I’d longed for it.
I’d eaten chunk after chunk of raw potato for days, then weeks, all based on Michelle Labella’s recommendation, and still my chest was as shapeless as every other part of my body. I stared and turned in the mirror, looked here and there for signs of change. Looked hard for the woman I was supposed to become.
Nothing.
I should have known better, should have known that men gathered on street corners would inform me, should have known that they’d give an “mm, mmmm, mmm” and “sure looks fine” as I walked by. I should have understood that men tucked into storefronts would notice the titties springing from the plain of my chest before I’d even have a chance to ask my mother for money to buy a bra.
Once they noticed, everything changed.
When I passed them on the street, I lowered my head. I’d look at the ground and keep walking. Past the fish market on Parsells and Webster where men stood around, hungry for something to look at.
They approached in groups or sometimes alone, hand and voice united in a sweet sell. Their voices were hot and wet, and there was a small part of me that didn’t mind being called baby all the time. But mostly, I hated it. Mostly, I learned to stay with the Girls on trips to the store or church or anywhere else.
When my mom wanted bread or a gallon of milk and I had to get it, I’d beg the Girls to walk with me. They wouldn’t want to go, but might need me later that day, and so they usually came. Two were safer than one, and three were even better. We’d avoid their eyes, ignore their calls, talk to each other about clothes, shoes, what we’d seen on TV—anything but them.