“Thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-four,” she said. “Well, look at that, practically my measurements.” She laughed and pulled the locker door open with a clang. My own measurements were even smaller. We both paused, and as though we were each other’s synchronized reflections, looked down at our own breasts, then at each other’s. Then Rebecca said, “I prefer being sort of flat chested, don’t you? Women with big bosoms are always so bashful. That, or else they think their figures are all that matters. Pathetic.” I thought of Joanie, her body so conspicuous in its fleshiness, a main attraction. I must have made a face or blushed because then Rebecca asked, “Oh, have I embarrassed you?” Her sincerity seemed genuine to me. We exchanged smiles. “Busts,” she said, shrugging and looking down at her small breasts again. “Who cares?” She laughed, winked at me, then turned back to her locker and fiddled with the dial again.
Perhaps only young women of my same conniving and tragic nature will understand that there could be something in such an exchange as mine with Rebecca that day which could unite two people in conspiracy. After years of secrecy and shame, in this one moment with her, all my frustrations were condoned and my body, my very being, was justified. Such solidarity and awe I felt, you’d think I’d never had a friend before. And really, I hadn’t. All I’d had were Suzie or Alice or Maribel, figments, of course, imaginary girls I’d used in lies to my father — my own dark ghosts.
“Of course I’m not embarrassed,” I told her. To declare this took more courage than I’d needed in years, for it required the brief removal of my mask of ice. “I completely agree with you.”
What is that old saying? A friend is someone who helps you hide the body — that was the gist of this new rapport. I sensed it immediately. My life was going to change. In this strange creature, I’d met my match, my kindred spirit, my ally. Already I wanted to extend my hand, slashed and ready to be shaken in a pact of blood, that was how impressionable and lonely I was. I kept my hands in my pockets, however. This marked the beginning of the dark bond which now paves the way for the rest of my story.
“Well good,” said Rebecca. “We have better things to do than worry about our figures. Though that’s not the popular opinion, wouldn’t you say?” She raised her eyebrows at me. She was really remarkably beautiful, so beautiful I had to avert my eyes. I wanted desperately to impress her, to elicit some clear indication from her that she felt as I did — we were two peas in a pod.
“I don’t care much about what’s popular,” I lied. I hadn’t ever been so brash before. Oh, I was a rebel.
“Well, look at you,” said Rebecca. She crossed her arms. “Rare to meet a young woman with so much gumption. You’re a regular Katharine Hepburn.” The comparison would have sounded like mockery if made by anyone else. But I wasn’t offended. I laughed, blushed. Rebecca laughed too, then shook her head. “I’m kidding,” she said. “I’m like that, too. I don’t give a rat’s ass what people think. But it is good if they think well of you. That has its advantages.”
We looked at each other and smiled, nodded sarcastically with widened eyes. Were we serious? It didn’t seem to matter. It was like all my secret misery had just then been converted into a powerful currency. I’m sure Rebecca saw right through my bravado, but I didn’t know that. I thought I was so smooth.
“See you around,” I said. I figured it was best not to come on too strong. We waved to each other and Rebecca flew off back through the office and up the hall like some exotic bird or flower, utterly misplaced in the dim fluorescent light. I walked mechanically, heel-toe, back to my desk, hands clasped behind my back, whistling nothing in particular, my world now transformed.
• • •
That afternoon I prepared certain phrases and responses to use on Rebecca. I was terribly concerned that she think well of me, that she understand I was not the provincial dolt I feared I appeared to be. Of course she knew I was a provincial dolt — I was that — but I thought at the time that I’d fooled her with some kind of radical point of view, what with our mutual distaste for large breasts, the cold wisdom of my gaze, my general attitude. I wasn’t radical at all. I was simply unhappy. So I sat at my desk and practiced my death mask — face in perfect indifference, no muscles twitching, eyes blank, still, brow furrowed ever so slightly. I had this childish idea that it is best when dealing with a new friend to withhold all opinions until the other puts forth her opinions first. Nowadays perhaps we’d call the attitude blasé. It is a peculiar posture of insecure people. They feel most comfortable denying any perspective whatsoever rather than proclaiming any allegiance or philosophy and risk rejection and judgment. I thought I had to bite my tongue and seem as aloof as possible until Rebecca set the rules of the game, so to speak. So if she were to ask me how I liked my job, I’d have shrugged and said, “It’s a paycheck.” If she asked me about my past I’d say, “Nothing really worth mentioning.” But I would allude to my mother’s death as though it were an event cloaked in mystery, as though she’d been slaughtered by the mob in some moonlit scene under a pier. Or maybe I’d killed her — snuffed the life out of her with a pillow and never told a soul until now. I had all kinds of made-up hooks I’d have used to snag her. If Rebecca wanted to know what my interests were, my hobbies, I’d say I read books, and if she wanted to know which, I’d say it was personal. I’d say that to me, reading was like making love, and I didn’t kiss and tell. I thought I was very cute. I figured, Rebecca being a teacher or whatever she was, she’d appreciate me as highly literary. Of course I couldn’t really discuss literature. It was easier for me to discuss the things that mattered in my own life. “Do you drink gin?” for example. If she wanted to know why I was curious, I’d shrug and say, “There’s something about people who like gin, and people who don’t.” And depending on her answer, I’d categorize gin drinkers either as idiots, or harbingers of great grief, or heroes. I pondered all this, but I knew I’d never have the guts to be so obnoxious. Rebecca was very intimidating to me.
“Yoo-hoo, Eileen. Time to sort the mail,” said Mrs. Murray, twiddling her fingers and snapping her gum. My stomach fluttered as I got to work. The clock snored on.
On my way down to the Christmas pageant in the afternoon, which I now seem to recall was in the chapel, I stopped in the ladies’ room to check my face in the mirror and apply more lipstick. I had a habit of wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater to smear off the grease which got absorbed in the powder I used. I always had a fine row of pimples along my hairline, even after the more violent attacks of acne had subsided in my teenage years. My skin has always been problematic. Even now my rosacea flares up, and I’ve had gin blossoms since my late twenties, although I hardly ever drank gin, as I told you. Perhaps gin blossoms are my cross to bear, some kind of marker, penance. I like how I look now. But back then, I hated my face, oh, I was truly tortured by it. I smoothed my hair back and put on a heavy coat of Irreparable Red, blotted my lips with a paper towel, checked my teeth. They are small, childlike teeth, still, and they looked yellow in contrast to the lipstick I wore. I rarely smiled genuinely enough to forget to hold my lip down over my teeth. I think I’ve mentioned how my upper lip had a tendency to pull up my gums. Nothing came easily to me. Nothing.