Chicken soup for the girls soul

Straight up girl stuff: A Perfect fit

Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest think on hearth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.
By Katherine Mansfield

   When I was twelve, my family consisted of getting into trouble on my family's farm. I spent hours on end swimming in a make-do livestock tank and climbing oak trees, getting on my knees and elbows all skinned up. Thoughts of clothes, makeup or boys were far from my mind. I was a tomboy.
   I grew up in a rural Texas town. The only movie theater was forty miles away, and my parents didn't travel unless it was to the grocery store and back. I was fortunate to have the daily company of two sisters close to my age, which meant I could easily go an entire summer off from school without getting lonely and needing to see any of my girl-friends. So, I was basically out of touch with anyone but my family for two entire months. That is how the fist day of sixth grade almost turned into the worst day of my preteen life.
   Two weeks before school started, my mother took me shopping for the usual school clothes, just like she did every year. As usual, I had to be dragged to the bright, fluorescent-lit department store in the next country, and then practically forced to try on clothes. I never once glanced at the dresses on the circular silver racks or showed the slightest interest in any shoes other than those that could v tied with laces. I quickly learned to regret my lack of attention and enthusiasm for this particular back-to-school shopping trip.
   The first day of school began like any other school year. I left the house dressed in any new clothes, carrying my purple notebook under one arm, eager to see my friends after two months apart. I couldn't wait to tell them about the new baby calf we were bottle-feeding or that I had nearly broken my arm in July climbing the tallest tree I'd ever conquered.
   But from the moment I walked up those concrete steps to the junior high school, I knew something was horribly wrong... With ME.
   My friends were huddled together in a circle, and the first think I noticed was that most of them were carrying purses-- some white, some hot pink, some brown leather. I don't even own a purse. Four of them were wearing sandals with heels-- we're talking like green-- with the tips of their pink-painted toenails peeking out! I immediately looked down at me plain white sneakers and felt out of place.
   A boy we'd known since kindergarten walked up and tapped my friend Morgan on the shoulder. She tossed her blonde hair to the side just as he grabbed the back of her thin, frilly blouse. Then he popped the elastic on the back strap of her bra and ran away laughing. Morgan pretend to be mad, but I could tell she was somehow pleased. The other girls started laughing and teasing Morgan by saying that he liked her.
   Somehow, without my even knowing it,over the summer our whole class had graduated from grade school to junior high- complete with new wardrobes, crushes on boys and bra-popping. I no longer knew what planet I was on.
   I hadn't given the idea of needing a bra a single thought. I looked down at the front of my shirt. It looked no different than it had this time the previous year. There was nothing that needed support, for sure. I think the phrase "flat as a pancake" was one my mother had used to describe me.
   The bell for first period rang before I could ponder this further. But already I was feeling like my whole world had changed overnight, and no one had bothered to clue me in.
   My first class was PE, but not the PE of my previous years. The gym of the junior high included locker rooms and showers, and we were issued polyester shorts and T-shirts to wear. The teacher informed us that from here on out, we'd be wearing these during gym class. In absolute horror, I clutched the uniform tightly to my body and numbly made my way to the locker rooms to change. I looked around me as all my friends took of their shirts, grabbing about stuff the whole time like, "How cute is Devin this year?!" And "Did you know that he's going out with Chelsey?" All I could do was stare at the forty or so bras glaring at me from every angle. I was obviously the only  girl in the entire sixth grade perhaps the entire wielded sixth graders, who hadnt gotten the memo: sixth grade meant girls wear bras
   I huddled next to a locker, hoping to get my shirt off and the uniform on without drawing attention to the fact that I wasn't wearing a bra. It didn't work, of course.
   Morgan saw it first. "Where on earth is your bra?"
   I swallowed and looked up as a group of six girls gathered around me.
   "I...I..." Was all I could muster.
   Whispers rushed around the room and echoed off the tall ceilings, and I could feel my heart beating so hard against my chest I was sure everyone could see it, right there where my bra should have been.
   "I forgot it," I said. Yep, I could really think on my feet.
   "How could you forget a bra?" On of the girls asked, snickering over her shoulder at the others.
   I didn't know the answer. All I knew is that I was now blushing in places I never thought possible.
   As the day wore on, so did the rumors about what I didn't have on. Boys ran up to me and brushed their hands across my back in the hall between classes, shouting to each other that it was true. Nothing there to snap.
   My so-called circle of friends closed their circle, and I was quickly on the outside looking in. I hung my head and hunched my shoulders as best I could to make viewing my chest as difficult as possible. And I secretly vowed to get even with my mother for not knowing about all this and for not preparing me like other girls mothers obviously had done. I had never felt this alone-or this foolish. I had missed the boat that carried the rest of my class to the shores of sixth grade, leaving me behind; me and my braless, boobless, purseless, high-heeled-sandal-less self.
  Ask period could not have come soon enough. I took a seat in the back and prayed the math teacher would not call on me for anything or draw attention to me in any way. I made marks on my spiral notebook, indicating to myself the number of people who had actually spoken to me since PE-- and behind my back certainly didn't count. I was up to three, and one of those was the janitor.
   This when a redheaded girl named Maureen picked up a pencil that had rolled off my desk and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks without looking up or even really moving. In fact, I was beginning to master the ability of breathing without even the slightest rise and fall of my upper body.
   "Listen, I heard what happened this morning."
  So ever Maureen had heard. She was the least popular girl in the whole class. She was taller than everyoneelse, weighed more than most eighth graders and had probably been wearing a bra since she was a toddler for all I knew. Her face was already covered in zits, something most of us girls hadn't begun to deal with yet. Most of the kids were either afraid of her or ignored her. I had always tried to be nice to her, but not in an overly friendly way that would get me cast out of the in crowd. A lot of good that had done me. One underwear mistake, and I was now on my own.
   I allowed myself to slightly turn toward her. "I just forgot it, that's all." I was sticking to my story-- it was all I had.
   Maureen smiled at me. "Some people can be really mean." She probably knew that better than anyone.
   "Yeah," I said, fully realizing that by now, some of the other girls had noticed I was carrying on a conversation with Maureen.
   "I've gotta extra one in my gym bag if you need it," she said.
   I thought it was the nicest thing anyone has said to me in years.
   Then we exchanged glanced, each of us looking at our own chests, then at the others. Let's just say Maureen's C cup wouldn't have been the best fit for me. My body wasn't even in training bra mode yet.
   We began to laugh. In fact, wouldn't stop. Classmates around me rolled their eyes. The teacher gave us the look that said,"quiet down or else," but we couldn't stop.
   Sitting there, I realized I loved the way Maureen's laugh sounded, full and real. I liked her smile and the way she was far beyond caring about what others though of her. I liked that nothing about her was fancy and that she carried a backpack. I liked that she wore jeans and sneakers like mine, and that her T-shirt was just like the ones I'd seen at Wal-Mart on the clearance rack. Her bra might not have been the right size for me, but everything else about her suddenly seemed like a perfect fit.
   But the end of last period, I finally let the stress of the day fade away. I no longer cared what everyone else thought I should be wearing. I didn't really need a bra, so why should I be forced to put one on everyday until I was ready?
   After class, Maureen and I walked down those junior fight concrete steps, and I stood with her as she waited for the bus, our chests out and heads high.
    And frankly, I didn't care who noticed--anything.
By Kathy Lynn Harris