More of that Girls Stuff
Here’s a dramatic monologue. Or a lyrical essay. Or some attempt at channeling the 12-year-old girl I used to be. Yes, it’s true. It’s nonfiction. Here goes:
Is there a sign on my back that says Late Bloomer? Because seriously, I don’t need to be reminded. This is 6th grade and the most interesting thing to do is pass notes to my friend Meghann with two n’s. We write about perverted stuff like donkey cocks and 1-900 numbers. We have no clue what we’re talking about. Meghann’s already in a B-cup and I’m stuck with these teardrop titties in a razorback bra from JC Penny Juniors. Some of the guys on the wrestling team have bigger boobs than me but I’d get pounded if I told anyone that.
Josh C. got pounded after the girls’ basketball game last weekend. Someone said he stole a condom from his step dad’s wallet, got whipped across the face with it samurai style. I could care less what happens to Josh C. He hasn’t spoken to me since I gave him that charm bracelet and love letter sprayed with Exclamation! perfume. Oops.
What I don’t get is, what makes Basha Azschtemborski so popular? Yeah, she’s got these Nerf ball breasts and pouty, glossed lips, but really? She wears tapered jeans. Her parents are Russian and she doesn’t know; that’s what my friends say anyway. She got her period on the school bus and had to waddle down the aisle in a white denim skirt. I was there. I saw it. She tried to twist her skirt around so the stain was in front, then she held her book bag there. I wanted to help her, but it wasn’t my stop and everybody knew already anyway.
I asked my friend Jennie how to keep that from happening to me and she gave me a pad. “Wings?” I said. “Keep this in your backpack,” she told me. “Jeesh, get with it.” I don’t know what I did with it but later, when Meghann needed one, I couldn’t find it anymore.
My mom and I fight a lot. I can’t figure out why. Once, she wanted to talk about family values and I blew up at her. I still feel bad, but I don’t have anything to say except, No I don’t want to talk about my day, and No everything is fine, and No I am not crying. What’s so confusing about that?
Chelsey fights with her mom, too. It’s different at their house. It’s either really quiet or really loud, and I’ve been there for both. But ever since Chelsey’s dad doinked someone else’s mom—again—things have been real hush hush.
That’s the other thing I don’t get. How come all these grown ups in charge of our lives keep messing things up? Chelsey’s dad moved out. Josh supposedly wants to run away. Meghann’s never had a dad and Jennie’s dad won’t stop drinking. Not to mention Karen, whose dad can’t talk with out yelling, and Aly, whose mom is nutty and keeps dying her hair all these bad colors. Then there’s Jessica, with her nympho mom that leaves her in charge of three younger brothers and Cynthia’s mom who talks to everyone about everybody else, but can’t talk to her own daughter who comes home everyday and makes herself puke.
I’m getting a bus. And we’re all going to pile into it, Josh C. and Basha too, and we’re taking off. We’ll get Jennie’s older sisters to drive and the first thing we’re going to do is play Truth or Dare, no more secrets, and I’m going to find out once and for all what this business of growing up is all about.