The Dance
I am wildly unpopular.
I’m not sure why; I’m certainly pretty enough. Some of those other girls are total dogs. I think it must have something to do with my blinking tics. They’re hard to control and even harder to explain. Over the years I’ve learned how best to hide them so that they appear minor to the other person I’m talking to.
But that doesn’t change anything. I still feel like a freak.
The most popular boy in school starts to chase me around. He comes up to the barn after baseball practice, and we talk for hours on the haystack, day after day. We go for walks around the new housing development they’re building. We find a spot that’s flattened out, level. He takes up my hands and begins dancing with me, the waltz that we learned in that part of gym class.
I know it’s not just for show, though. I’m here. He’s here. And we connect. Alone.
But his friends hate me, and one in particular is giving him a hard time every day about our little…situation.
Things change, and sex becomes a goal. His goal.
Valentine’s Day in middle school and somebody organizes a fundraiser. Flowers and cards go out in front of the whole French class.
From the boy, I get one flower and a pair of edible underwear.
The popular girls carry around pink carnations in huge bouquets, so plentiful are their admirers.
Those steps in the dirt seem far away now.
Stripped
I stand in my bedroom window, two boys looking in at me from the street.
One of them I love. The other is just his friend.
I pull the window coverings over, take off my shirt, and then reappear.
I’m wearing a sheer, black bra.
They sit on their bikes laughing, but it’s in a good way, not a creepy way. It’s in a way that lets me know we are all sharing this little … experience.
I’m not an idiot, either. I know exactly what I’m doing.
Eventually, though, I draw the line at the nipple and close the coverings.
I peek through, and they ride away.
It’s one of the few things I can remember about living in this apartment.
My brother asks me about it later, years later, the things I can’t remember. He wonders if I had maybe been raped and blocked it out. Maybe Mom let someone in or was seeing some guy.
But no.
The space is too small is all.
And now it’s just me and her.
I ride my bike home from my job at the frozen yogurt shop, my backpack full of ravioli I bought with her ATM card. Because without it, there is no food.
I stay out, court boys, and in some cases meet the most bastardly among them.
I blast music into my headphones at every opportunity. I listen to songs obsessively, over and over again.
Money comes, and there is joy on her face. She takes me to buy fancy new bedding.
I remember these things only because they didn’t take place in the apartment.
But, as most anyone would ponder, I don’t know why.
Fine
The dark-haired boy feeds me peach Schnapps because he’s looking for a way to get into my pants.
Idiot.
He’s hot, but I know better, or at least close to it. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out that he only wants sex, and maybe I want it, too.
But I don’t tell him that.
I sit upon the counter in his parents’ kitchen. He leans in and kisses me, a bit half-heartedly. I wonder if maybe he’s actually shy in real life.
Then I wonder if someone put him up to it.
I make the connection.
It must be rumors, I think.
They know; that whole goddamn group knows I’ve been fucked, and now I’m a target. Willing, and maybe even easy. Officially deflowered. Officially available to fuck anyone in the sophomore class.
But this guy seems to have missed a lesson or two in dating school.
If you’re going to kiss me, just fucking do it.
I leave disappointed. He, perhaps, frustrated.
I think about him a lot, wondering why he’s not interested in me.
I have a picture of him that I lifted from the office stack they use for the yearbook. He’s standing across from a girl, a girl who looks nothing like me. His hands are in his pockets, and the look on his face tells me he’s struggling.
He might run with those fast boys, but he’s not one of them.
I know he’s out, no longer interested.
But I keep the picture anyway because he’s so, so fine.
<<<<< >>>>>
Just who am I talking to?
Is it you?
Hello, dear readers. Today’s segments of The Record are tied to the common theme of growing up in my teens, particularly with boys. Ah, boys… how difficult they made my life back then. I lucked out in the end, but that doesn’t mean those times were any easier. Or less confusing.
Some of the entries you might see from me moving forward will seem strange to be paired with one another, but they can all be seen as a combination of memoir (which is a slew of puzzle pieces, many of which have already been published on this Substack) and active essay from current day events.
I’ve recently started going to insane exercise classes. Originally, I wanted to go in to get fit and lose some weight, but I’ve now realized that the way they truly serve me is with anger management. What have I got to be angry about? Well, without even talking about politics, I can say simply that I am tested daily again and again. And I’m not talking about road rage. What the classes do is force me to focus on survival from the first to last minute of the hour they last, and by the time I’m done, the universe doesn’t seem quite so stabby. And my sharp tongue eases in the barbs it sometimes throws.
What I’m sharing with you today is a simple photo of a grand oak tree from our first-hike-in-a-while hike. Imagine my delight when I found it easier to get up that mountain than before I started going to the gym. I liked the feeling of being strong, a feeling that sometimes hides from me. Knowing now that I can conquer those hobbies with relative ease is encouraging. Just like learning how to best support a friend is encouraging. Or write a novel. Or beat cancer. Or grow up.
Life ain’t so bad.
Jen
