The Lady Business

(This is part of a novel I've been writing off and on (mostly off but trying to get back to it now. More to come, hopefully.)

by Susan Matthewson

It is Wednesday afternoon in mid-June, the day after my twelfth birthday, which was my worst birthday ever because I got my first period. Menstruation wasn’t exactly the surprise I was hoping for. Mama is thrilled to death that I am now, as she says, becoming a young lady.  I’d rather have leprosy.

I am grumpy and feeling mean. I am sitting in the rocker in the corner of the front porch that wraps around the side yard. The rocker is behind mama’s big potted philodendron where I am hiding from Patty Ann Tipple.  I spied Patty Ann minutes ago from the front window riding her bike towards my house. When she turned into the driveway, I snuck out the side door and curled up in the rocker.

           

I hear Patty Ann tromp up the steps and ring the doorbell. I tuck my head between my legs, trying to become invisible. I begin to inspect the hair on my legs. I like the hair on my legs; it is soft, silky, and light brown. I like the way it feels. Mama says now that I am a young lady, I need to shave my legs and underarms. I do not see the point in this. Mama says young ladies do all sorts of things that I find mostly inconvenient and time-consuming.

            

This “lady” business has caused problems between me and mama lately. She started in at Easter saying I needed a bra for my bosom. That’s what mama calls breasts. After inspecting my chest in the mirror, I could not detect any sign of a bosom and told mama so. That didn’t stop her. Next thing I knew she presented me with what she called a “starter” bra.

            

But worst of all mama wants to cut off my waist-length hair into a “bob with bangs” and give me a Toni Home permanent. This is not going to happen. My four-year-old sister Abby is the cutest little girl you ever saw, with smooth, shiny white blond hair in a Dutch boy style that frames her funny little face. That is she was cute.  Then mama gave her a permanent. Now she looks like a cartoon character that stuck a finger in an electric socket resulting in fried hair that stands on end. She reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of Albert Einstein.         

            

“Charlie,” mama calls. “Patty Ann is here.  She has a new charm for her charm bracelet that is just precious.” I scrunch down in the chair. I am hardly breathing now. In fact, I am holding my breath, wondering if I can make myself pass out so that if they find me, I will be unconscious and have to be rushed to the hospital, avoiding Patty Ann once again. 

Mama thinks Patty Ann is the “sweetest, loveliest young lady” she has ever met. I do not. Patty Ann’s recent attachment to me is a mystery because she and I could not be more different. I have a sneaking suspicion what’s behind her interest, but more about that later. She’s been stalking me since school got out and I’m pretty fed up at this point.

            

The screen door bangs shut and Patty Ann clatters down the stairs. I peek through the thick vine that smothers the porch railing and watch her leave, decked out in her pink shorts, pink and white striped blouse, pink headband, and white sandals. Patty Ann is always color coordinated. It’s just one of the many annoying things about her.

I sigh with relief. This is not a good start to the summer. Between trying to avoid Patty Ann and mama’s makeover plans, I’m a nervous wreck. But I have a plan. Things are going to change.