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  “Uh, I’m okay,” the young girl stuttered, throwing on her shirt.

  My eyes were still locked on her body, which stood motionless in front of the mirror. “Do you need some help with a bra?”

  She took a second to respond, still anchored in the middle of the dressing room.

  “Um, yeah, maybe,” she stuttered again, slowly opening the door. “I’m not sure if this fits.”

  “Do you mind if I come in?” I asked, noticing the fresh coat of baby pink lip gloss sparkling on her lips.

  “Sure.” She hesitated, taking small steps toward the corner of the dressing room.

  When I closed the door behind me, I noticed that she had reorganized the bra-and-panty sets on the chair next to the mirror, all of which shared sheerness in the crotch and thin stuffing in the cups of the bras. I stared at the order she had put them in, admiring her lingerie’s seductive charm.

  “I’m Natalee, by the way,” I said, extending my hand. Tentatively, she placed her clammy hand in mine, her long fingers barely holding on.

  “Molly,” she said timidly.

  “You have good taste, Molly.”

  She smiled halfway, her pale face reddening with embarrassment as she looked down at her black Converse shoes. I looked at her for a moment under the florescent lights, catching a quick glance at the small mounds of flesh packed into the waistband of her low-rise jeans. I turned to face her again, struck by the blueness of her eyes and the tiny pimples crowding the left side of her chin.

  “Let me help,” I said abruptly, looking over at her pile of bras and thongs.

  Shyly taking a step back, she nodded with a faint smile. “Let’s check out what you have on now,” I said, hoping to elicit a sense of calmness, but I soon abandoned my intentions and asked her to lift up her shirt.

  After a few awkward seconds, Molly took off her T-shirt. Her rib cage poked out as the collar moved over her ears and around her head. She threw her shirt on the chair and moved in front of me, quickly covering her stomach with her arms.

  “Molly,” I said, sliding closer to her presumably untouched breasts that were stuffed into a black lace push-up bra. “Forgive me if I sound intrusive, but may I ask what these are for? I mean, are you looking for everyday wear or bras to go under something specific?”

  She moved her arms in closer to her stomach and stood crossing one leg over the other, nervously rolling her shoe to one side in response to my unexpected inquiry.

  “I just need new bras,” she replied softly, shrugging her shoulders, reluctant to divulge anything that might indicate her motives. I pulled on the band of her bra and lightly turned her to one side so she could see the back of her bra in the mirror. “This is way too big.”

  “It is?” she asked, confused.

  “We’ll fix it,” I said, reaching for the doorknob. “Give me five.”

  Looking discreetly around the edges of the department for his dark, messy hair, I realized my mysterious thrill had not returned. Carrying on with my duty, I was curious to know more about Molly. I felt a pang of familiarity with her as she reminded me of my own youth. There was a unique and daring flair about her that I liked; it transported me back to Pink Floyd laser shows, Janis Joplin, and my parents’ well-stocked liquor cabinet.

  Staring at a baby pink push up with small splashes of pastels, I wondered if Molly’s adolescence summoned the same kind of reckless abandon that mine had. Middle school and high school came, and my uncomplicated purity transformed into a burning need to understand the world and everything in it. I was sixteen and probably smoking more Marlboros than most of AA’s twelve-steppers. Curiosity had overshadowed everything, pushing me to soak up as much experience as I possibly could. I wanted to be everywhere else but at home with my parents, because they had rules and curfews and sit-down family dinners with meat loaf and green beans. And as I sat between my brothers in an old wooden pew during Sunday school, still high from the magic mushrooms I ate the night before and listening to the same tired spiel about Noah’s unfathomable ark, I prayed that my negligence wouldn’t permanently fry my brain.

  “Molly,” I said, knocking lightly. “You doing okay?”

  I watched the doorknob turn slowly as Molly welcomed me in. She hid her body behind the door, wearing a coral-colored push-up bra with her arms pulled tight around her small belly.

  “I don’t think this fits either,” she replied bashfully as her cheeks warmed to a dark red.

  “Here,” I said, hanging her bras on the bar. “I brought you these.”

  “A C!” she shrieked in disbelief while looking at one of the tags. “Really?”

  “I brought you 32 Cs to try; 32 bands, aside from a couple styles of 30s, are the smallest size we carry, which still might be too big.”

  She stood blushing in front of the mirror with a soft smile of gratitude. I waited outside the dressing room while Molly put on one of the bras I brought her. I wondered if I should’ve taken the time to measure her. Considering her small build, she’d maybe come in at around 29 inches; I knew it would’ve been unnecessary. Plus, I didn’t want to make her any more uncomfortable as I tried to figure out what she really wanted.

  “Wow, Molly, that looks great,” I said, walking back into the dressing room. She blushed again and relaxed her arms, gracefully moving her body from side to side so she could view every angle in the mirror. Her breasts fit nicely in the cups, filling the space with ease and unfledged proposition.

  “How old are you, Molly?” I asked abruptly.

  “I’m fifteen, almost sixteen.”

  “You’re almost legal,” I said, my eyes widening.

  She looked at me, confused. “I have, like, three years.”

  “I mean, for your driver’s license,” I replied, feeling awkward.

  The room fell quiet, and I watched as Molly moved her gaze around the dressing room.

  “It’s for my boyfriend. We’re sort of planning a night,” she said in a low, indistinct murmur, looking down at the soft gray carpet with her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Knowing what she was alluding to, I was at a complete loss for words, suddenly struggling to decide if I was Natalee, the open-minded bra fitter, or Mother Teresa on a Sunday wearing cowboy boots.

  “Oh, I see. Alright, great,” I replied idiotically, moving my eyes over to her lingerie. She watched me as I assessed her pile of bras and skimpy thongs on the chair.

  “Here,” she said, pulling out a crumpled magazine cutout from her bag. I stared quietly at its commanding overture, wondering how I was going to feel once I made it out of the bra fitting.

  “So you like the look?” I asked, slowly studying a lingerie model’s perky assets served up with bright red lace, shiny lips, and not an ounce of objectionable flesh or unwanted markings. Every inch of her body was a lean, mean, smokin’ machine, making me rethink my rapport with cookies and brownies and tacos and maybe alcohol, and jump on whatever plant-based nutrition plan this page-turner had going on.

  The exchange made me feel uneasy, though, especially when I looked up to find Molly comparing herself to the long list of standards warming my fingertips right in front of my eyes and being so serious about it. It was easier when it was just Molly and me—without the model.

  “I like how her boobs look in the bra,” Molly replied, pointing at their tanned roundness as they spilled out from over the bra’s silk edges. “She just…looks good.”

  “Alright.” I tried speaking with deliberate intent while feeling guilty about my own reflection upon seeing our nipped paradigm spread open on the page. “You want something that you can get a lot of wear out of.”

  She stared at me without blinking.

  “And something that fits you properly.” I struggled, opening the door again.

  My head buzzing with disjointed memories, I sunk my back into the padded wall next to Molly’s dressing room, wondering if I should’ve left or stayed or called her parents or stopped asking questi
ons. I was afraid to pick up another customer just in case Molly wanted to pay and get out as quickly and discreetly as possible. There was something inside me that still wanted to honor her wishes without feeling hypocritical or contradictory.

  “I think I like this one,” I heard her mumble from inside.

  “Yeah,” I replied, shaking my head at Farah as she came out of one of the rooms with her hands swaying below her belly button, kindly demonstrating the position of her customer’s breasts. “Which one do you have on?”

  Molly opened the door, dressed in one of the pink pushups. The cups covered just the right amount of breast tissue, giving her a “tasteful” amount of cleavage, though that part wasn’t for me to measure.

  “I like it,” I replied, wondering which one she was going to pick for her boyfriend. I watched as she moved her body from side to side again, sucking in her tummy with every turn.

  “Which one do you like?” she asked, looking at me with her big blue eyes and flushed cheeks.

  I paused as I thought about her question, trying to decide which response would be the wisest and most appropriate.

  “I like the one that Molly is comfortable in,” I replied, emphasizing her name as I stuck her magazine page back inside of her bag.

  I could feel her beginning to tense up as she ran her hand through her hair and then cracked her knuckles in unison, mimicking the sound of Pop-Its noise makers. I couldn’t tell if she was negotiating with her body in terms of what it looked like to her, or if she was thinking about her boyfriend, and what he desired to see.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she said, moving her gaze from her new perky breasts down to the floor. “I mean, I just want it to be, you know ... I don’t know ...” She paused.

  Suddenly speechless, I took a step back and looked at Molly in the mirror. I didn’t know what I could or couldn’t ask, let alone say, as a “professional” bra fitter whose dressing room discourse undoubtedly filled the hallway. But for some reason, I took the opportunity to meddle in her adolescence as if it was meant for me to understand, or at the very least, feel. Part of me couldn’t believe I was having this conversation, but I continued, throwing caution to the wind without a second thought.

  “Is this your first time, Molly?” I asked, lowering my voice. Her eyes widened as she stood close to the mirror. She took a second to respond to my question, which, frankly, was none of my business. But in that moment, as I stood with my back to the door, Molly’s disposition, masked with fear, transposed into an unexpected calmness, rendering me even more anxious.

  “Yeah,” she muttered shyly, lifting her face to mine.

  “Wow, okay,” I stuttered as she stood with her hands shoved into her jeans. The thinness of her collarbones became more prominent as she shrugged her shoulders.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Jacob,” she said, smiling.

  “Jacob,” I repeated. “I knew a Jacob at your age. He used to pick his nose and wipe his rolled-up boogers under his desk.” I thought about his rusty orange-colored hair and the cluster of freckles on his nose. “I’m sorry,” I said nervously. “I don’t suspect that your Jacob does that, but, wow, I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “His boogers?” she asked, lowering her chin with a disgusted look.

  “No, no.” I laughed. “Feeling totally unprepared but curious and ready all at the same time.”

  Molly’s eyes got bigger. “I really like him,” she said, looking down at the carpet.

  I could feel her attachment to Jacob as she spoke tenderly, reminding me of how vivid and consuming young love can be. “That’s great.” I smiled, glancing at the white lace lining half of her breasts. I tried to understand Jacob and what it was like to be fifteen again, wanting to experience what life had to offer on my own terms. “Is he funny?”

  “He is,” she replied, laughing.

  “Good.” I laughed with her, allowing her widespread grin to quiet my list of pending inquiries. “Sounds like he’s the lucky one.”

  Our laughter died down. I moved in closer to Molly and tightened the straps on her bra. “I’ll let you figure out the bottoms.” I reached for the doorknob as I glanced over at her pile of thongs.

  Feeling like I was sixteen again, I circled the department quietly. It felt like only yesterday that I sat alone in a Planned Parenthood clinic and rifled through a brown paper bag stuffed with STD pamphlets, condoms, penis-burning spermicide, and a lollipop for good measure. I had skipped class to prepare for my virginity-losing triumph with my boyfriend of nine months, six days, and a hundred and twenty minutes. He was everything I never saw coming, and from the opposite side of the tracks. I loved him; I loved everything about him. And as the bell rang for math class, I flew out of the school parking lot, knowing my father was at work and my mother was at home cleaning away her OCD. The roads were clear, as was my conscience, impelling me one step closer to the very brink of womanhood.

  Still circling the department in a daze, I could almost feel the burn below my waist as I imagined my backside exposed on the old down comforter I snuck out of my parents’ house. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the only thing between me and my better judgment was Michael Morrison and a forty-ouncer of Mickey’s Ice. Dirt and duck droppings framed our makeshift bed in the park next to the lake. It was cold, and I felt unskilled and disconnected, especially because Michael was older and more experienced. But I wanted it; I wanted to experience sex and like it. It was a perfectly planned farewell to my safely guarded virtue, and I was ready to cross over to the other side. I was ready to stand tall and hold my rights like a lioness, which is exactly what I did after I split ways with Michael and hightailed it out of the park, praying to every god above that my father wasn’t up drinking his morning coffee on the porch six houses down the block.

  When I realized I was almost home free, I lightened my tiptoeing and slid under my white ruffled canopy, feeling exhilarated as my heart pumped a thousand beats. I gave my elaborate scheme a few more moments just in case my mother was to barge in, demanding answers. She rarely slept for long periods of time, waking up to the faintest sounds. But silence continued to prevail. My send-off was a success. And as each day passed, the numbness wore off, slowly overruled by a sharp vividness, leaving me free from any regret, and with a small piece of stolen memorabilia to hold on to, kindly thanking me for visiting Treasure Island Park.

  I passed by a table of bras and thought about what Jacob might be like, and how I hoped, really hoped, he knew what he had. I thought about how Molly was feeling in the dressing room at that very moment, looking over her body with careful consideration. I wondered if I had scared her even more or made her feel at ease. I wondered what sex would be like for her—naked and distorted, moving blindly to the rhythms of unfamiliarity.

  “Excuse me.” I heard a voice from behind. “One of the salesgirls told me you have been helping my daughter Molly.” I turned around quickly, stuffing my armpit with bras, startled by how much Molly looked like her mother.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” I replied, looking around to see if Molly had come out of the dressing room. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Instead of waiting by the counter as I had intended, Molly’s mom followed me back to her room, calling out her name loudly.

  “Mom?” I heard Molly ask, her voice trembling with panic. Molly opened her door dressed in her T-shirt with the red push up I picked out for her sitting on the chair next to a red thong.

  “I’m not buying that!” her mother snapped sharply, bolting into the dressing room, looking down at Molly’s bra.

  “But, Mom!” Molly snapped back. “You said I could pick out a bra!”

  “Yes, Molly,” her mother replied bitterly. “Something practical, something that won’t make you look like you’re asking for it!”

  I took a step back.

  “And what is this?” she asked, picking up the thong by its thin lining as her
voice filled the dressing room. “These look cheap! You were raised better than this!”

  “They’re underwear!” Molly yelled, her eyes filling with tears.

  I stood in the hallway, motionless, watching Molly’s face melt into sadness. I was worried her mom was going to strip her of her selfhood, cut through her soft, unassuming disposition without even knowing it. Though I completely understood the protectiveness; Molly was her daughter, navigating a big, scary world.

  Noise continued to fill the hallway outside the dressing rooms. “I’ll meet you out front,” I interjected quickly, brushing Molly’s arm with my hand. I walked straight for the counter and jumped on a register, signaling for the next woman in line to step forward with her items. Red-faced from shock and frustration, I tried regaining as much composure as possible, knowing my manager was floating around somewhere, and that customers were depending on me to do my job. I felt stuck and afraid to say anything, more worried about letting Molly down.

  “I don’t know what’s going on in there,” I heard one woman mutter as she joined the line. “That woman is still yelling.”

  A few long moments passed before Molly and her mother approached the register. I stood still.

  “We’re going to get these,” her mother said firmly, setting two nude-colored cotton bras on the counter with her credit card. Staring at the mascara-stained corners of Molly’s eyes, I slid the bras across the counter and scanned them into the register. We stood in silence while I ran the credit card and wrapped her bras in tissue paper. Her mother carelessly scribbled her name on the receipt and then left it, mumbling a quiet thank you as she took the bag by its handles and walked ahead, leaving Molly and her desired bras at the counter.

  “I can’t get any underwear,” Molly said calmly as her mother moved out of earshot, wiping her cheek with the side of her thumb. I handed Molly her copy of the receipt, mustering up a friendly wink as I touched her shoulder. “You won’t need them anyway.”

  She looked up and smiled, fidgeting with the strings hanging from her hood. “Thank you,” she said, zipping up her sweater. “Sorry about my mom.”