“It looks like a training bra! What is this abuelita shit?” The three girls giggled as they tossed her bra around the locker room like a volleyball. “I know . . . we should take it to the quad. Let everyone see.”
Fernanda looked on helplessly, her cheeks and neck hot as she tried to cover her bare breasts. She didn’t know if she should try to fight back or call for help. Both would leave her even more exposed. She’d have to let her breasts be on show, or be called a snitch for the rest of high school. Nobody lives that label down.
“Please stop.” Her voice cracked, not much higher than a whisper from trying to hold back tears.
Gloria, Vanessa, and Mercedes had done this before, back in sixth grade. They’d followed her in a circle shouting insults because she consistently made the best grades and the teacher proudly announced it in front of the class. Fernanda the example. They never touched her, but a fist would have hurt less than their taunts. She didn’t tell her mother to avoid being labelled a snitch. She just kept to herself even more.
Pauline walked out of the showers with the towel around her waist. “The fuck is going on here?”
“Just a little fun. Your homegirl needs a lesson. She thinks she is better than us. She ain’t.”
“Give me her bra back, now. What’s so funny about it, anyway? I know you get your panties at Walmart like the rest of us. Get the fuck out and leave her alone before I come over there and fuck you up. I’m not even playin’ now.”
Gloria sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. “You her watch dog now? Eating her pussy after school? Cuz I know she never had a man. You certainly look like a dog.”
Pauline lunged towards Gloria, her towel threatening to fall to the floor.
The three girls backed away laughing. “Hey, Fernanda, you know Pauline is only your friend because you can help her with her work. Nobody likes you . . . boring bitch.”
They left in a fit of laughter to another row of lockers, tossing the plain white, wireless full cup bra with thick straps into a puddle of water. Fernanda reached down and grabbed the sodden fabric.
“Dumb cabronas. They’ll all be pregnant by twenty. You all right, Fernanda?”
Fernanda turned to face her locker, trembling, squeezing her eyes shut. She wanted to stuff her bra into her mouth to prevent herself from sobbing. The vulgarity of the insults. The hatred. She didn’t understand why it was directed at her. Be smart, but not too smart. Be beautiful, but not so pretty as to make other females mad. Be successful, but not bossy or overly ambitious. Nobody likes a mouthy brown woman. Be a declawed kitten.
“You know none of what they said is true . . . ”
Fernanda opened her eyes. “I know. You make those good grades on your own. But I am boring.”
“Seriously, though. Guys don’t care what kinda bra you wear, as long as they get to see titties and ass. Dogs. I had a guy try to take my tampon out while we made out. Dirty dogs.”
Fernanda blushed and tried to chuckle over the sensation of wanting to vomit. She couldn’t imagine even allowing anyone near there at that time of the month.
“I’m so embarrassed. And then saying you eat my . . . in front of everyone. My mom buys my bras and underwear with me. She says white cotton is best because it breathes, and nobody should be looking at what I wear underneath, anyway.
“I mean your mom isn’t entirely wrong. Cotton is pretty damn comfortable and easy to wash, but if you want someone to look, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’re beautiful.”
Fernanda could feel herself shrinking at this conversation. Pauline’s thumb brushed her bare back as she pulled Fernanda’s hair from her face. Her touch felt soft and comforting on her flesh, usually hidden behind fabric. Someone telling her she was beautiful. It made her especially uncomfortable because Pauline stood there half naked, acting like she was fully clothed in the cafeteria. Fernanda didn’t want to go through high school feeling so naked and scared.
The next morning when I went to see Fernanda, her aunt, Yolanda, answered the door in her blue scrubs. She was a pediatric nurse and always at the house. I assumed she was there to check on Fernanda’s health because she answered with a blood pressure cuff in her hand and a look of worry on her face. Father Moreno sipped coffee in the living room as he listened to a tearful Mrs. Garcia.
“I caught her with that black makeup and touching herself! I left for a moment to make food before I heard moaning. Disgraceful. Disgusting. This isn’t right, Father.” Mrs. Garcia’s voice warbled in dramatic hysterics; I could swear she was the one possessed. “My daughter is a good girl, a smart girl. She is going to college on a scholarship. We have worked hard to save for those years. Save her, Father Moreno!”
I hated how she thought of us as little girls. Maybe Mrs. Garcia would want to hear about the time I met a man five years older than myself at a poetry reading at Barnes & Noble. When the event was over, he invited me for a coffee in the café; I told him to take me back to his home. Behind his expression of hesitation and disbelief, I could sense his excitement about an aggressive nineteen-year-old. I fucked him, not because of anything he said or did, but because I wanted to. It was the first time I experienced oral sex while “Bette Davis Eyes” by Kim Carnes played on his stereo. His uncertainty turned me on as he kept asking me if it was okay. Did I like that? What did I like? I didn’t have answers. That was why I was
