Another scene from my ongoing coming-of-age novel called The Lady Business.
by Susan Matthewson
Since
I started my period last month, mama’s project of turning me from a tomboy into
a young lady has intensified. She’s always scanning me like radar, alert for
unladylike behaviors—like biting my nails, screeching at the top of my lungs,
slumping when I walk, laughing too loud, and sitting on the couch with my legs
spread eagled (somehow that one really gets her going).\
Mama
never raises her voice or loses her temper, but you can always tell when she’s
mad or serious because her soft Southern accent that sounds like honey puddling
over hot biscuits takes on a flat, harsh edge like dried up brown sugar. I’ve
been hearing that dried up tone too often, most recently this morning when she
was annoyed because I wasn’t wearing the starter bra she just bought. Mama says
my bosoms are blooming and I need to wear a bra. Mama always refers to breasts
as bosoms. She says it’s more polite. But my daily inspections in the mirror
reveal a chest flat as a board. I see no signs of bloom. I don’t even see a bud.
I cannot be bothered by all the extra equipment and aggravating body processes
involved with this lady business. Considering
menstrual periods, sanitary belts and napkins, shaving legs and underarms,
cleaning fingernails—well, it just seems an unfair burden.
Hoping
to avoid putting on that bra, I slipped out the back door into the alley and out
of mama’s sight. That’s how I met Indy Jo Della Rippa.
The
Della Rippas are new to our neighborhood and a hot topic of conversation. Mama
never gossips, but I’ve heard other neighbors refer to Indy Jo as “cheap,” “flashy,”
“fast.” Most women on our block don’t work, except for Mrs. Clarke, a music
teacher, and Mrs. Harmon, the school nurse. Indy Jo works and it’s what she
does that has everyone in a tizzy because she’s a cocktail waitress at the
Airport Lounge. I don’t understand the uproar about this, although I guess it
could catch you off guard to see Indy Jo prancing out her front door on the way
to work in our sedate little neighborhood wearing high heels and black fishnet
stockings with white ruffled panties peeking out from under the short satin
skirt of a French maid’s costume .
Still, I think she’s kind of interesting. She’s definitely different.
So
I was surprised when I passed the Della Rippas backyard to hear another
Southern accent calling out, “Hey, sugar, what y’all up to today?”
A
flash of bright color caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Indy Jo
strutting toward me wearing hot pink short shorts and a halter bra. She had a
pink silk scarf tied around her platinum blond, shoulder-length hair that was
all puffed up on the top and sides and turned up on the ends like a country
western singer. She had on sparkly silver sandals and wore hot pink lipstick
with rose-colored eye shadow.
I
couldn’t help but notice she had the biggest bosoms I’d ever seen in my life.
Watching her jiggle around, I finally saw how a bra, which seemed so extraneous
to me, could be of major significance to someone like Indy Jo. When she invited
me in to have a soda pop with her, I knew right away that Indy Jo, different
like me, just might be a kindred spirit.
