Maligned Designs
Chapter 1
“I read in a magazine that flat-chested women should never wear V-necked shirts,” my mother says, glancing at my chest with a look of concern. She sighs and resumes decorating my daughter’s cake. “Why don’t you run upstairs and change before Cassandra’s friends arrive?”
"I’m an interior designer, Mom.” I say, cheeks burning. “I think I can choose an outfit worthy of a 12-year old’s birthday party.”
“It never helps to play up our shortcomings, Gordon.” Easy for her to say. I watch her bosom heaving mightily as she whacks a jar of colored sprinkles against my kitchen counter in attempt to loosen the stubborn lid. Tiny flecks of laminate fly from my aging countertop and spatter about the floor. Biting my tongue, I take the jar from her hands, twist the lid off with ease and kick the dark green counter shards under the oven before my husband sees them.
While I was preoccupied with clawing my way out of my mother’s womb, my parents bequeathed to me (on top of the apparently recessive tiny breast gene) the name Gordon. Gordon Peebles. The hope was to embody their first daughter with sterling qualities like courage, brawn and spunk. Instead, they bestowed on me gender mayhem, playground annihilation and a mortal fear of introductions. “I’m sorry, I thought you said Gordon.” And so on. It could be worse, my brother’s name is Gail.
In my secret world, my little girl world, I was a devastatingly beautiful princess-in-the-tower type, with flowing auburn hair and a name like Tabitha or Suzette; a name so frothy and pink you could pick the lace out of your teeth. Some children have an invisible friend, I had an invisible self. I closed my eyes and I wasn’t six inches taller than any of the boys, and never, ever, stretched earthworms until they tore in half and slithered away jerking and twitching in different directions.
My voice was sing-song sweet, like a bird who might flutter in your window, pick up your laundry and hang it out to dry while you sweep the front porch. Never pebbly and gruff like in my real world.
“I’m not changing,” I say, pushing 12 candles into the top of the cake and licking purple icing from my fingers. “You’ll all have to suffer.”
My dad walks into the kitchen carrying a screwdriver and a handful of screws, drags a chair over to the window and climbs aboard, tugging on the drapery rod. “Damn thing’s about to crash down on us,” he scolds me sweetly. “I’ll just tighten her up a bit, hon.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Honestly, Rick,” says my mother, wiping her hands on her apron, which reads, when in doubt, add more wine. “With your eyesight, you’re likely to lose a finger…or several.”
“I can see just fine,” he grunts, dropping several screws onto the floor and squinting in effort to locate them. With a shrug, he screws in whatever he’s got left, completely missing the drapery support bracket, dismounts and drops his tools beside the cake.
“Looks amazing, Dad. And sturdy.”
“Nothing but the best for my girl.” He kisses my cheek. My mother puts a glass of scotch in his hand and bends over to pick up the runaway hardware.
