Ednor Scardens (Charm City Chronicles), Volume One

Chapter 2 - The Fitter

At her request, I called my grandmother 'Nan'. She said that being called grandma made her feel old. Well, compared to me, she WAS old. But I always thought she was a version of me, fast-forwarded several decades. Her non-judgmental approach to my confidences made me go to her first when I needed help. Mom was harder to approach. She would listen to my pre-teen crises, but I usually felt her attention wander after my first few sentences.

Nan would be intensely interested, and her green eyes were kind of mysterious. They were kind eyes, but when I wasn't in full disclosure mode, they would lay waste to any untruths that escaped my lips. Some days I felt like I was spilling my guts to an x-ray machine. The backbone of our shrunken family, she would answer any question with just enough information to satisfy me, nothing more. Then she would smile and resume whatever she was doing. Mom was her only child, and grandfather died when Nan was in her thirties. I never knew him or my dad.

As strong as Nan was, it seemed incongruous that Mom was so fragile, unable to get all of her pieces together in the same place at the same time. I learned to avoid asking her much about my dad. Whenever I did, her pain surfaced, threatening to scatter the pieces even more. It frustrated me, but I knew without a doubt that she loved me. And, unlike her, I'd yet to deal with heartbreak and death.

Mom was always doing things for the nuns at school. It drove Nan crazy, especially if she was doing something for my sixth grade teacher, Sister Teresa. She was okay as far as nuns went, although she usually operated on the edge of hysteria. The fear factor worked well as you didn't mess with her unless you wanted to be hauled into the coatroom. I only experienced it once, when she'd had enough of Anita and me whispering to each other in class. A coat hook pressed painfully against the back of my head as her face loomed inches from mine. My eyes bugged out as I braced for her spittle-laced yell. Instead, in an almost feral whisper, she said, "Do you want me to find a seat for you in the eighth grade boys' classroom?"

The segregation of seventh and eighth grade boys and girls was the most powerful discipline tool that the nuns possessed. An offender was sentenced to sit, on display, in the classroom of the opposite sex. There could be nothing worse than sitting in a chair at the front of a room filled with older boys, their skin ravaged and eyes glazed by surging hormones. And if you were an "early bloomer", as Nan called it, every pair of eyes would be glued to your chest. I don't know who came up with this method of discipline, but it was the most feared consequence in our school, especially for sixth and seventh grade girls.

I had bloomed over the summer between fifth and sixth grade. Mom was in denial, so Nan took me to a local department store. When I asked her why we had to be there exactly at 4:40 p.m., she said, "That's when your appointment is with the fitter". I didn't like the sound of that. "Well, you can't just get one of those ridiculous 'training' bras. You need a good supportive bra." My brain translated 'supportive' to mean freakishly old lady. On the other hand, the term 'training' bra always brought images of a lion tamer with chair and whip to mind. Sensing my impending panic, Nan turned her green lasers on me. "Kate, I want you to take a deep breath, calm down, and listen to me carefully. I know that you have mixed feelings about this development." The edge of her mouth threatened to curve upward as she realized her unintended pun.

"But you know that I have always told you the truth about whatever you wanted to know, and I am doing that now. Girls grow at different rates. Some develop a little each year, and some nearly overnight. I think you know which one you are, and if you don't get the right bra....well, let's just say you will be really sorry when you're older." She bit her lip and turned away. We both pretended I didn't know she was talking about herself.

"I'll make her stay out of the dressing room until you have the bra on. Okay?" I was in hell, sweating uncontrollably. I nodded, but resolved that no one was going to touch me, or I'd be out of there. Huge, damp circles seeped through the underarms of my shirt. Looking at the racks jammed with bras, I wanted to hide inside them the way I did as a child. They ranged in size from fashion-model-tiny to prison matron.

"Look at some of these, and pick what colors you like", she murmured. I chose several pale, unobtrusive shades with little flowers. Nan nodded approvingly, searched the rack, and deftly plucked out the three she thought might fit me. I squared my shoulders, and walked with her toward the fitter's counter. Surprisingly, the fitter was younger than I'd anticipated. She looked like she might be in her early twenties maybe, and dressed like some of the older high school kids. I relaxed a bit while Nan quietly explained to her what she wanted. The fitter's name was Margie. She turned, smiled at me and winked conspiratorily. I handed the bras to her, anxious to get them out of my hands.

"Nan, I'll call you if I need you, okay?" She watched me turn on my heel and follow Margie into the dressing room.

Praying that no one else would be in there, I went to the very end of the row and slipped through the louvered door, holding my breath. Margie stuck her arm through the narrow opening to hand me the bras.

"Why don't you try one on and let me know when you are ready for me to come in?" she prompted. I exhaled slowly. This was okay so far. Pulling my shirt over my head, I squinted my eyes, not ready to see 'them' displayed in a three-way mirror. Anita once told me once that store detectives sat on the other side of the mirrors to catch people who tried to steal things. I hoped she was wrong.

A soft knock meant that Margie was waiting for me to tell her to come in. "Okay?" I squeaked. Margie smiled as she opened the door just enough to slip through. Positioning herself behind me, she checked the hooks in the back, adjusted the straps, and quietly said, "I think we have a winner." I hesitated and cautiously smiled back at her. "Would you like to wear it home?" she asked. I started turning red again, forgetting that she meant for me to put my blouse on over it. "I'll just take the other ones out to your grandma and ring them up for you." Shocked, I stared at myself, at the new contours of the strange girl looking back at me in the mirror