knockout body and perfect face. At the height of it, Laura’s and mine was the best kind of friendship. We had great times together, just being kids, before we got caught up in worrying what everyone else thought about us. I could forget for a while that I wasn’t as pretty or chesty as the other girls. And Laura could forget that she was. Still, sometimes I couldn’t believe that this girl had picked me as her best friend when she could have just stuck with the other early bloomers, who seemed to prefer to travel in packs. I was holding my breath and waiting for the day that she would be lured away and ditch me.
One night, during a sleepover at Laura’s house, I noticed her underwear. We were in her room, changing into our pajamas, when I caught sight of the lovely, silky thing she had fashioned across her chest. I, myself, had only a Cross Your Heart training bra, ratty, cotton, and white, which I had begged my mother to buy me but didn’t really need in the first place. I saw Laura’s bra, which was surely not for training, with its silky straps, under-wire cups and modern, floral design, and I knew I had to have one. Even if no one else ever saw it, I knew that simply having it would make me better.
Most of the money my parents spent on me for the next couple of years, excluding school supplies and food, was on bra and panty sets from Victoria’s Secret. On our trips to the mall, that is where I would head with a group of my girlfriends. And even though all of them had breasts, and I didn’t, I was determined to prove that it was just as much my right to be there as it was theirs. I made sure I had the fanciest bras, the silkiest panties. I even turned my own mother onto Victoria’s Secret after she got fed-up with the fact that her pre-pubescent daughter had sexier lingerie than she did.
Instead of academics or sports, breasts and sex became the only competitions at school worth winning. Laura Hamilton wore a 34B, so she sat a few rungs higher on the social ladder than Caitlin Walter, who clocked in at a measly 34A. I could only dream of filling out an A-cup, but I certainly didn’t advertise that fact. I bought the fancy satin 32As, and just hoped that no one would notice the bunchy, half-full cups in the locker room when we all changed for gym class.
“Is that a new pattern?” Chloe Brenner asked one day as we were changing back into our school uniforms.
“Yeah, isn’t it cute?” I asked, pleased with myself.
All the other girls turned around to look.
“Oh, I just got that one, too.” Caitlin Walter said. “What size is yours?”
“34A,” I lied.
“It looks a little big.”
Besides cup sizes, bases became another way to mark social standing, and I don’t mean baseball. First base was kissing, second was breast action, third was “fingering” (which as I understood it, consisted of a boy darting his finger in and out of a girl’s underpants for no particular reason), and home run was, well, a home run. Those were the rules, and we all revered them as such.
The girls who had grown breasts got boyfriends as a result, and most of them hit first and second base in no time. Laura’s boyfriend, Adam Brown, was a big meathead who everyone thought was cute, and he didn’t like me because I was small and funny and mocked him with words he couldn’t understand. Whenever we were around each other, he would always look at me through his half-open eyes, constantly suspicious of my presence.
I would find Laura and Adam together, leaning against her locker after lunch.
“What’s up, guys?” I would ask.
“What do you want?” Adam would counter, slit-eyed. Laura never stuck up for me when Adam was around.
“Oh, nothing. Hey Adam, I just ran into Coach Wester, and he wanted me to tell you that you left your jockstrap in his classroom after practice yesterday.”
Laura would laugh and Adam would turn purple.
I had a feeling that he was just as jealous of me as I was of him, although he probably never worried that I would shove him into a bush when we walked to the school auditorium every morning.
Much to my dismay, Laura began spending most of her time with Adam, which left little time for me. Whenever we had sleepovers, she would talk to him on the phone for hours, and I would be shut out of her bedroom, and left to watch movies with her parents in the den. It soon dawned on me that I would need to get a boyfriend of my own in order to keep my best friend from slipping away. If having a boyfriend was important to her, than it would have to become important for me, as well.
I finally got one late into the seventh grade. His name was Adam Bright, and conveniently he was a good friend of Adam Brown’s, although he wasn’t a meathead or a jerk. He listened to Metallica and wore a chain on his wallet, and I don’t know if I liked him for him or because he was my ticket back in with Laura, but either way, it was fun while it lasted, which was a solid two months.
Laura and I and Adam and Adam would go on double dates to the mall, to TGIFriday’s, to putt-putt golf, and everywhere else. Adam Brown even softened up to me a little after I jumped on the boyfriend bandwagon. I was no longer the threatening third wheel. Once again, I felt like I was back in the club, and most importantly, back in with Laura.
One night the four of us went to see a movie, and we sat in the back row. I suddenly remembered through rumors and other people’s stories that the back of the theatre was where the real action took place. Kristy Chapman let Tyler White touch her boobs when they went to see I Know What You Did Last Summer. Caitlin Walter got fingered by her boyfriend, Kyle, under his baseball jacket during My Best Friend’s Wedding. Adam and I had only held hands and kissed a couple of times, always in the daytime and always for other people to see, so the prospect of having to do something more was absolutely terrifying. I suddenly wanted out of the club.
I looked over at Laura and her Adam, who were already making out before the opening credits started, and I felt trapped. When Adam put his arm around my shoulder and the back of his hand accidentally brushed against my chest, I nearly leapt out of my seat.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered with his warm breath in my ear.
“Nothing, I’m just cold.” I pulled my big jacket on and zipped it all the way up my neck.
“You want some gum?”
“Sure.” He offered me a piece and took another for himself. We chewed until our mouths were fresh, then we started to make out. I opened my eyes just once and caught him watching Laura kiss the other Adam over my shoulder.
The next Monday at school, my boyfriend barely made eye contact with me in the halls. After social studies, Adam Brown pulled me aside and said we needed to talk.
“Umm, Adam wanted me to tell you that he doesn’t want to go out with you anymore.” He looked down at his feet.
I was crushed. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I think he just wants to be friends.”
Adam, my ex-boyfriend, then proceeded to start a popular rumor that I stuffed my bra, which I hand to spend the better part of a month vehemently denying until people lost interest. But I had to wonder, how did he know?
In the eighth grade, Laura, Maggie Epstein and Chloe Brenner all had sex with their boyfriends, one after the other, securing their spots as the three most popular girls in school. All three of them had been my best friends at one point or another, but with the boyfriends and bras and sex bases occupying all of their attention, it left little time for the short, awkward, funny girl who wasn’t rounding the bases with everyone else. I let go of the fantasy that I was just like everyone else. I started writing and imagining what life beyond school would be like. My peers could think of nothing but middle school, so after a while, we barely had anything left in common.
Just before the end of eighth grade, my mother decided to move me and my sister to Texas before the new school year began. I wasn’t that sad to go, and everyone at school seemed mildly upset, if not indifferent about it. All summer long, I fantasized about a whole new school with a whole new set of people who wouldn’t know anything about me but would be dying to get to know me. I knew they would all be more like me, be more interesting and less concerned with the way they looked or what sex bases they had reached. Maybe I would meet a really cool girl who would be a little bit funny and strange like me, and she would become my best friend and introduce me to all of her cool and fascinating friends. Maybe I would meet a really cute boy (not cute in a conventional way) who would be a dreamy, soulful outsider and listen to Dave Matthews Band and play the acoustic guitar, and he would say things like, “You’re different than all the other girls.” He would write songs for me and sneak into my bedroom at night through a window just to sleep next to me. None of that happened exactly, but high school was a little easier than middle school. I finally did get my period, for real, on the Fourth of July before ninth grade. I was wearing white underwear with blue flowers, so it seemed fitting. I was secretly relieved that I could drop the fantastic lie I had created three years before, because I was finally, truly, a woman.
Now, whenever I see pictures of my younger self, I still cringe a little. Not just because I had braces and bangs and a horrifying sense of style, but because I look so painfully uncomfortable, unsure of myself, out of place in my own skin. I’d like to say that now, as a 23-year-old woman, I’m confident, strong on my feet, and never have to lie to sound cool. Unfortunately, that’s not always true. Maybe the real reason I cringe when I look at old pictures is because I know I haven’t completely changed; I still carry that girl with me and she creeps out from time to time in places like department store changing rooms to remind me that I’m not as evolved as I’d like to think. Overly attractive boys still make me uncomfortable and I still envy those girls who can really fill out a halter top, but at least I have a sense of humor.