Her Skirt (a trio of vignettes)
By Rena Kim, 17, California
Tutu Hugs
A bit of pink. A bit of tulle. A bit of floof. I grab the fabric as it poofs up from the yellow cover of the bouncy bed. The flower lamp shines more yellow and fills the room with pretty light. Walking across my room I spot another suspiciously familiar mirroring my expressions. Round eyes full of excitement and curiosity. I watch her step into my tutu. It’s itchy. But pretty.
A big curtsey. A big twirl. A big grin. I see the girl in front of me. Hair up and whipped up into a bun. She looks like a strawberry milkshake. Hehehehhe.
A mini bow, the cherry on top. The berry pink skirt is so cute. Not hot pink. Baby pink and soft, as if the creaminess and sweetness could whisk me away. It feels like foamy clouds that embrace me and float up. Up. The corners of my mouth go up. My toes go up. I feel tall. Strong. Independent.
The new tutu hugs me. I feel like a princess. Can a seven year old be a princess? I see a graceful ballerina with a tiara that sparkles in the reflection. Like the white swan floating across the stage in San Francisco. She drifted so gracefully on her pointy shoes. I wanna be like her.
My skirt is soft and puffy, but the older girls have tighter and shorter ones. I wanna be like the older girls. I see them on the streets near my house. Who look so pretty with their tight skirts and rosy red cheeks. But are always looking around for other people. I wonder why. As they come closer, I notice. A face too bright to be flushed from the sun. I think they added more pink. I like pink. I think they use the powder that makes me sneeze.
But for now, the tutu will do.
She’s ready for anything. Power stance. Twirling around like a tornado that conquers anything in its path around and around and around. Or like ring-around-the-rosy. Spinning so fast out of control, but it’s fun. It’s so fun. The laughs bubble out of me and keep coming. I can’t control the giggles that rise out of me. Everything is so uncontrollable, but it’s okay.
Let’s go, my cutie.
And the girl in the mirror looks at me and smiles.
The Glances
A bright red. The vibrant hue pops out against the neutrals of my sheets, closet, and dresser. Morning light streams through an open window and spotlights the fabric. I grab the puddle of ruby fabric from my bedside. I love it so much. A plain white tank will pair nicely, I think. I remember it snug on my hips as I tried every possible top, a frantic hour of speed-dating for the passionate bottoms. I’m excited. I hope someone compliments my outfit when I walk past the lockers. The cold winter air forces color into my cheeks. Though it’s true, I added some extra blush. It will definitely attract attention.
Wait. How much hate am I going to get for this?
Do I want that? Is it too much? Does the girl in the mirror seem attention-seeking? Wanting the spotlight? Does it look too tight on my hips? Do I look like a slut? Is the fabric stressing my fat? Is the red too bright? Maybe red is not my color.
But. I mean. It’s just a skirt. Right?
Let’s go, can’t be late.
Grabbing a jacket, just in case. Rushing to the car. Swallowing the remains of a bagel. Stepping into the hallways of the big building. I should be looking at the small papers in my shaking hands. Shaking not for the first period test, but shaking under their eyes. They are everywhere. I can hear the muted murmurs (tight) (red) (too much) (desperate) reverberating down the curves of my skirt.
A whistle. A whisper.
The flashcards will have to wait. As the urge to hide begins to envelop me in shame, in search of another mirror, the bathroom becomes my sanctuary. Or a cage. Because the red no longer looks vibrant. Bleeding. Bruised. Betraying. I must have imagined the skirt hugging my curves just right. Now it clings on, trying not to burst or go limp.
My savior. I desperately claw at the hood. Shaky hands extend to jittery fingers that gingerly find their way through my hoodie. I pull the bottom down as far as it will go. Only a strip of red remains. A tight band stands out under the gray sweatshirt.
That’s good. Right?
Pants
If I had just worn pants. I looked better in my apartment mirror. Standing there, my choice of bottoms ended right above my knees that still looked knobby despite the black sheer stockings. My feet sunk and dug into the ground as the heels left them dented and sore. A warning to stay home that I should’ve listened to. I couldn’t move. Or think. Or do. Anything. For 30 minutes I had glared at the amateur sculpture in the mirror in front of me shoved into tiny stilettos.
A sharp intake of breath. The white walls of the office were too white. Too clean and too perfect. Pristine. Surely there must be a crack or scratch somewhere. Uncomfortable chairs. They scowl at me. I was told to sit beside him as I place one leg on top of the other in an effort to stop it from shaking. The resumé wobbles in my lap. Tumultuous in my lap. The weather forecast is bad.
Tap. Tap.
On the corner of that hard clipboard, a mean pen snaps loudly. I can feel the competition breathing down my back. Trying not to let his height intimidate me. But I’m the one wearing the skirt. And he wore pants.
The receptionist slices through my thoughts:
Let’s go, ma’am.
I catch a glance of myself in the glass. Grim. Why do I look so grim? No time to wonder. The man with fake kind eyes opens the door. Introductions are in order. I can tell they are fake by the way a glance becomes a second too long at my knees. I enter the room.
Pages upon pages on that clipboard. Qualifications I’ve worked so hard for.
I was the one who studied longer than everyone else. I was the one who woke up early to submit everything first. I was the one who researched the most. Despite my longer hair that takes more products to shower. Despite the colors I layer onto my face because pretty privilege is real. Despite the bottoms that have one hole for my legs, not two.
Because first, the tall man scanned me up and down. He smirked. Laughing at me in my skirt. At the two knees exposed. Wobbly in my attempts to seem taller. Then the man’s fake eyes shifted. Forgetting the pages on his clipboard, straining against the sight of my knees.
He leaves the room. I didn’t get it. Of course. He got it. He with the pants. Me with pages and pages of accolades. Me with the skirt, lost it.
Now my pointy heels are stuck in the ground and I cannot leave. I hear rain pound the window. I heard its anger before I saw its sadness. The forecast was right. It’s always right. It never changes. Why do I ever hope it will be sunny? When it will only ever rain.
I should’ve worn pants.
As a teenage girl, I attempted to emulate the emotions I have faced throughout my years. Such a complicated factor of my identity, I wanted the difficulty of the female experience to shine through.
