My choir teacher claps, alerting our attention. “Your dresses have finally arrived. When I call your name, please come take yours and try it on in the storage room.”
Yay! Judging by the wall’s framed photos of past choir classes, the dresses are so lovely. I already feel stylish and queenly thinking about mine.
“Abigail.”
Hooray for having a name early in the alphabet. I step off the risers, snatch the dress handed to me, and leap into the storage room. The jewel-green fabric is so silky. After some awed moments of stroking it, I pull it on over my clothes.
Is it supposed to be this loose?
I feel like an elephant in this baggy dress. Oh well, I figure. Every thin girl’s dress must feel like this.
~~
These odd thoughts still fill my brain when I’m standing in line for hot lunch, but a voice interrupts them.
“Hey, are those boobs real?” A kid smirks, eyes locked on my chest.
Is he talking to me? “Um, what?” What a pathetic thought. Of course he’s talking to me.
Another kid steps closer. “Yeah, how’d you get your rack so big?”
My burning face scrunches up. I want to cry. “Ew! You’re so nasty!” Why would they ask this?
They drift away, thank god, leaving me to cry into my hands. I don’t really want today’s beef stew special anymore.
“Come over here, Abby.” It’s my friend Kaitlyn! She motions me toward our table.
“Thanks so much,” I sniff, taking a seat. “Some guys were acting weird to me in line.”
“Aw, that sucks,” she says, followed by echoes of “yeah” from the rest of our friends. I smile and dry my eyes.
They’re so nice. They don’t even care that I’m strange, because they love taking pride in their own strangeness. That makes me feel safe. I’m not alone.
But a thought stops me. I am alone. Nobody’s going to walk up to Dylan, who’s sitting across from me, and ask how his face got so zitty. No one wants to know if Meghan got a breast reduction once they see her paper-flat chest. That dreadful asker’s face keeps flashing in my mind. His eyes are so startlingly blue. But how would he react if someone asked whether they’re real or just contacts?
Why do I--and only I--need to explain my body?
~~
The lunch bell rings. Time for class again. We flood out of the courtyard like a massive stampede of buffalo.
“Hey baby.”
“‘Sup, honey?”
“Here’s my number, babe.”
“Hey, wanna have some fun?”
This is the worst part of the day.
I try pretending not to hear. It’s not as if they’re expecting a positive response. There’s no way I can slither out of this sea of kids. That’s probably why they’re choosing this moment.
Why am I offended? Why do such comments make my stomach feel icky? They’re compliments.
I think I’ve figured out why.
You see, guys try to figure out how to get a girl to like them. They go for weeks offering to pick up her pencil, always opening the door for her, flashing random smiles during class.
But no boy pulls that stuff on me.
What makes them think I’m different? What makes them think I’m up for absolutely anyone? Am I carrying a sign blazed across my chest that says “get at me”?
Tears blur my vision. I try to sniff them back, but they just stream out, scorching their way down my cheeks.
~~
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
How am I going to tell my geography teacher? “Um…”
“It’s okay. Here, let’s go out in the hall.” She walks me out and shuts the classroom door. I sincerely pray that none of the other kids noticed. I’d look like even more of a freak.
“Some kids...well, lots of kids--” I bury my face in my hands, taking a deep sigh. My stomach is painfully weighed down, like someone’s dumping toxic waste in it. This hurts like hell. God, save me. “They treat me differently because of my…” Do I have to say it? “My chest.”
She shakes her head. “Aw, Abigail. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” Not only are Dylan and Meghan and Kaitlyn and the rest of the squad on my side, but now also Mrs. Richter. I manage to smile, even though it’s just a faint bit.
“But dear, there’s something you must understand.” She sets her arm on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. “When you don’t present yourself respectably, you can’t expect everyone to treat you with respect.”
What?
“You just need to cover yourself up a bit more modestly. That’s all, sweetie! Would you like to go to the office to change your shirt?”
Though I could never work up the courage to say this, why can’t those nasty boys get sent to the office instead?
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“All righty then.” Mrs. Richter opens the door again, and it’s time for class.
Once I’m back in my desk, the girl next to me taps my shoulder. “Mind if I borrow a pencil?”
I turn to her. “Oh hey, we’re wearing the same shirt!”
“Yeah.” She giggles into her hand. Her laugh is such a sweet sound to hear. This isn’t really such a bad place sometimes.
But wait. If she has the same shirt, why am I--and only I--dressed wrong?
Oh. Right.
“So yeah, can I have a pencil?” She turns to inspect my face more closely. “Are you okay?”
No words. Just a moment of tough silence. “Yeah.”
~~
Ah, how nice to be home. Today was kind of rough, so instead of starting my homework, I decided to relax out on the balcony for a moment. The gentle breeze is so soothing, and the sprawling Vegas Valley view is breathtakingly incredible.
There’s endless cookie-cutter neighborhoods with lush trees. Looking even further--as much as I hate being born this way, I'm glad I was blessed with sharp vision--is the Vegas Strip. It’s just like the movies. Huge skyscrapers, unbelievable traffic, and tons of billboards. They’re kind of gross, though, with all those Photoshopped booby bikini ladies.
Other than porn videos and those billboard boobs, those nasty boys clearly haven’t seen many large chests in their lives. So I seem like I’m one of those ladies just because of how I was born. With all those newly-flooding hormones, it must be tough trying to see me as anyone else.
Maybe there’s a solution, though. I whip my phone out and Google “harassment because of large chest,” and throughout countless news articles and Yahoo Answers, one word catches my eye--reduction. So that’s what I look up next, and something else stands out--18+.
So I have to be an adult to make this all end? I’m not even in high school yet! Why must the toughest four years of my life be filled with the same misery?
I don’t really understand all this stuff.
All I can hope is that someday, I will.
