"Turn the page, Gretchen," Nancy said.
The next page was the male reproductive system.
None of us said anything. We just looked until Nancy told us, "My brother looks like that."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"He walks around naked," Nancy said.
"My father used to walk around naked," Gretchen said. "But lately he's stopped doing it."
"My aunt went to a nudist colony last summer," Janie said.
"No kidding!" Nancy looked up.
"She stayed a month," Janie told us. "My mother didn't talk to her for three weeks after that. She thought it was a disgrace. My aunt's divorced."
"Because of the nudist colony?" I asked.
"No," Janie said. "She was divorced before she went."
"What do you suppose they do there?" Gretchen asked.
"Just walk around naked is all. My aunt says it's very peaceful. But I'll never walk around naked in front of anybody!"
"What about when you get married?" Gretchen asked.
"Even then," Janie insisted.
"You're a prude!" Nancy said.
"I am not! It has nothing to do with being a prude."
"When you grow you'll change your mind," Nancy told her. "You'll want everybody to see you. Like those girls in
Playboy?"
Nancy opened it right up to the naked girl in the middle. On the page before there was a story about her. It said Hillary Brite is eighteen years old.
"Eighteen! That's only six more years," Nancy squealed.
"But look at the size of her. They're huge!" Janie said.
"Do you suppose we'll look like that at eighteen?" Gretchen asked.
"If you ask me, I think there's something wrong with her," I said. "She looks out of proportion!"
"Do you suppose that's what Laura Danker looks like?" Janie asked.
"No. Not yet," Nancy said. "But she might at eighteen!"
Our meeting ended with fifty rounds of "
We stayed on the ship half an hour and then Grandma kissed me good-by and promised to take me along with her one of these days.
The next week my mother started to address her Christmas cards and for days at a time she was frantically busy with them. She doesn't call them Christmas cards. Holiday greetings, she says. We don't celebrate Christmas exactly. We give presents but my parents say that's a traditional American custom. My father says my mother and her greeting cards have to do with her childhood. She sends them to people she grew up with and they send cards back to her. So once a year she finds out who married whom and who had what kids and stuff like that. Also, she sends one to her brother, whom I've never met. He lives in California. This year I discovered something really strange. I discovered that my mother was sending a Christmas card to her parents in Ohio. I found out because I was looking through the pile of cards one day when I had a cold and stayed home from school. There it was-just like that. The envelope said Mr. and Mrs. Paul Hutchins, and that's them. My grandparents! I didn't mention anything about it to my mother. I had the feeling I wasn't supposed to know.
In school, Mr. Benedict was running around trying to find out what happened to the new choir robes. The whole school was putting on a Christmas-Hanukkah pageant for the parents and our sixth-grade class was the choir. We didn't even have to try out. "Mr. Benedict's class will be the choir," the principal announced. We practiced singing every day with the music teacher. I thought by the time Christmas finally rolled around I wouldn't have any voice left. We learned five Christmas carols and three Hanukkah songs-alto and soprano parts. Mostly the boys sang alto and the girls sang soprano. We'd been measured for our new choir robes right after Thanksgiving. The PTA decided the old ones were really worn out. Our new ones would be green instead of black. We all had to carry pencil-sized flashlights instead of candles.
We practiced marching down the halls and into the auditorium singing "
A week before the pageant Alan Gordon told Mr. Benedict that he wasn't going to sing the Christmas songs because it was against his religion. Then Lisa Murphy raised her hand and said that she wasn't going to sing the Hanukkah songs because it was against
Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. I want you to know I'm giving a lot of thought to Christmas and Hanukkah this year. I'm trying to decide if one might be special for me. I'm really thinking hard God. But so far I haven't come up with any answers.
Our new green choir robes were delivered to school the day before the pageant and were sent home with us to be pressed. The best thing about the pageant, besides wearing the robe and carrying the flashlight, was that I got to sit in the first row of choir seats, facing the audience, which meant that the kindergarten kids were right in front of me. Some of them tried to touch our feet with their feet. One little kid wet his pants during the scene where Mary and Joseph come to the inn. He made a puddle on the floor right in front of Janie. Janie had to keep on singing and pretend she didn't know. It was pretty hard not to laugh.
School closed for vacation right after the pageant. When I got home my mother told me I had a letter.
13
"Margaret-you've got a letter," my mother called from the studio. "It's on the front table."
I just about never get any letters. Probably because I never write anybody back. So I dashed over to the front table and picked it up.
very
having a party
Anyway, the envelope was postmarked New Jersey. Let's see, I thought. Who could it be? Who? Finally, I opened it.
"Hey Mom!" I yelled, running into the studio. My mother was standing away from her canvas, studying her work. Her paint brush was in her mouth, between her teeth. "Guess what, Mom?"
"What?" she said, not taking the paint brush away.
"I'm invited to a supper party. Here-look-" I showed her my invitation.
She read it. "Who's Norman Fishbein?" She took the paint brush out of her mouth.
"A kid in my class."
"Do you like him?"
"He's okay. Can I go?"
"Well… I suppose so." My mother dabbed some red paint on her canvas. Then the phone rang.
"I'll get it." I ran into the kitchen and said a breathless hello.
"It's Nancy. Did you get invited?"
"Yes," I said. "Did you?"
"Mmm. We all did. Janie and Gretchen too."
"Can you go?" Sure.
"Me too."
"I've never been to a supper party," Nancy said.
"Me either. Should we dress up?" I asked.
"My mother's going to call Mrs. Fishbein. I'll let you know." She hung up.
Ten minutes later the phone rang again. I answered.
"Margaret. It's me again."
"I know."
"You'll never believe this!" Nancy said.
"What? What won't I believe?"
"We're all invited."
"What do you mean
"Well, her mother and Mrs. Fishbein work on a lot of committees together. So maybe her mother will make her."
"How about Philip Leroy?"
"He's invited. That's all I know. And Mrs. Fishbein said definitely party clothes."
When I hung up I raced back to the studio. "Mom-our whole class is invited!"
"Your
"Yes. All twenty-eight of us."
"Mrs. Fishbein must be crazy!" my mother said.
"Should I wear my velvet, do you think?"
"It's your best. You might as well."
On the day of the party I talked to Nancy six times, to Janie three times and to Gretchen twice. Nancy called me back every time she changed her mind about what to wear. And each time she asked me if I was still wearing my velvet. I told her I was. The rest of the time we made our arrangements. We decided that Nancy would sleep over at my house and that Gretchen would sleep over at Janie's. Mr. Wheeler would drive us all to the party and Mr. Loomis would drive us home.
My mother washed my hair at two o'clock. She gave me a cream rinse too, so I wouldn't get tangles. She set it in big rollers all over my head. I sat under her hair dryer. Then she
After my bath I was supposed to go to my room and rest so I'd be in good shape for the party. I went to my room and closed the door-only I didn't feel like resting. What I did was move my desk chair in front of my dresser mirror. Then I stood on the chair and took off my robe. I stood naked in front of the mirror. I was starting to get some hairs. I turned around and studied myself sideways. Then I got off the chair and moved it closer to the mirror. I stood back up on it and looked again. My head looked funny with all those rollers. The rest of me looked the same.
Are you there God? It's me, Margaret I hate to remind you God… I mean, I know you're busy. But it's already December and I'm not growing. At least I don't see any real difference. Isn't it time God? Don't you think I've waited patiently? Please help me.
I hopped off the chair and sat down on the edge of my bed, putting on my clean underwear and tights. Then I stood in front of the mirror again. I didn't look at myself for very long this time.
I went into the bathroom and opened the bottom cabinet. There was a whole box of cotton balls.
the package said. I reached in and grabbed a few. My heart was pounding, which seemed stupid because what was I so afraid of anyway? I mean, if my mother saw me grab some cotton balls she wouldn't say anything. I use them all the time-to put calamine on my summer mosquito bites-to clean off cuts and bruises-to put on my face lotion at night. But my heart kept pounding anyway, because I knew what I was going to do with the cotton balls.
I tiptoed back to my room and closed the door. I stepped into my closet and stood in one corner. I shoved three cotton balls into each side of my bra. Well, so what if it was cheating! Probably other girls did it too. I'd look a lot better, wouldn't I? So why not!
I came out of the closet and got back up on my chair. This time when I turned sideways I looked like I'd grown. I liked it!
Are you still there God? See how nice my bra looks now! That's all I need-just a little help. I'll really be good around the house God. I'll clear the table every night for a month at least! Please God…