Tongue-tied, I thought of the go-kart. The lake and how warm it was. The angry ducks. The cold Pepsis on the beach. The frozen chocolate bars that blew my mind.
Why did I think here would be different? Why would this fourteen-year-old “tomboy” fit in here?
My cousin had her sweet sixteen while we were in Virginia. She had a party planned at her mom’s house, a short drive’s distance. I was invited. She was popular and looked the part, so I knew the party was going to be the coolest I had ever attended. I did not want to be ridiculed, and I wanted gone with the little boy. I wanted to make my mother happy.
“Mom, will you take me to Old Navy to get girl clothes?” I asked. Typically there was no disposable income for a random wardrobe request, but this was different. This was a dream come true for Martha. There was a verve in her voice that soothed my ears, as if she’d been replenished. I liked seeing her smile.
“Oh yes, Ellen, of course!” She beamed.
Her enthusiasm spread like bong smoke getting you secondhand high. We sped down the Virginia highway, the humidity hit like a brick, always an adjustment, generating that sticky layer of moisture on your skin. We pulled into an industrial park that looked identical to the one on the outskirts of Halifax. The swaths of parking spots, patiently waiting for the shoppers, perfectly mapped out, a little incomplete rectangle for everyone. Gargantuan stores with names I knew lined the sea of painted cement. GAP, AMERICAN EAGLE, OLD NAVY. Signs stuffed in the windows advertised sales and fresh looks, pop tunes filtered out of the automatic doors, a siren song.
As my mom parked and approached, she was more or less dancing, her body, wriggling like the ants with delight, seventh heaven discovered in a parking lot. Old Navy didn’t exist in the industrial park in Halifax yet, plus they had the best deals. The doors parted as she pranced in, ready to pounce. Here was her chance.
I remember surrendering as we walked through the Girl section, the pinks and baby blues, the sparkles, the tank tops, the crop tops, the low-rise jeans, all of it morphed together, the pop frequency tapping into the brain. Sentences inspired by the birth of “Girl Power” garnished the graphic tees.
My mom pulled articles of clothing off the rack, speaking a kilometer a minute. Staring at the Boy section across the room, I nodded mindlessly. Was there something else I was supposed to do?
Changing into the tight clothes, I turned and stared at the dressing room mirror. I saw someone new, or someone maybe I’d met before, I was nervous to say “nice to meet you.” They stood looking right at me, directly in my eyes. She scanned my body up and down as I did hers. The light-blue tank with a small pattern of lace. The skinny jeans framed her ass, pushing it out for the world to see. Slipping into the shirt with OLD NAVY embroidered on the front, it curved into my chest, clinging to the lingering sweat.
There I was, framed like a poster, a mannequin in the window. I had value now. I needed to pull up my bootstraps, grow up, stop being difficult and selfish. Be a young lady, and make my mom proud.
Martha’s high continued as we drove back to my aunt’s. I watched her face. Every glance at the bags at my feet another hit, a big inhale with a smooth exhale. Now she could relax, it wasn’t just a dream. The spinning top fell. The same music from Old Navy followed me through the radio, the summer hits on repeat, Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, da-da (da-da-da) Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, here (ooh, yeah, yeah).
The party began calmly enough, then snowballed into the kind of party I’d seen in movies starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. They were not supposed to be drinking, but shockingly, alcohol was everywhere. I had yet to really try liquor, other than sips of a parent’s beer here and there and the champagne cocktail I was allowed on New Year’s Eve that made me frolic about the house until I fell into a peaceful slumber. My days of high school parties had not quite arrived, but they would soon, where drinking was a sport as much as the soccer we played.
A friend of my cousin’s sat down next to me, drunk, and started asking me about Canada.
“Do you live in an igloo?” he questioned sincerely.
I explained that I did not live in an igloo. He continued to tell me how much Canada sucks.
Parents were at home, just respectfully tucked away. Guests continued to waltz in. The music volume had incrementally risen, making it a struggle to hear much. As the pullulating house vibrated with hip-hop bass, I looked down at my chest, the tiny bumps. My new wardrobe was not the magic fix I’d hoped it would be. The layers were lighter but the discomfort heavier.
Maybe if I keep trying, keep practicing, it’ll come. Yeah, it just takes effort, a choice.
But when I returned to Halifax and walked through the school doors, voilà, success. Tout de suite, the hot girls praised my clothes. My Old Navy jeans clung to my legs, my tank top revealed more skin than I had shown before at school, apart from in the girls’ changing room.
“That shirt is so cool.”
I knew it would do the trick, I thought proudly. I could win at this game.
“You have a nice ass,” Katie said as she rounded a corner. She looked back over her shoulder, a covert smile, her hair following. I wanted her to like his ass.
“Now you just have to change the music you listen to,” suggested a friend on my soccer team in the car on the way to a game, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail. I liked Radiohead and Bj?rk, “weird music.” I’d throw away myself, but not my songs.
The reaction to the girl I met in the mirror in an Old Navy in an industrial park on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia, was what I’d wished for, but my response to that attention was not. It only heightened the sting, stretching and contaminating the wound, more of its grotesqueness on display.
Still, I couldn’t shake my mother’s glow, her happiness, the feeling that all was right with the world after so much pain. I wanted to give her that, but my new look began to fade. A graph with dueling lines.
20
JUST LEAN IN
Nikki wasn’t like the other kids. She was authentic, she was gentle, she was bold. Her smile, that smile, welcomed you in. Her red hair, thick and wavy, framed her face. I’d turn my body to look back, my stomach rattling, pop rocks crackling off. My vocal cords quivering, struggling to form words, I’d plummet into her green eyes and afterward regret whatever I had said. It was tenth grade, and I was in love.
She sat behind me in English class. I recognized her from playing basketball in junior high school. She went to Cunard Junior High, the same school my siblings had gone to. Scott and Ashley’s dad was a teacher at Cunard. Nikki had really liked him.
I remembered her from the court because I could not stop looking at her—a force, an electromagnetic pull. It baffled me the way some girls would affect me. All humans emit radiation, frequency. Was it the vibration? The invisible reaching?
A Scientific American article by Tam Hunt explains:
An interesting phenomenon occurs when different vibrating things/processes come into proximity: they will often start, after a little time, to vibrate together at the same frequency. They “sync up,” sometimes in ways that can seem mysterious.
“You asked me to stop being so pushy guarding you. Ha ha,” Nikki shared with her charming grin.
My heart bounced, it was not just me, that moment, that game. It wasn’t mine alone, she remembered me, too.
From that point on I always beelined for a desk close to hers. I searched for excuses to look. She wore socks and Birkenstocks, cozy sweaters, and had the best fucking laugh, utterly infectious. Her sense of humor got me.
“Sweater vests, solving the age-old problem, hot arms, cold chest,” she said, completely deadpan, in reference to her puffy vest.
I cackled noisily. An uncontrollable, energetic swell merged with a burst of ebullience, I was about to combust. What the fuck was happening to me?
Ugh, I was too hyper. She probably thinks I’m annoying. Be more chill next time. Be. More. Chill.
I wanted to know her better, I wanted to move the desks aside. I was transfixed, I was spellbound.
Despite my feelings, I pursued boys. There was a cute guy who had dirty blond hair and an interesting face with piercing eyes and a strong jaw. I did not necessarily enjoy kissing him, but I loved the adventure of it, the potential, maybe I can like a boy? We did not spend much time together in junior high, but the intimidation of this new frontier found us leaning on each other. Or perhaps he just wanted his dick sucked.
We’d hook up secretly in hidden corners around school. We would roll around together in the girls’ soccer room, where my teammates and I would prepare for practice. It reeked of stinky shin pads and scrimmage uniforms that needed a wash, a cloak of stale sweat. The space was chaotic, with one of those very large, very thick blue crash mats off to the side.