Sydnee Elliot

A FALSE START

I rip open the package of falsies I bought yesterday from the lingerie store on Shirley Avenue. They’re soft, come to a point in the center and are flesh color, only not my flesh color. They’re darker than my white breasts and lighter than my tan. I slide them into my bra. Foam bulges over the sides under my armpits. My friend, Belinda, has a pair and she says they work fine. Her boyfriend of six weeks still hasn’t caught on her boobs aren’t real. A buxom, probably double-D-cupped saleswoman, said they’d be fine even if my bra is only a double A. Obviously, that woman’s forgotten how little space there is in a double-Acup.

“What are you crinkling?” my mother shouts outside the bathroom door.

“Nothing.”

“How does nothing crinkle like something?”

“…  .”

“You can’t leave before your father gets home. He has to meet him and approve.”

“… .”

“What’s his name?”

“Lenny.”

“Lenny what?”

“Don’t know.”

“How can you make a date with someone if you don’t know his last name?”

I want to test my new falsies, let a guy cop a feel, and don’t care about his name; easy answer, but inappropriate for my mother’s ears.

“Uh . . . well . . . A plane flew over, I couldn’t hear.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Punk’s Corner.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Here. Revere.”

“Where in Revere?”

“Up the street.”

“Is he Jewish?”

“Uh huh.”

“What does his father do?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

“What grade is he in?”

“Same as me. He’s smart. He told me at night he can show me a light from the beach at the edge of the ocean that shows where England is. That’s how close we are to England and that’s why when the Pilgrims first sailed they landed on Plymouth Rock.”

I hide the bag with the foam pads under my sweatshirt. My biggest problem? How do I get out the door tonight before my parents notice I’ve grown breasts since breakfast?

“What about his mother?”

“Yeah, he has one.”

“Don’t get smart with me. Your father’s gonna wanna know these things.”

“Okay.” Jeez, can’t she find something else to do, like needlepoint or tennis instead of stalking me?

“Do they have money?”

“Who?”

“This Lenny’s family?”

“Guess so. He bought me a frozen custard.”

“What’re you doing? Come out. Other people live here too, ya know.”

“ . . .  .”

“Are you listening? What’re you doing? Come out now. Are you constipated again?”

I open the door. “He loves history and he knows exactly where Paul Revere rode his horse to warn everyone about the British coming to attack us. He’s really, really smart.” I squeeze between my mother, who’s standing outside, hands on hips, chin jutted forward, and the wall.

“ ’Scuse me, gotta run. Belinda’s waiting for me to go swimming.”

“What are you hiding under your shirt?”

“A bloody pad in a bag.” She doesn’t miss a speck. “Don’t want Dad or Marty to see it. I’ll throw it in the garbage. Outside.”

“Eat something before you go and wait an hour after . . . before swimming. You’ll get a cramp and drown if you don’t.”

“Okay.”

Mom shouts from inside the bathroom, “How are you going swimming with, well, during your, you know—”

“I’m not gonna swim, just hang around with the kids.”

I run outside, jiggle the garbage can cover, slam the door, quickly return to my bedroom, and push the bag under my mattress next to Belinda’s True Confessions magazines. I thumb through a magazine and decide to finish my latest Archie and Veronica comic instead. Archie loves Veronica. There’s a lot of Veronica in me, except for the rich part. My hair’s long, straight, and black with bangs just like hers and I plan everything out in detail also. My idea of dating is more like Archie’s than Betty or Veronica’s; he likes to date different girls. I want  lots of boyfriends before settling for one. Comics are more exciting than reading five pages about a girl waiting for a guy to kiss her cheek.

On the radio The Four Aces sing “Three Coins in the Fountain,” and I make three wishes. Boob-feeling, French kissing and someone to love me, but not forever. Forever’s a long time and so many possibilities are waiting for me.

My pastel blue sleeveless jersey with the low neckline will be perfect with my tan and new boobs. A pair of tight yellow mid-calf Capri pants splattered with red hearts are more than just sexy. My bulky wool red cardigan will cover my chest until we turn the corner, then I’ll dump it behind a bush. Lenny won’t be able to resist mauling me.

My parents rented a summer cottage for two months at Revere Beach. Now I can hang out at Punk’s Corner at night instead of racing home to Chelsea before my father gets home from work. This move also leaves my mind free to explore romantic adventures with the guys from Revere. They’re hungry for new girls, and the few of us lucky enough to have parents who can afford a summer rental are extremely popular — fresh blood. Lenny asked me for a date the third time we spoke. He’s my first real date. By real, I mean it’s not like going to the movies or for ice cream sundaes with David, my boyfriend back home and all our friends.

Salesgirls behind the Five and Dime cosmetic counter, hungry for business, stuff my hands full of samples as soon as my fingers land on the expensive two-dollar tubes of lipstick, even if I do look too young to wear the stuff. The white plastic sample tubes are about the length of my thumbnail, easy to hide from my mother. I practice tracing the curves of my lips with Cotton Candy Pink without a mirror since I’ll be applying it after I leave the house.

Belinda and I meet at the corner and walk toward the boardwalk. The smell of hot dogs and caramel corn nearly brings me to tears. I picture myself with big boobs and a slim waistline instead of a thick one, and no boobs.

“Hey.”

“Hey, back.”

“How did you make out with the falsies?”

“Not too good. They squished out from the sides of my bra.”

“Oh, I forgot. You have to wear a B or C cup bra, depending on the size. I bought size C and use one of my mother’s bras.”

“Great. I bought B’s and my mother wears…I don’t know…but they’re big. I just spent all my savings in my new image. It’ll take me three months to save for a bra and by then the summer will be over. And, I’ve got a date with Lenny.”

Belinda stops walking and stands in front of me, hands on hips, feet spread as if she’s preparing for a fight. “Whoa. The Lenny? The one with the big blue eyes, long eyelashes, and blond, curly hair Lenny? The one with a reputation for being speedy beyond, like breaking the speedometer Lenny? That Lenny?”

“Yup.”

“You never said —”

Annoyed, I push her out of the way. “I never said, ’cause I just never said.”

“Okay. Okay. Don’t get huffy.” She’s skip/hopping beside me. “When’s your date?”

“Tonight. Can I borrow your bra?”

“Can’t. Got a date with Mario.”

“Are you sure he still doesn’t get it?”

“… .”

“I bet he does and doesn’t want to embarrass you. Or, maybe, you’re doing more than almost feeling around.”

“…  .”

“So, if he touches you there, how do you keep him from knowing they aren’t real?

“I move away and shimmy my shoulders like crazy, watch.” Belinda, who tops me by a foot and a half, stands in front of me again and gyrates like a thin sheet blowing in a hurricane. “Shimmying makes him wild and he forgets about pushing his hand inside.”

“You look pretty silly, like you’ve got a nervous disorder or something.”

“Well, it works, takes his mind off my boobs.”

“But, isn’t that what you want, him to touch them? Why make your boobs bigger if you don’t want a guy to feel you up?

“I just want him to get excited thinking about touching. Not to actually touch.”

“Well, I want a guy to grab mine. Why go to all this trouble just to tease? What happens if shimmying doesn’t work?”

“If he gets too close, I stick my tongue in his ear.”

“How awful. What about wax, did you ever hit wax? I think I’d die if that happens to me. Wax tastes terrible.”

“Ya know, you’ve got to sacrifice some things to go further in this sex business. You always want everything to be perfect, and nothing is.”

Belinda’s parents are going through a trial separation and her mother’s dating a loser she met at a bar, on the sly. She says if her father finds out about her boyfriend, he’ll kill them both. Disillusioned and manipulative at thirteen, Belinda’s middle name is “jaded”.

“You never said you like Lenny.”

“Lenny’s just a summer thing. David’s waiting for me back home.”

“God, you’re fickle. What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“David.”

“He’s smart and cute and, well, I don’t know, polite, I guess. We’ve been going together since second grade. He’s there for me all year. I’m here for two months and probably won’t be back next year. My folks can’t afford this vacation. My uncle gave Mom money for the rental  ’cause she said she’d kill herself if she spent another summer in our apartment without an air conditioner.”

I jam my hands into my pockets and think about David, hard thinking. I miss him, with David there’s no stress like hoping falsies don’t fall out of your bra. He’s never even tried to kiss me on the lips. On the cheek? Yes. Hold my hand during a scary movie? Yes. Life is easy with David. I don’t think about him touching what I don’t have. All the kids here at the beach move fast and I’m trying to move along with them or with what I think I should be moving toward.

“Why didn’t she use the money to buy an air conditioner instead?”

“My father says it could fall from the window and kill someone standing at the bus stop. We live on the third floor and the bus stop’s right under their bedroom window.”

Belinda walks over to a stand and buys a candy apple. I follow, eyeing the caramel corn, remember my pockets are empty and why. My stomach growls. No lunch and I’m surrounded by images and smells of hot dogs, candied apples, caramel corn. I’m hungry.

“Did you read the latest True Confessions I gave you?”

“No. Well, sort of. I looked through for the good parts, but there weren’t any.”

“There’s some great stuff in that issue. You have to read all the stories and imagine —.”

“Do you and Mario French kiss?”

She bites into her candied apple, juice runs down her chin and drips onto her shirt. “No.” Bits of apple drop from her mouth.

“Yuk, don’t’ talk with your mouth full. Are you sure you haven’t tried it?”

“Well, we sort of tried it. He tasted like garlic. He’s Italian. I hate garlic. So, we stopped. Want a bite?” She shoves the half eaten apple close to my nose.

“No thanks. Don’t like the caramel sticking on my teeth. French kissing sounds horrid, but I’d like to give it a try anyway.”

The big clock on the boardwalk in front of the bathhouse reads 3:00. “Gotta go. There’s  a lot to do before Lenny picks me up. See you tonight? Do you guys walk the boardwalk?”

“Well, for a while. Then we go under the bleachers, on the rocks, when it gets dark.”

“Do you think I should trim them? Make ’em smaller? I’m afraid they won’t stay put.”

“You’ll be fine. Make sure you press them toward the bottom of your bra.”

“Marilyn shoves wads of toilet paper in hers.”

“Yeah, well Marilyn doesn’t get it. Tissue is the worst. Say it rains and you get wet. Then what? The tissue flattens in a flat second. Or, let’s say, someone pushes into you. Tissue flattens and doesn’t pop back out. Foam, as the box says, retains its shape, no matter what.”

I hurry home, nerves running amok. My brother Marty is crouched next to the birdcage in the living room talking to Robert, his parakeet. He’s ten, so I overlook this insanity. It isn’t as though the bird talks back like a parrot. The stupid thing starts to sing before the sun comes up and his cage is almost next to my bedroom. Before I started thinking about my boobs and how to get the most out of this summer, I figured out how to kill Robert without anyone accusing me. But, sex exploration supersedes murder. The bird lives while I capriciously move on toward womanhood.

I shower, roll my stringy, black hair on fat, pink curlers and spread my clothes for the evening on the bed. I imagine Lenny’s hands cupping my breasts. Hot tingles prickling me in all the right places cause my knees to buckle. I lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and calculate my moves. Okay, we leave here at 7:00. and shuffle along the boardwalk, probably eating something like caramel popcorn. No, don’t want my hands to get sticky. Hot dog? No, what if mustard squirts onto my new jersey. Frozen custard? Always a winner, unless, unless, if it’s too hot it’ll melt fast and dribble down my arm. No food. A coke? What if I burp after? An orange soda? No. I once threw up after drinking an orange soda in assembly. Nothing to drink.

It’ll be dark by 8:30. I’ll guide Lenny toward the bandstand and then down the stairs under the bleachers. We should be on the rocks by 9:00. I’ll pretend to slip. He’ll catch me and slide his hand between my breast and arm, and I’ll feel a man touching my breast. I’ll swivel toward him as his hand slowly circles my breast. I’ll gasp and pant. I’ll —

“Polly?” Bang, bang. Jeez, I hate that sound. Why can’t she tap like a normal person. Bang, bang is insulting, demeaning, invasive. “Open the door!”

I can’t get a break. “Okay, okay, I’m changing. I’ll be right out.”

“Take out the garbage and go get a sliced pumpernickel. Hurry, your father’ll be home in fifteen minutes.”

“Can’t Marty go? I’m busy.”

She stands outside the door grunting. Marty, conveniently, has an undeveloped sense of direction. If he so much as walks to the corner alone, he starts to cry and a neighbor has to walk him home.

I grab the bag of garbage and the dollar from the kitchen table. When I return, my father’s taking a shower. Mom yells, “Polly, set the table.” She doesn’t have a clue. I have so much to do in an hour.

“Why can’t Marty set the table? All he’s doing or ever does is talk to his parakeet. He’ll go crazy and wind up in an institution for the insane if he keeps it up.”

“You went to the bakery with curlers in your hair?”

“I forgot.”

“People will think we’re white trash. Don’t do it again.”

White trash? Yeah, what does she know about white trash. The girls in school she’d consider white trash have plenty of fun with the boys.

My father emerges pink and shiny from his shower and shave.

Marty, always looking for a way to get attention, skips around the room chanting, “Polly’s got a date. Polly’s got a date.”

“Shut up you freak.” Think I’ll kill him instead of the bird.

“Marty, sit down and be quiet.” Mom, in anticipation of Dad’s ‘No’ told me to wait until after he eats to tell him about my date. Marty ruined that plan.

“Huh?” My father looks up from the newspaper. Mom slides a platter of boiled chicken, carrots, celery, and potatoes onto the table, my least favorite food in the whole world. Boiled chicken tastes like crap, or worse.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. We’ll talk after we eat. Marty, go wash your hands.”

“We’ll talk before we eat. The answer is no.” His face looks like a bowl of borscht without the sour cream.

“Dad, I —”

“Shush, let me handle this.” When my mother commands, life springs forward. “Listen, she’s thirteen, she has to begin somewhere, or you know what.”

“I know what? What’s the what I should know?” The borscht-y color flows down his neck. His pressure’s up. If he has a stroke, or a heart attack they’ll blame me. But, what about my life? I have a life to live too.

“About later. We talked about this before. You know, later. So, she’ll start looking now, for later.”

“You’re not making much sense. You mean, later, when she gets married later?”

“Sure, girls around her age and boys too, start falling in love and making plans for later, now.”

Is she crazy? Of course she is. Why am I asking such a question? Married? I look through the kitchen door into the living room. My parents’ wedding photo is centered on an end table next to the overstuffed green chair. Why did Mom bring that photo to a summer rental when at home she kept it in her hope chest. Maybe she wanted a reminder that things are good, back there, somewhere? Were better? Could be worse? In the photo they’re slim, smiling and hugging each other. In real life, Mom’s zaftig with a few sprigs of gray haphazardly sprouting around her head. I hope when I it’s my time to turn gray it’s with more of a planned design like starting at the top and slowly moving down and around. Dad’s holding his own, but slightly thicker around the waist than in the photo and leaning toward the balding side. Smiling? Not often. Hugging? Never. Me? Married? Not a chance.

“Dad, please, Lenny’s gonna be here in less than an hour.”

“Who’s Lenny?”

“A boy I met. We have a date.”

“Lenny who?”

“Lenny . . . Lenny, I don’t know. A plane flew over, I didn’t hear what he said.”

“No last name, no date.”

“Hymie, we’ll get his last name when he gets here.”

I check the clock. Twenty-three minutes to eat, dress and triple check to be sure my falsies are secure. My stomach edges closer and closer to stage one of puke.

“Okay, I’m done, going to get dressed.”

My clothes lay across my bed in the order I plan to attach them to my body. First, my underpants. Then the sexy yellow Capri’s. Then, my bra. Next, the flesh-colored, although not my flesh color, soft foam domes. They slide effortlessly into my bra. A sigh of relief escapes from my tight, dry throat. I pull my blue jersey over my head. Perfect. The low neckline, instead of drooping, now flares out across what I’d like to call my cleavage.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of borrowed white sandals, Belinda’s, a size too small. They’re in better shape than my beat up sneakers. Just hope I can walk in them. I button the bulky wool red sweater, my camouflage, up to my neck and run for the bathroom. I check myself in the mirror. A perfect fit over my new chest. The bulk hides everything, as it should. The fat curlers did the job. Long, bouncy curls fly and twirl around as I shake my head from side to side. I unbutton the sweater and check my breasts in the mirror. They look so real I almost forget they’re sponges.

The doorbell rings. Marty screams, “I’ll get it.” My mother shouts, “No you won’t. Go to your room.” I start to run for the door. Too late. I crack the bathroom door and listen.

“Well, hello, Mr. Leonard . . . what’s your last name?”

“Klutz. Leonard Klutz. Nice to meet you Mrs. Stein.”

“Please, come in.”

“Hymie, come meet Leonard Klutz. A nice Jewish boy. He’s got the same first name as Leonard Bernstein, the famous conductor.”

I hear my father’s slippers flap into the living room. I picture a walrus waddling across a marble floor. Flap, flap, flap. He clears his throat in preparation for the interrogation. Poor Lenny. And all for what? So I can feel what it’s like when a guy grabs my boobs?

“Where you from?”

“Here, right here, Revere.”

“You in school?” Dad isn’t going for any dropouts in his family. My husband will be someone who can earn a decent living, which means having a high school diploma, which Dad lacks.

“Well, yes, sir. I’m in junior high, same as Polly.”

“Good. You driving a car?”

“No, sir, I’m thirteen, same as Polly.”

“Where you going?”

“Walk the boardwalk. Meet some friends. Maybe do the Ferris wheel thing.”

“No Ferris wheel. Polly gets sick on the Ferris wheel.”

“Okay, then the roller coaster. Maybe get a piece of pizza and a coke.”

“Make sure you double check she’s buckled in. You need some money?”

“No sir, thanks, I’m fine.”

“Hey, Polly, your big love is here.” Marty must have squeezed through a crack in the floorboards of his room and under the door like a cockroach determined to destroy my mood by making his insidious announcement loud enough to reach the living room.

I double check my breasts, they’re still there, roll my house key and sample Cotton Candy Pink lipstick in my turned up sweater cuff and emerge from the bathroom flushed. Do not, do not toss lipstick and house key into bushes with sweater.

“Hey,” I say to Lenny.

“Hey,” Lenny says back.

I glance at my father, searching for his approval. He’s standing in front of the door, I guess to block us if we try to make a run for it. Brown and yellow striped suspenders hang in limp loops against his thighs. His undershirt is half in, half out of his trousers. I wonder if when he looks at Lenny he remembers when he was young and slim, when he promised himself he’d never look like the old, fat guy sitting next to him on the bus, or train or the one he passed on the street. He should look at his wedding picture and do some thinking about his life.

“Guess you met my parents. So let’s go.”

“Wait a minute young lady. What time will you be home?” Dad sounds like he might send Lenny flying out the door and me back to my bedroom. He stretches his suspenders, exhibiting authority in a sort of Mafia way and slips them on his shoulders.

“11:00.” I’m pushing.

“Why are you dressed for a blizzard?” My mother left her apron in the kitchen and daubed her lips with her new Revlon’s Fire and Ice. Is she hoping to impress a potential future son-in-law? Or, is she thinking about her first date with Dad? She tugs at my sleeve. “Take your sweater off. It’s 95 degrees outside.”

“Sometimes I get chilly by the water, I’m okay.”

Dad smashes his cigarette in the abalone shell ashtray on the side table. “9:30”.

“Pleeease. The other kids hang around until 11:00.

How about 10:30?”

“10:00.” He looks tired and bored and probably wishes he had a date with someone new, too.

“Oh, Father, thank you so much, Father. I promise I shan’t be late,” Huh? Did I say that? Got to stop reading the Brontë sisters.

Marty snickers. I move to punch him. My father flaps toward the bathroom. My mother, snaps a kitchen towel at Marty and chases him toward his bedroom.

I take Lenny’s elbow and maneuver him out the door. “Sorry. Dad’s overprotective.”

“No problem.” Lenny takes my hand. Good sign, we’ll be under the bleachers by 9:00 and I’ll be home by 10:00.

“Lenny, could you please hold these for me. I don’t have a pocket and need to get rid of this sweater.”

I drop my house key and lipstick into his open hand and shimmy my shoulders while removing my red cardigan. At the sight of my bosom his eyes widen. I toss the sweater behind Mr. Crosby’s shrubs.

“Uh, sure you don’t want to leave that at home? I’ll run back and give it to your mother.”

“No. I’ll pick it up on the way back.”

“I heard “Shake Rattle and Roll” on the radio before I left the house. Bill Haley swings.”

Compelled to set the mood, I offer, “I’m crazy about “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane,” the Ames Brothers.”

Lenny hangs his arm across my shoulders. I’m sure I saw him try to look down my jersey.

“Oh, I forgot, my lipstick, please.” He hands the tiny tube back. I use the side mirror of a parked car to carefully color my lips. When I finish, Lenny automatically reaches out for the lipstick as though we’ve been going steady for eons.

“Pizza?”

“Sure.”

We dilly-dally in the pizza joint talking about school and mostly gossiping about friends until a sliver of moon slides from behind a cloud.

Lenny pays the bill. “Ride the coaster?”

“Nah, lets see what’s going on at the bleachers.”

The big clock outside the bathhouse reads 8:48. Twelve minutes ahead of schedule, I relax.

“How’s my lipstick?”

“Gone the way of the pizza.”

He hands me the tube. My practicing serves me well. Mirror-less the lipstick finds its way along the curves of my lips.

He brushes my lips with his. “Looks great and smells even better.” His arm circles my waist pulling me closer. We stand for a long time, lips locked, while I search for a solution to my problem: How do I get him under the bleachers?

I pull away, shimmy, and look down. A significant wedge of foam has pushed up from under my jersey. I pretend to have dropped something, bend over, and push the falsie back into place, although there isn’t much place to push it.

“You okay?”

“Sure. Dropped a bobby pin. Never mind.”

Lenny kisses my cheek and pulls me toward a bench. I yank him toward the stairs.

“Let’s go sit on a rock. I love the smell of the sea. Especially at low tide.” Truth is low tide smells as if the big guy upstairs let a world-shattering one rip.

We run down the stairs and step under the bleachers. I pretend to slip. Lenny grabs me, his hand between my breast and my arm. I feel his fingers dig into my flesh and watch the back of his hand caress the side of my breast. I don’t feel a thing. He shoves one finger between my cleavage. I stick my tongue into his ear. Shit. Wax. I’m going to be sick. His splayed fingers reach for my other breast. I shimmy and shake. I sneeze. Something from my chest propels forward and bounces off Lenny’s nose. He backs up and slips, hitting the rocks with a heavy thud.

“What the hell . . .  .”

“Are you okay?” I grope around in the dark and grab a handful of Brillo-y hair.

“I think my arm’s broken or something.”

“Let me pull you up. Take my hand.”

“Something hit me in the face.”

Damn. Damn. Double, triple damn. “Gee, nothing hit me.”

“Something big and round and slippery.”

“A jelly fish?”

“No, it came from somewhere above, like over us.”

“Ah, someone probably dropped something over the railing like a . . . what the hell is big, round, and slippery . . . maybe it was a hamburger bun that fell into a puddle. And, whoever it belonged to didn’t want to eat it from the ground, all wet and soggy and also didn’t want to litter, so whoever it was tossed it over the railing.” Jeez.

I grovel between the rocks. My fingers close in on something soft, spongy and, damn it, wet, wedged between two boulders. I shove my renegade falsie down the back of my pants. It’s too dark for him to notice my lopsided bosoms, but just in case, I bend my arm at the elbow, and press my arm against my chest while cupping my face with my hand and say, “Oh, no, your arm, I’m so, so sorry.”

Lenny leans on me as we climb the stairs. I grip him around the waist with my free arm. “I better go home. My arm’s killing me. Sorry.”

“No problem. I’ll find my way back. Know this place like the back of my hand.”

We separate before he discovers my secret. I retrieve my sweater from behind Mr. Crosby’s bushes. My house key and lipstick are on their way to Lenny’s house. With sweater camouflage in place, I ring the bell. My sleepy-eyed father answers the door.

“What time is it?”

“Don’t know.”

He squints at his watch. “Ha, good girl. Home early, 9:20. I like that boy. He understands what it means to be a father.”

Dad steps outside and looks up and down the street. “Where’s Lenny? He didn’t walk you home?”

“He did. He didn’t want to be late for his curfew so he ran home as soon as he saw you open the door and knew I was safe.” Jeez. Life was becoming too full of uncomfortably long explanations.

I head for the bathroom to assess the damage. Curls flat, two oil stains from pizza on blue jersey, pants and sandals muddy. Undressing on the way to my bedroom, I think about Lenny. If his arm’s broken, he’ll probably never want to speak to me again. Forget about a second date. The worst part is I felt nothing when he touched me; no nerve endings in a sponge, no matter how hard you squeeze.

* * *

Rays of sun burst through the blinds like July Fourth fireworks. My eyes fly open at the sound of my mother shrieking, “Marty, what’s this? Marty? Marty, what’s this in the bird cage?”

“I don’t know. Found it outside Polly’s room. I put water inside and Robert’s been taking baths in it all morning.”

“Polly? Polly? Wake up.” She pounds on my door and wiggles the locked doorknob. “Unlock this door. Come out now. What’s this?”

Pretending to be half asleep, I enter the living room. What we need around here is morning damage control. My mother shoves a dark brown disc in front of my face. Muddy and wet, it’s still recognizable for what it is.

“Explain, please.”

“I don’t know. Why ask me?”

“Because Marty said he found this . . . this . . . this thing outside your bedroom, on the floor, over there.” She waves the limp, dirty disc as if it’s the American flag.

“Where?”

“Marty, show her.”

Darling Marty points to a nondescript spot four inches from my bedroom door.

“Anyone could have dropped that.” I rub my eyes and focus on a spider crawling up the wall behind her head.

“Really? Like me? Your father? Marty? The ghost who moved in during the night while we slept? Who? And, if this is what I think it is, you’re grounded for the rest of the summer.”

I snatch my wayward falsie from her hand, return to my bedroom and slam the door. I decide to wash the sponge and get my money back from the clueless saleswoman who never mentioned you can’t feel anything through foam.

“So, and what happened to looking at the lights of England? How does this help with a geography and history lesson?” My mother is standing outside my room hysterically shouting and using my words against me. I didn’t think she heard a word I said about England, the Pilgrims landing or Paul Revere’s ride. I had hoped to distract her from the bulge under my sweat shirt, now I just looked like a terrible liar.

Lenny’s last name, Klutz, could have been a warning if I’d been able to hear him when he introduced himself. In Yiddish, Klutz means someone clumsy or awkward. I’ve watched Joe Thomas and Claude Roberts chase and corner blond shiksas while trying to kiss them. They never fall. I’m sure if one of them were to slip on rocks they’d balance on one leg like a beach ball on a circus dog’s nose. The blond shiksas’ boobs aren’t outrageously huge, just noticeably there. On second thought, I’ll keep the falsies and concentrate on becoming a blond. I’ll buy a bottle of peroxide, bleach my hair, change my name to Jane Smith, and find a new group to hang with. No one needs to know where I live, or meet my parents. My mother interrupts my daydream. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

She stands at the foot of the bed looking as if she’s committed a crime: murder or at best, petty theft.

“Do you want to get into trouble, like you know who?” She folds and unfolds a damp dish towel.

“Who?”

“The one upstairs from us. Back home. You know.” She twists the towel tight until it looks like a braided Challah.

“Shirley?”

“That’s right. You know what happened to her?” She untwists the towel and wipes her face with it.

“She disappeared.”

“She got pregnant.” She blows her nose into the towel. I’ve never seen my mother so unsettled.

“From wearing falsies?”

“No, from going on further after wearing falsies.” She’s twisting again.

“So, what happened?”

“She got pregnant and disappeared.”

I sit up straight. Now this story is getting interesting. “That’s why she disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“So, what you’re telling me is if I wear falsies I’ll get pregnant and — ”

“Disappear. Do you want to disappear?”

“Let me think about it.” Sounds good to me, all depends on where I disappear to; Africa would be terrific. I saw photos in National Geographic of kids my age going naked and the girls breasts are real. Good thing, because they don’t wear bras, they wouldn’t be able to wear falsies; no struggle there. Paris or even London would work. At least in London I wouldn’t have a language problem. I read in the newspaper kids in Paris by the age of twelve know what they’re doing or at least going to be doing with each other when they’re old enough to do it. Their parents teach them. My parents told us a stork dropped us on the roof. We were wrapped in fuzzy blankets in a basket, and how lucky we are, they discovered the basket before it slid off the roof, before we fell to the ground and got killed. I never could quite wrap my mind around that one, but hey, after all, if that’s what they wanted to believe and forget about what really happened, which was probably a terrible experience, I mean having sex, well who am I to smack them with reality.

“You think everything’s a joke. I hope you don’t find out too late; life is serious.”

She wraps the mangled damp dishcloth around her neck and stomps toward somewhere else, somewhere safe, like the kitchen.

I hear the front door open.

“She’s not here.” My mother’s voice sounds muffled. Has she been crying or is she trying to suffocate herself with the towel?

Belinda’s shrill voice carries into my room. “Where is she?”

“She’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared? I need my sandals. Did she take my sandals with her?”

“Great friend. She cares more about her sandals than me.” I locate one sandal under the bed and the other under some clothes on a chair. They’re a mess, covered in dried mud and one has a detached heel. I set them side-by-side, like a healthy pair of sandals, on the bookshelf.

“I don’t know. She wants to disappear, I’m happy to accommodate her, so for me she’s disappeared. Maybe you can find her. Check in her room.”

“Hey, Polly, you in there?”

I puff up my pillows and pounce on the bed, “No, I’ve disappeared. What do you want?”

“My sandals.”

“Entre vous, if you must!” We both have French 101 in school.

Belinda rushes in and messes through all the junk on the bottom of my closet. She looks like an ostrich caught napping; a big, round bottom perched on top of long, thin legs, the rest of her buried in dirty shorts, smelly underwear, muddy Capri pants and old comic books. I try not to laugh, but a snicker escapes anyway.  “Here,” I grab the sandals from the bookcase, “fret not, your precious sandals.”

She sits on a chair by the window, ruined shoes crushed against her flat chest, and whispers, “What happened? The word is Lenny broke his arm last night. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. He slipped on the rocks.”

“Did he feel you up before —”

“No. Worse. My mother found one of my falsies. She thinks I’ll get pregnant and disappear like our neighbor back home.”

“What? Oh! My! God! How did she find it?”

“It probably fell out of my pants in the hallway.”

“Out of your pants? How did it get into your pants?”

“We were on the rocks, underneath the bleachers. I sneezed. The falsie flew out of my bra and hit Lenny in the nose. He panicked, slipped, fell, and broke his arm. I found the stupid thing all wet and muddy between the rocks. I didn’t want Lenny to see it, so I shoved it down the back of my pants. When I got home I went into the bathroom and started to undress on my way to my bedroom. I forgot it was in my pants. Marty found it in the morning and turned it into a birdbath. When my mother went into the living room, the bird was flinging water all over the place. ”

“I’m gonna get into trouble. She’ll tell my mother and then my mother will search through my stuff. You’ve certainly made a mess of things.”

“My mother doesn’t even know your mother.”

“She does. They met last weekend on the beach, sitting next to the shack where they rent chairs and umbrellas.”

“How do you know it’s my mother she met?”

“Does she have a green and orange striped canvas beach chair and just bought a tube of the new Revlon’s Fire and Ice?”

“That’s her.”

“They’re gonna play Mahjongg together on Wednesday. You’ve ruined my entire summer.”

“No, you’re gonna ruin it if you keep lying to Mario. He’ll find out your breasts aren’t real and he’ll think you lie about everything and you’ll lose him.”

Mom bangs on the door. “Belinda?”

“Yes, Mrs. Stein?”

“If you found your disappearing friend, I’ll make tuna sandwiches with pickles and Wise’s Potato Chips on the side, and ice tea for lunch, and strawberry ice cream with chocolate syrup for dessert, with a cherry on top; a maraschino.”

I mouth “no”.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to run. My mother’s waiting to take me shopping for underw —”

I shake my fist in Belinda’s face and whisper, “If you mention bras I’ll kill you.”

“…ah…for socks . . . new socks and, ah . . . shirts, yes, shirts . . . for school. Maybe another time.”

“Will she tell your father?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yup. She’ll be afraid he’ll blame her and scream all weekend about how she isn’t paying enough attention to me and how she needs to have more serious talks with me. She doesn’t want to have serious talks with me. She thinks I think everything’s a joke.”

“Do you?” Belinda looks worried.

“Sort of.”

Belinda’s worried expression sends me into a fit of laughter.

“I . . . I’m . . . not so sure . . . we should continue being friends.” She gasps and shakes her sandals in my face. “Look at my shoes. You’ve ruined them. My mom’s gonna— ”

I open my bedroom door and point out.

“Have a nice summer. Dunk your sandals in the toilet and swish, they’ll come clean.”

Better not to have such a friend. One small setback and she falls apart. Obviously she can’t handle stress, even when it’s someone else’s. I certainly can’t share my bleached-blond-goyisha plan with her.

My fair-weather friend, who doesn’t care if I disappear as long as she gets her shoes back, huffs passed me. “And, for your information, Mario loves me and we’re gonna get married.”

Damn, my mother was right. Well, I certainly am not going to commit myself to a life of dropping plates of pale, tasteless boiled fowl on the table every Friday night and swishing my hands around in bowls of ground bloody cow meat and raw eggs every Sunday afternoon. Not me. Not ever.

Life is passing me by, leaving me searching alone for answers probably only my mother has, and so far she’s having a problem sharing. Her half-start, semi-detour and full stop explanations make me dizzy and anxious.

I wash both falsies just to be sure they’re the same color after they dry and put them on a towel under my bed.

“Oh, Marty? Where are you Marty, my sweet brother?” I find the idiot in the living room talking to his parakeet. “Hey, Mar’, there you are. What’re you doing?”

“Teaching Robert to say hello.”

“Yes, how imaginative. You’re headed in the right direction. How much money do you have?” I knew he stuffed his allowance into an old sock under his mattress. He never went anywhere to spend it. How could he, he couldn’t get past the corner without getting lost.

“Loan me some money.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on. You don’t have anywhere to spend it and I need it.”

“Mom’s gonna take me to the bird store on Saturday for a mirror and new swing for Robert.”

“What’s wrong with the swing he has? A mirror? What for? Does he shave?”

“He needs a bigger swing and don’t be so mean. Just because you don’t have a pet doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy mine.”

I should have killed that bird weeks ago. “Marty, listen, if Robert sees himself in the mirror it might frighten him to death. After all, when was the last time he saw another bird? Not since he last saw his mother, probably years ago, and he’s forgotten what she looks like. Why don’t you hang your school picture in his cage. Your face won’t kill him because he’s used to seeing you everyday. He loves you. That way he can look at you even when you’re at the beach or in the shower or sleeping.” Marty’s grin reminds me of  the Cheshire cat. I wish he would do the Cheshire Cat Disappearing Act, leaving behind only his grin, and take his bird with him.

“What about the swing? This one’s too small.”

“Hm, let’s measure the space.”

I find a ruler in a kitchen drawer and shove it in the cage. The bird goes ballistic. Don’t die, you idiot, he’ll never loan me money if you die and it’s my fault. “Look, the space is too small for a wider swing. It’ll get stuck between the bars and poor Robert will just have to sit on his new swing and not swing. How sad.” I frown and pucker my lips, hoping I look like I’m in total sympathy with Marty and Robert’s future plight.

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Now, loan me some money. How much do you have?”

“About ten dollars.”

“Let me borrow the ten.”

“No.”

“I’ll take you to the movies on Saturday, double feature, The Lone Ranger and cartoons. My treat.”

“When will you pay it back?”

Brat. “As soon as I get my allowance, some in August, the rest in September. I promise.”

“Popcorn, your treat.”

“Okay.”

“And, since Robert lost his birdbath, you’re responsible for replacing it.”
“… .”  I glare at him with what I hope is a look full of venom. What a creep. He’ll probably blackmail me for the rest of my life.

“You stay here, and don’t peek.”

“Sure.” He’s so paranoid, thinks I might steal his money. Why? Because, I did last Christmas. But, I’m too old to take advantage of him now. I also don’t want to be put on restriction again for the rest of my life.

Marty returns with two crumpled one-dollar bills crumpled and the rest in change, jingling in a paper bag.

“Don’t forget, the movies on Saturday. What’re you gonna buy, another sponge?”

“… .”

“You already got into trouble with one sponge. If you’re gonna buy more, you better ask first.”

Dumb kid.  “Gotta buy some notebooks and pencils, I’m writing a book, the story of my life and you’re in it. You and Robert.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Mom’s playing Mahjongg and won’t be home until 4:00. I charge out the door and race to the drugstore.

“Hey there, Polly.” Mr. Baker, the pharmacist, is gift-wrapping a bottle of Jean Naté cologne. I hate that stuff. My aunt wears it and she always smells like the bathroom at the Texaco gas station.

“Hey, Mr. Baker, where’s the peroxide?”

“All the way to the back.”

Carefully watching his face, I casually slide the bottle on the counter. “No Double-Bubble today?”

“Nope.”

“That’ll be seventy-two cents with tax.”

“Thanks. My brother has an infection.” Guilt? He didn’t ask why I need peroxide and he never blinked when he saw the bottle. I talk too much. Got to learn to keep my mouth shut.

“Careful with that stuff. Some of the kids wind up with bald spots,” he yells before I run out the door.

I head for the lingerie store. Mrs. Big Boobs isn’t there. A huge poster tacked to the wall above the cash register reads, “I dreamed I went to a masquerade ball in my Maidenform Bra”. Girls with strange masks on their faces and dressed in bras and gauzy ballet skirts dance under palm trees. I find the hippo mask attractive, especially the eyes, mysterious and amused.

“May I help you?”

I point to the poster. “Yes, I’d like one of those Maidenform Bras in a B cup, please.”

The salesgirl, who looks like she’s having the same bosom problem I’m having, and what’s worse, she’s a lot older than I am, pulls a white B cup Maidenform bra from a pastel blue box. The pointy cups look like they’d hold the new Nike missile that’s supposed to stop the Russians from attacking us. I feel sorry for her. Her growing time’s over. But, there’s still some hope for me.

She stares at my chest and says, “I think you should try the bra on, just to be sure.”

“Thanks. It’s for my mother. Her birthday’s on Sunday.”

Again, guilt. She didn’t ask, so why am I telling stories that aren’t true? I hate guilt, wasted emotion; guilt doesn’t change anything except probably make you get old and die before your time. I listen to my relatives, they all feel guilty about something, and they all look ancient; a few are bordering on death, according to my parents, who have their own guilt issues.

“It’s on sale, two for the price of one. Do you want to get her two?”

I’m tempted, one in white, one in black but decline her offer. Too many things to be responsible for.

“Okay, that’s $3.50 with tax.”

I run home, bags shoved under my arms, and charge through the door. Marty’s busy with his non-communicative bird and doesn’t notice me. I jam the bag with my new bra behind the dresser and head for the bathroom. I pour peroxide over my lank black hair and wait. Nothing. I pour more. Nothing. I finish off the bottle and wrap my hair in a towel. I sit on the toilet and wait.

“Hey, come on out, I’ve got to go.” Marty bangs on the door. We need two bathrooms. First thing on my agenda when I’m old enough to have my own place, don’t care if it doesn’t have a kitchen, but it must have two bathrooms.

I unlock the door. Marty pushes in.

“Hurry up, I’ve got to wash my hair.”

“Looks like you already did. If you didn’t, why is a towel wrapped around your head?”
“Just go, and never mind my head.”

When Marty emerges, I unwrap. Light brown streamers decorate my head like party banners. Disappointed, I rinse the peroxide out, put on my bathing suit and settle down in the backyard intending to enhance my tan.  My mother’s screeching pierces a romantic interlude between Bernie Robinson and me, the gorgeous guy with the new baby blue Caddy convertible who owns the deli two doors down from where we live during our boring life.

“Polly, what’s happened to your hair? Oh. My. God. What will your father say when he gets home. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Why does your nothing always lead to something terrible? How could this happen in the backyard?”

Marty, perched on the porch, voluntarily and uncharacteristically comes to my defense. “She borrowed money from me to buy notebooks and pencils. Maybe the pencils were orange and she put them under her head and they melted in the sun while she slept.”

“Marty, get in the house this minute. You get in the bathroom and wash that stuff out of your hair.”

I stumble up the stairs and into the bathroom, which is now the most frequented room in the house. The mirror isn’t cooperating. The light brown banners are now streaks of orange, very orangey orange, like the fruit. I rub my eyes, blink and look again. That shitty color is still there. I shampoo and rinse. Handfuls of hair fall into the washbasin. Uneven bald spots resembling giant amoebae divide and multiply around my head. I look like I borderline case of mange. I toss the empty peroxide bottle and dead orange hair into an empty bag and head for the garbage can.

“Where are you going? Get back in the house. Don’t let anyone see you looking like that. Now you’re bald. Oh my god, will it ever end with you!”

“I’ll be right back.”

By the time I return, my mother’s on the phone. “You’ve got to come home right away. Something awful has happened. Polly’s hair turned orange and fell out. Of course it’s an emergency, her hair turned orange and fell out. She has bald patches all over her head. Doesn’t that sound like an emergency to you?”

Mom stares at me like I’m a stranger, like she’s waiting for me to state my purpose for entering her space and then she’ll say “Sorry, no loose change, no extra scraps of food, goodbye,” and shove me out the back door, slamming it in my face.

“I don’t know if she did it or it just happened while she was sunbathing in the back yard. You get her to a doctor, or the beauty parlor, or a barber. Just come home and do something with her.”

“She’ll probably die before I get my money back.” Marty’s talking to his bird, again, “Then I’ll have to wait forever to save up ten dollars. Forget about the double feature on Saturday. She never keeps promises.”

I rush into the living room and throw five ones at him. “Here you creep. I only owe you five. And, you should be so lucky. I’m not dying. Too bad.” I keep some change for an emergency.

The bird boy gathers the bills from the floor. “You look crazy, like out of a zombie movie,” he shouts and runs into his room.

My mother slams the phone down. “And?” She storms into the kitchen.

I don’t know whether I should go into my room, close the door and read another Archie and Veronica comic, or take another look in the mirror. Maybe the nightmare on my head has disappeared. The pharmacist knew what he was talking about. Too late now.

Mom returns from the kitchen like an ejected rocket.

“What happened to Lenny? Belinda’s mother told me at Mahjongg he broke his arm while he was with you last night.” She waves a rolling pin in my direction. Will she whack me or roll pie dough?

“Yeah, he . . .”

“What did you do to him?” Wave, wave—the rolling pin inches closer to my head.

“Nothing.”

“There’s your nothing again, the nothing that turns into something terrible.”

“It’s not my fault he has a problem balancing, like he can’t ride a bike, or stand on one leg on the edge of a roof. Sometimes he falls over. This time he fell on his arm and crushed it.”

“Don’t you care? He liked you. Why are you so cold?”

“I’m not cold.” The wooden cylinder looms closer. I protectively raise my arms in front of my head. “I hardly know him. You want me to get all crazy because someone who happened to be standing in front of me fell and broke a bone? This sort of thing happens to people everyday, especially to Jewish guys. Gentile guys never fall over.”

“What do you know about Gentile guys?”

“Nothing.” Yet.

“There’s that nothing again, which means something terrible has happened or is about to happen.”

“Belinda’s mother said you never called to see if he was okay.”

“I don’t have his phone number. A girl doesn’t have a boy’s phone number unless he’s her boyfriend or best friend. I hardly know Lenny. Besides, I’ve been busy.”

“I can see how busy you’ve been. When I left home you looked normal, I come home a few hours later and you look like a concentration camp survivor. I’m gonna bake a pie and calm my nerves before I do some serious damage here.” She disappears into the kitchen. Apples fall and roll along the floor; then, nothing, no washing, no rolling, nothing.

I head for the bedroom, peek at myself in the mirror. I want to scream, but decide to remain calm since everyone else in the house seems to have gone mad. Mom enters and slams a suitcase on the bed. She packs my clothes, my toothbrush and, even though I won’t need them for a long time, my hairbrush, comb and curlers.

“Your father’s coming to get you.”

“Then what?”

“Take you.”

“Take me where?”

“Take you away. You better be ready. I am. He’s going to make you disappear.”

“But I’m not pregnant.”

“This will be a disappearance not related to a pregnancy. This will be a disappearance related to another kind of misfortune and a detour away from close to being murdered. By me, your mother.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? So, something strange happened to my hair. Things like this happen to people everyday. They go to bed knowing who they are and they wake up in the morning not knowing who they are. Look at Auntie Sarah.”

“She’s senile. She’s entitled. Besides, her hair is still brown and on her head. And, when did you become such an expert on what happens to people everyday? ”

“You mean she’ll die not knowing who she is?”

“Yes. Senility doesn’t go away. It gets worse and worse.”

“Does that mean she’ll die remembering she’s a virgin?”

“So? She lived as a virgin for seventy-five years. I’m sure she never forgot.”

“I hope that doesn’t happen to me.”

“Dying?”

“No, living as a virgin for my whole life.”

“Don’t need to worry about that. At the rate you’re going, we’ll be lucky if you’re still a virgin by Yom Kippur. Of this year.”

Dad bangs the screen door, then the front door. He rushes into my room, pushing my mother against the wall. When he sees my new look, he retreats, rears his head back, opens his mouth wide like a water moccasin I once surprised in the bush by the Chelsea Creek and reverses speed, stepping on Marty in the process. I’m feeling slightly claustrophobic. The room spins. Maybe I’ll faint and they’ll all leave. In my own place, there will be two bathrooms and a much larger bedroom just in case family conferences continue to occur over the years next to my bed.

“Good God, Polly. What have you done?”

“Noth — ”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare say nothing. You’ve done something and you look horrid. I don’t want anyone to see you this way. Hymie, her things are packed. I called Dr. Miller, just in case. If she doesn’t have a rare disease, take her to Ruby. I called him, he’ll wait for you. He’ll probably shave her head or give her a crew cut. Now go, now, it’s 4:00. The doctor said he’d wait till you get there. Call me from his office.”

My mother gathers my father, my brother and my suitcase, and storms out of the room leaving me behind like an orphan. “Come on, you . . . you . . . I don’t know what you are, but whatever you are, get in the car.”

“What’s the suitcase for?” My mother’s hand is pushed against my father’s chest driving him backwards toward the front door.

“Take her with you and go to the apartment. Don’t bring her back here. I want to enjoy the last three weeks of my summer vacation. It will finally be peaceful around here. Come on Sundays with her for lunch and only lunch. Meanwhile, don’t let her out of your sight. Wait a minute.” She disappears into her bedroom and reappears waving a hideous dark orange and green polka-dotted scarf. “Wrap this around your head and don’t take it off until your hair grows back. Now go, disappear.” She hands me her ugly babushka with my least favorite colors; they wash out the beautiful hazel color of my eyes.

“Can I use your purple and pink striped scarf instead? I don’t like this one.”

“Hymie, get her out of here before I decorate the walls with her blood.”

I wrap my head and sneak a glance at my father; he’s frowning. I turn to wave goodbye to Marty and my mother, but Mom’s gone. Marty waves vigorously and displays his Cheshire cat grin again. Aha, or is that a grin without a Marty behind it?

“What did you do?” The gears grind as my father shifts from first to second.

“Nothing, just a little experiment with some peroxide. It didn’t work the way it was supposed to. Everything will be okay. Mom always overreacts. Can I get some clothes out of my suitcase, please? I don’t want Dr. Miller to see me in my bathing suit.”

“Climb over, I’m not stopping. There isn’t much time. It’s getting late.”

In the twenty minutes it takes to drive from Revere to the doctor’s office in Chelsea my father’s expression changes from frowning to half amused, half confused, at least that’s how I read it.

“Dad, um, you know about Shirley, from upstairs, right?”

“… .”

“I was wondering, Mom told me why she disappeared, but how did she get into—”

“Talk to your mother.”

“She talks in circles and connects silly things that don’t make sense. I just want to know straight out, how did that happen to—”

“Girls need to talk to their mothers about such things.”

Since I’ll be seeing my mother for only a few hours on the next three Sundays, and the whole family will be sitting around the table eating, it seems unlikely I’ll have a chance to talk to her about Shirley’s pregnancy. Once school starts I’ll probably either forget about the whole thing or know the answers from an encyclopedia in the library, where I find most answers to questions my parents avoid.

Dr. Miller’s nurse does a double take when she sees me and rushes us into the doctor’s office. Doc grips my head tighter than he needs to. Under a bright, round light, he twists my head right, then left. I can feel the imprints of his fingers, which, I’m sure, will only add to the mess.

“Peroxide, a lot of peroxide. What did you do, young lady, use the whole bottle?”

“… .”

“Why?”

“I want to be a blond.”

“Why?”

“My aunt’s a blond, and I love her.” I’m not telling anyone about my plan. My plan? Oh, no, my new bra and falsies are at the cottage. Belinda’s True Romance magazines are under my mattress. I’m dead.

“She’ll be fine. It’ll grow back.”

My father calls my mother; it’s a very brief call. He telephones the beauty shop; Ruby’s waiting.

Ruby screams and does his little faigelah dance around the room. I like Ruby, he trims exactly to where I tell him to, but today’s different, there’s nothing left to trim.

“What happened to that gorgeous healthy ebony mane?”

My immediate reaction is to say nothing but I remember my mother’s frantic phrase, “Your nothing is always something terrible”.

“I wanted to change my hair color and overdid the peroxide.”

“Overdid? Overdid? I’ll say. Two choices, bald or almost not quite bald. Like very short, crew cut short, military style.”

“Will my hair grow in before school starts?”

“No.”

“What about for the Jewish holidays?”

“Forget about it. Try for Chanukah and even then maybe only to the top of your ears.”

On the Jewish holidays, I’ll wear a babushka to Shul instead of a new hat that matches my blue dress. No, I’ll wear my sailor hat with the brim turned down and get the kids to sign it. That’s the latest style with the kids anyway, well, not for Shul, more like for the beach, but I’ll start something new. I’ll hit the Army Navy surplus store in the morning. Good thing I kept some change from Marty’s money for an emergency.

“Mr. Stein? How short should I go?” My father is concentrating on the newspaper headlines.

“Do whatever you think is best. Let her decide, she made the mess, let her decide how to fix it.”

Ruby shrugs and plugs in the clippers.

I shrug back. “Well, let’s go for the crew cut, the almost but not quite bald one.” I close my eyes. Ruby runs an electric razor over my scalp. I imagine mice running helter- skelter over my head and shiver. When I look in the mirror, my eyes lock with my father’s. He doesn’t look half amused or half confused now, just horrified.

“A touch of aftershave?” Ruby feigns amusement. Jerk.

I wrap my semi-naked head in my mother’s ugly scarf and march toward the door. My thoughts are on more important matters than my head. I have to warn Belinda as soon as possible. If my mother finds all that stuff in my bedroom, I’ll be on restriction until after I’m married or longer. If Belinda’s mother catches on, her summer will be ruined, and she’ll blame me.

“Well, are you satisfied? You had such a nice start with Leonard and you just had to carry things too far. You’ve ruined everyone’s summer.” My father’s driving faster than usual.

“Not everyone. Mom and Marty will have a wonderful time without me. Lenny was a false start to a life I didn’t want anyway.”

As soon as we enter our apartment, Dad heads for the bathroom. I grab the phone and dial Belinda.

“Belinda, don’t hang up. I know you hate me, and don’t want to be my friend. I understand, but you’ve got to listen or we’ll both be in big trouble. Well, I’m already in big trouble, but you’ll suffer too if you don’t do what I’m asking. Get your magazines from under my mattress before Saturday, cleaning day, before my mother finds them, which means you have exactly two days to fix this problem. My falsies are on a towel under the bed, back toward the wall. My new Maidenform bra is stuffed behind the dresser.”

“And, what do I tell your mother? She’s already telling my mother horror stories about having a teenage daughter. My mother’s been looking at me suspiciously. You made a mess, Miss Polly. I buried my falsies in the dirt behind the tool shed.”

“Tell her you left something in there. Another pair of shoes or a sweater, anything. Don’t let Marty in with you. He’s a yenta, tells everything. You figure it out. If you can figure out how to keep your boyfriend from finding out your boobs aren’t real, you can conquer this simple mission.”

“What do I do with the stuff?”

“Merry Christmas…or happy Chanukah, whichever makes you happier. Sorry about your sandals, but now you’ve got a new pair of falsies for when yours wear out, and your own bra instead of borrowing your mother’s.”

“Where are you?”

“Home, in Chelsea, with Dad till school starts. Mom and Marty stayed at the cottage.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“… .”

“Well, will I?”

“What for. It’s not like we’re best friends. We just met. We’ve only known each other for five weeks. And, you hate me.”

“… .”

“Belinda, you there?”

“Yeah, well, let me think about it, I mean about hating you. I’ll call after I get the stuff. What’s your number?”

Belinda will succeed. After all, she planned the falsie thing to begin with and so far, she’s a success.

I telephone David. The sound of his voice sends spirals of heat through my body.

“You home? Already?”

“Yup. Short summer vacation.”

“Great. Want to go to the movies tomorrow night?”

“Hey, Dad, can I go to the movies tomorrow night with David?” I shout toward the bathroom. The water’s running, and I’m not sure he can hear me. “Dad, can you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I go to the movies tomorrow night with David?”

“Yeah.”

Ha, Mom didn’t mention the falsies or my imprisonment. I knew she wouldn’t. And, he didn’t ask if other kids are going. Life is improving.

“What time?”

“Six-thirty, starts at seven.”

“Oh, um, just so you’re not shocked or possibly faint, I’ve changed my hair. It’s short, really, really short. It’s the latest hairstyle from a French fashion magazine. Straight from Paris.”

“I’m sure you look great. You always look great.”

“David . . . did you . . .  ?” I want to ask if he went out with another girl while I was gone. What if he did? What if he didn’t? What if he asks me if I went out with another boy? I can’t lie to David, not a big lie, he kissed me on the lips behind the slide on the playground when we were in first grade.

“You still there, Polly?”

“Yeah, hey, see ya tomorrow night.”

I turn the radio on and dance to” Shake, Rattle and Roll.” Forget “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane.” After the movie it’s just David, me, and three scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with hot chocolate syrup, salty pecans, and a double cherry on top at Tony’s Creamery. We’ll hold hands. He’ll put an arm around my shoulders and give me a squeeze before he goes home. A fresh start for the old me, that’s what I need, the right way to begin a new year, uncluttered.

That night, I dream about Bernie Robinson again, the gorgeous guy with the new baby- blue Caddy who owns the deli a few doors down. He’s pulling on my left breast; Lenny’s pulling on my right breast. I step out from between them. Each holds a foam cup. Water drips between their fingers. I smile, wave and fly toward the sky cackling like a bald eagle, kleek-kik-ik-ik-ik.