I stood before the full-length mirror inside my closet door and began my inspection. Everything had to be perfect.
It was all my friends and I could talk about since the first poster went up in the lunch hall a month ago. Sharon and Jessica, from the “popular” group, joined the dance committee this year to put an end to the lameness that was “A Night on Tara” or the freak show “Neptune’s Dream.”
As the new seniors of our middle school, we wanted something different that reflected who we were. “Hot Hollywood” was it. “I can’t believe they kept the “Hot,” I told my best friend Melissa. There were whispers before the announcement that some teachers thought the word was too provocative.
“They think off-the-shoulder tops are provocative,” Melissa replied dismissively. “Besides, Mr. Perry’s the boss, and he’s on our side.” Our new principal was younger than his aging staff and embraced our need for independence. “He told them that “hot” just meant “current,” not “horny.”
Everyone poured over their Seventeens and Tiger Beats, trying to figure out a way to appropriate Ally or Molly’s outfits into something affordable and acceptable. “I want that bustier and blazer look,” I told my mom, pointing to a picture of Demi Moore posing with her cast mates from St. Elmo’s Fire.
After a week of being subjected to my intermittent whining and sulking, my mom finally relented, but she made me swear not to take off my blazer unless it caught on fire. “You also have to wear a bra under the bustier.” She added. “I don’t want you hanging out in front of the boys.”
“Oh my God!” I protested against this insane demand. “I don’t even have boobs yet.”
“Doesn’t matter, my mother insisted. “They know they’re coming and will want to see what you have so far.”
On the big night, Mel let me borrow a long strand of faux pearls and chain necklaces to cover up the bra, but the blazer kept it from being noticeable. I also kept my long, lightly crimped hair down for extra coverage.
“Perfect,” I said, turning my torso and twisting my shoulders in front of the mirror to see if my bra would come out if I danced or moved. Confident that the offending garment was under control, I glanced at myself once more, knowing I would pass the scrutiny of my peers.
My mom knocked on my bedroom door to see if I was ready to leave. “You look pretty,” she smiled. After a pause, she continued. “Listen…You are a senior now, and it’s a big deal. I want you to be careful.” She handed me a new copy of “Our Bodies, Ourselves.”
“Just don’t do it, okay.” She smiled, then walked out the door.