Silicone

Most girls hit puberty in junior high. They blossom, boys notice, and their popularity explodes. I watched it happen to everyone around me while I waited. And waited.

Seventh grade. Nothing. Eighth grade. Nope. Ninth grade. Nada.

There was no internet to consult. No way to google: Is it normal to still be flat in ninth grade? What is wrong with a fourteen year old girl who still hasn’t gotten her period? Thank God there was no social media back in those days, no chronicle of who had arrived and who hadn’t. We just watched each other in the locker room and drew our own conclusions.

Everyone around me was growing in all the right places except me. Beautiful Net Elliott. I’ll bet she was in a C cup by seventh grade. My good friend Melissa may have been a B, but at least her development was on schedule. Junior high was bad enough without the mental and emotional anguish of being president of the Flat-Chested Club.

My mom, bless her heart, took me to get a bra anyway. A size 34A I couldn’t come close to filling. I wore it every day. I needed something to suggest I’d get there one day.

She wasn’t much for details, my mom. When my period started, she handed me a box of tampons and left the room. That was the entire conversation. I didn’t even understand how the applicator worked. (You can use your imagination.) Today, girls have the internet, friends, and health class that actually covers this. Back then, in the South, no one talked about these things. My education was a cardboard box and my own trial and error.

Then the summer before tenth grade, puberty finally caught up with me. In three months I went from that sad little 34A to a voluptuous 34C. I remember standing in the dressing room at Montgomery Ward, staring at myself, thinking — Better late than never.

I wore a “new” hand-me-down on the first day of class my sophomore year. Nothing flashy to show my new cleavage — I wasn’t that brave. But I felt different. More confident. I walked with a proud skip to my step.

First period. Biology.

I walked in, found a seat (probably in the front row since I was a study geek), and opened up my notebook when I heard it — from across the room, loud enough that heads turned:

“Hey Melinda — what’d you do this summer? Eat a bunch of silicone?”

It was John Freeman. The person who always entertained the crowd at someone else’s expense. Yeah, he was funny alright. But generally speaking, someone had to pay the price for his comedy act.

Everyone turned to stare at me as my face turned a bright shade of red. I wanted to melt into my seat. Three years of waiting had somehow landed me here — being the punchline in someone else’s joke.

I spent the rest of class (probably the rest of the week, too), with my binder pressed against my chest.

But here’s the thing about John Freeman.

He kept talking to me. Then flirting. Then coming around at the end of basketball practice to check on me. Eventually passing me sweet lovenotes from across the classroom.

Yeah, he ended up as my boyfriend. For the rest of high school.

A few years ago, when I moved to Nashville, I found a box of high school keepsakes my mom had saved. His notes were tucked in among the photos and yearbook—he used to call me Pretty Girl. They made me laugh. Still.