All Dressed Up And....

ALL DRESSED UP AND.......

She stares at her face in the mirror. No peaches and cream there. Thin lashes and a splat of freckles are not attention grabbers either. The hair that tumbles forward though, is a beautiful unruly red. Is it a courtesy of Miss Clairol, or mother nature? Why can’t she remember?
Her reflection stares back at her, silent, with eyes too far apart and full of disbelief. There had been tears. Her eyes are a startled blue in a sea of red. She assesses her too wide lips under a nose that has more space than it needs, then steps back. What had he seen in her? Why had he chosen her?
She appraises herself from toe to head. The slim body appears insulted by the too large breasts, one partially exposed where her dress has been torn. The dress is stained with grass, dirt, and blood. She knows it is her blood. It goes with the pain.

Her hand moves towards her dress as giggles float through the bathroom door. Two brunettes enter, their flawless skin blushing, brown eyes full of laughter. Their prom dresses are intact and cling to well proportioned bodies. Their perfume fills the bathroom as the door mutes the music.
She sees disapproval replace the laughter in the girl’s eyes as they glance at her. She watches her reflection watch the intruders. The girls lower their eyes and turn away. They exit quickly, as if entering had been a mistake.
She turns again to face the mirror. Fresh tears join freckles and stream past the nose and onto the lips. She sees something familiar in those wet blue eyes, someone she knows is locked away behind them.
A faucet drips and voices dance outside an opened, but wired window. Her lips mouth the words. “Others will come in soon and ask you what happened. Someone will come in and know. Someone will call the police. If you don’t want this to happen, then leave now. Use the rear exit. You know no one will miss you”.
She bends at the knees and picks up her green satin purse. The same green as her torn prom dress. The girl fumbles inside the purse and pulls out a linen hankie. The initials ‘M.B.’ are embroidered in green stitchery in a corner. She knows the initials, she remembers her name.
Margaret Bellows backs away from the mirror. She turns away from her reflection and walks slowly from the ladies room.


********
He watches Margaret Bellows exit the rear door of the school. He has come to high school proms before. It has been five years since the last one. He hadn’t gone to his own prom, he’d decided to skip that humiliation. He drops the cigarette and crushes it beneath his Reeboks. He bought new Reeboks after each prom, always burning the old pair. Proms were started for the creation of Reeboks. His Reeboks were never really new. He’d pick them up at garage sales, flea markets or the Goodwill. Sometimes it was hard to find a pair that fit perfect or good enough, but not always. He’d always have another pair by the time he needed them.
He could hear her humming along with the band. A popular song, something to sway and get close and closer to. He hated those songs and the high school bands. Those guys wearing acne like it was part of their attire. Acne that was camouflaged by guitars, drums and saxophones. The girls giggling and swaying as if those guys had stepped from the cover of a GQ magazine.
He watches her hum alone. She’d come to the prom with her cousin who immediately went off looking for another of their kind. Someone unrelated, but still above the geeks and nerds that cluster together and secretly laugh at the “cool” kids.
He doesn’t belong. Her cousin doesn’t belong. She doesn’t belong either, but she refuses to go out because the “jocks” and pretty boys ignore her.

She won’t date boys as unattractive as she is. As if by not doing so, she is placed in a separate special class. Not pretty, but not geeky either.
So while her cousin sought out girls who refused his offers to dance, she walked and hummed her way to the edge of the parking lot.
He did find her special. Not pretty, but not plain like the other daises along the wall. He appears in front of her. He is dressed in a dark blue tuxedo, a dark blue shirt, a white bow tie and red and green Reeboks. Her soft “oh” is sweet before the panic.
The dry grass rustles obscenely against her ears. The earth with it’s tiny claws of stone, scratches and bites into her skin. The stars glare at her from a black sky. No one misses her, the band blares on.
The dry grass is crushed into silence beneath his hands. The earth’s stones are brushed away like so many ants. The sky is dismissed by the broadness of his back. The band is an accompaniment to his performance.
********

Marjorie Bellows lifts the green silk dress from the box. She does not hold it against her body by the waist and the neckline. She does not want to imagine the look. She’ll wait for the real effect. She still can’t believe she discovered within herself the courage to do this. Talking to her mom for over an hour last night had convinced her that having or not having a date for her high school prom did not establish who she would be for the rest of her life.
She is not pretty, nor will she mature into beauty, but as her mom pointed out, she can develop inner strength. Her confidence in what she can contribute will diminish the need for layers of cosmetics. She can set herself aside as a special entity that will draw admiration where she least expects it.
Her mom had worked strings like a puppeteer to get the green dress for her daughter and a perm to top it off. Marjorie’s naturally red hair shines like a queen’s crown.
After her shower, Marjorie dressed and appraised herself from toe to head. She always saved her best feature for last. Make-up would not have given her a peaches and cream complexion. She would have needed too much to cover her freckles, and nothing could help her nose.
She shrugs, then smiles, and steps into green pumps. She has never worn heels or stockings before and she feels transformed. She is aware of the woman she can become. She grabs her green purse and stuffs in the linen hankie with her embroidered initials. She walks out of her bedroom and closes the door on the sadness of growing up plain. Something stirs inside her. Something similar to what she feels before stepping into the dentist’s office. She shrugs. It couldn’t be fear. It must be anticipation. Tonight she may meet the man of her dreams.