The summer before fourth grade, Mom moved us from our cramped, leaky apartment to a house across the Columbia River.
The deed for our new house read like a game of Two Truths and a Lie; no one of color is legally able to own this property; this property entitles the owner to 1/160th of a park lot; a sewer line runs to the house. Unfortunately, the first two were true, though Mom, to her credit, hired someone to omit the offensive restriction of ownership based on race. Oh, and the lie? There was no sewer line in this part of Pasco. We relied on a septic tank which had to be pumped once a year by a man that exclaimed, “You’ve got a nice mix of solids and liquids, there!” with a straight face.
By the time I was twelve, we’d fully moved into the house, to the point where indentations in the carpet were made by us as we shuffled and spread out our sparse furnishings to make the space feel less empty. Because Mom had used her savings to put a down payment on the place and our old apartment was shoebox small, the new living room consisted of a couch and an orange chair. THE orange chair, but that’s a story for another time.
Mom scrimped and saved over the months and on occasion purchased something new and necessary, each of which was cause for celebration. On those nights, our house filled with fellow teachers and their spouses. They’d bring bottles of wine and plates of sumptuous morsels. The house would rock with music, either Mike singing to his guitar or Paul McCartney and Wings over the stereo speakers. Like any good party, it became raucous as the night wore on.
There was the fridge party; the dishwasher party; the coffee table party. Sometime after we acquired the dining set, the parties petered out. It might’ve had something to do with one of my mother’s best friends. She’d become my sixth grade teacher. To be fair, Mrs. A called me to ask if having her as a teacher would be awkward. She offered to transfer me to the other classroom, which I declined.
Sixth grade. At long last, we were the big fish in the pond! Days before the start of school, we received a letter explaining that everyone in neighborhood would be bussed to a new school up the hill. There went our clout. My only consolation was that my best friend across the street would be going to McGee Elementary with me, and I had potential dirt on my teacher, Mrs. A, who got chatty during the tail end of the new dinette party.
I’d never attended a brand-spanking-new-school before. McGee’s walls were pristine, the paint unmarred. The gym was carpeted. The library had a sunken reading space. The classrooms had doors that led directly out to the playground. The only thing it lacked was a mascot. The administrators gave us, the first sixth grade class, the honor. We met and squabbled and discussed, finally deciding on the Mustangs. McGee Mustangs felt appropriate for this shimmery school on a bare, windy plateau.
The dazzling newness was a temporary distraction. When I rode the bus down the hill at the end of the day, I thought about my friends at Mark Twain Elementary. I missed them, I also missed how close that school was to home; the distance was an easy walk that took us past a mini-mart. McGee was miles away, up a steep hill. That didn’t keep me from trying to walk there one morning. Was it because Shannon and I missed the bus? Or did we act on our nostalgia for Mark Twain and decide to try walking? I can’t recall. But Shannon’s mother was kind enough to drive us the rest of the way.
Sixth grade. I was a late bloomer. Sometime near Christmas of that year, Mom took me to Sears. She bought me two white lace training bras. One had a light blue bow in the middle, the other pink. The lacy fabric must’ve been selected by someone that hated women or wanted puberty to feel like a punishment. It was scratchy and that first morning as I crossed the street to meet Shannon for the bus, I couldn’t stand the feeling. I didn’t have time to run back home, so I wriggled and tugged, pulling the training bra off, shimmying it down my body. I didn’t own a backpack, so I decided the next best course of action was to stuff it inside the mailbox. I shoved it to the back and hurried away.
After school I noticed the red flag on our mailbox was up. That was strange. I thought you raised the flag to tell the letter carrier there was mail for them to pick up inside? I opened the mailbox and found my bra neatly folded on top of a stack of bills. I was mortified. Over dinner, Mom giggled, then lost it completely. “I ran into the letter carrier after work. Boy! Was he surprised. He’s never found a bra in a mailbox before.”
“Well, I’m glad I helped him have an interesting day, then,” I said.
And that’s the last we spoke of the bra.
In the weeks that followed, I found a moss-covered twenty dollar bill in the shallow waters of the Columbia River. I ran back to the house to show it to my family. My other dad, Mike, said, “That must be DB Cooper money! You should take it to the bank, have them check the serial number on there. It’d be worth lots if it’s one of his bills.”
Instead, I walked to Kmart and bought myself a 45 record, Rick Springfield’s, Don’t Talk to Strangers, and a new, softer bra without a stupid bow in the middle.
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Too good! Ya, who DOES authorize to lay carpet in a gym? Maybe the school nurse, so kid’s hearing lasts longer! 😂 And that true-to-life bra story❣️ Ugh! 😵😁😑😬
Who puts carpet down in a gym?