by Paula Ibieta
For many years, my favorite space in our house was my mother’s closet. In truth, it belonged to both of my parents, but my father’s clothing, always encased in plastic from the dry cleaner’s, never registered in my internal inventory. On the other hand, my mother’s side was a wonderland of different fabrics, styles, and textures. I knew every item by heart, and I could envelop myself in the pieces that clothed her. Each object was precious, especially selected to be amongst other treasures of its caliber.
My mother had a routine for getting dressed, which I observed entranced, curled up on the loveseat at the foot of the bed. She would peruse her own wardrobe as if she were in a boutique. She built her outfits one step at a time and would change out pieces until the combination was perfect. Then, she would step out to the front of the room where she had a full-length mirror. She looked at herself from the front and then turned to the back, checking for stains and smoothing out her clothes. Finally, she would examine her body from a profile view. She always placed her right hand over her lower belly and stood up straight, sucking in her tiny stomach to make it perfectly flat. When she was satisfied, she'd give herself a smile and then walk out the door, into the rest of her day.
This inspired me to play dress up whenever she’d allow me to, even though it made her nervous. She would watch me with a vigilant eye and remind me to be careful. The only thing she forbade me from wearing was a silk blouse with pearl beading. It was too delicate, she said; they were real pearls. My father had gotten it for her on a trip before I was born. The silk was a dusky robin’s egg blue. Rows of small pearl beads flowed across the neckline, and then cascaded down like little raindrops, dribbling down from the bounty of pearls at the top. I longed to wear that blouse. I would run my fingers across the pearl beads whenever I was in the closet. “Maybe when you’re older,” she said.
The day I stole the blue silk blouse was one of the worst days of my early life. I was in the eighth grade. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. My father and two older brothers were out at a soccer game, and my mother was gardening. I was bored, flipping through the channels, when I heard a knock at the front door. It was my next-door neighbor, Josh. He was one grade above me, but we had been neighborhood friends since we were kids, riding our bikes together with my brothers. With Josh was with his friend Angel, whom I happened to have a massive crush on. He had floppy blond hair and blue eyes. I liked that Angel was quiet and shy and that, unlike Josh, he didn’t talk very much.
“We’re going to the park. Wanna come?” Josh asked. They both had their bikes. “Sure,” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, while my heart was thumping under my t-shirt. “Just let me ask my mom real quick.” I ran to the sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard and shoved it open as hard as I could. “Hey Mom, can I go to the park with Josh?”
She didn’t look up from pruning her lavender. “Okay, honey, just please wear your helmet. And don’t take too long. I’m about to make lunch.”
“Okay, Mom.” I slammed the door. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I had never hung out with Angel outside of school.
On my way to get my bike, I had an idea. I looked back at my mom; she was deeply entranced in trimming. Even though I knew she couldn’t hear me, I tiptoed all the way up the stairs to her room and gingerly rolled open her closet door. I took off my t-shirt, grabbed the the blue silk blouse from its hanger, and slipped it over my head. It hung loosely on my shoulders, but as I stepped in front of the the mirror to admire it, I thought I looked beautiful.
I met the boys outside with my bike. Josh smirked when he saw me. “That’s a weird shirt.”
“It’s silk, dummy” I said.
“Still weird.”
I rolled my eyes and looked at Angel, as if to say, What does he know? Angel just smiled and shrugged.
We rode to our neighborhood park, which featured a pond encircled by a tree-lined paved trail. We zoomed around the trail, seeing how fast we could go. Josh was in the lead, then Angel, then me.
After a few laps, Josh rode over to the parking lot on the far side of the park, and we followed. He stopped near the tall hedges lining the far end of the lot.
“Jeez, you guys were going fast,” I said.
“We just wanted to see if you could keep up,” Josh teased.
“I always keep up,” I retorted.
I saw Josh look over at Angel. They exchanged a look, and Josh grinned.
Josh turned to me. “So, um. Do you like, have boobs now?”
“What?”
“Do you have boobs yet?”
“Ew, what are you talking about?” My face burned.
“Well, I noticed the other day at school. Angel did too.”
I was speechless at this point. Josh stared at me, waiting for an answer. I looked to Angel, hoping to find an ally. His gaze was lowered, but when he looked up, I saw curiosity in his eyes.
“You guys are gross,” I finally sputtered.
“Well, if you’re not, prove it, then.”
“What?”
“Prove that you’re not growing boobs.”
I just stared.
“Lift up your shirt.”
“Ew. No way.”
Josh clicked his tongue. “See, I told you she’d be too chicken.”
“I’m not chicken.”
“Well, then, do it.”
I stared at them. Josh’s eyes were taunting. Angel broke the silence, saying, “We didn’t think you’d be mad.” He looked genuinely surprised.
I had never let myself be held back by being the only girl. I started to lift the hem of the blue silk, telling myself it would be over soon. They wouldn’t let me live it down if I couldn’t handle a dare.
But at the last second, I changed my mind. I yanked my shirt down before I revealed my chest. At the same time, Josh reached out to grab my blouse. His hand caught on some of the beading, and as he pulled, threads came loose, and beads began to fall.
“Josh!” I screamed as I watch the destruction happen, as if in slow motion. Josh could see what he’d done, and dropped his hand. I looked down and saw that the blouse was ruined.
Tears filling my eyes, I got back on my bike and sped away as fast as I could. I thought the boys might call after me, but I heard nothing. I stared straight ahead until I got to my front yard, where I threw my bike down, thrust open the front door, and rushed to the backyard. As soon as I saw my mom’s face, my sobs erupted. “Mom.”
She turned to look at me, confused. I watched her eyes lower to I was wearing. The concern in her face began to turn into anger.
I rushed over to her and threw my arms around her. She stepped back from me to look at the blouse and fingered the loose threads. “Why in God’s name are you wearing that? You’ve ruined it!”
Through my sobs, I tried to get the story out. She must have understood half of what I was saying. Josh…Angel. Park. Torn.
My mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hands on her temples. “Elena, you need to collect yourself and tell me happened.” I could hear the anger, barely contained, beneath her steady tone.
On my second try, I got it out. That we had gone to the park and that the boys had asked me to lift my shirt up, and that Josh had ripped it.
My mom’s hands dropped as she sighed. “Elena. What were you thinking?”
I opened my mouth to protest. “But Josh…”
“Don’t. You were the one who stole that shirt out of my closet. You shouldn’t be hanging around with those boys, either.”
She grabbed me by both shoulders and looked me square in the eye. Her voice sharpened. “Elena, you’re not a little girl anymore. Do you understand what that means? These things are going to keep happening if you keep hanging around with those boys.”
Now, I was speechless. I stared at her.
“Elena. Do you understand? You can’t play with them like that anymore.”
I nodded. We stared at each other. I wanted her to hug her, but I was too frightened.
As my mother spoke, I could tell her rage had broken and washed up as disappointment. “Go change your clothes. I’m going to make some lunch in a few minutes. And don’t tell your father or brothers what happened when they get home.”
I walked up the stairs and into my mother’s room. I slipped into the closet and slid the door shut behind me, cracked open just enough to see a small sliver of light. Pushing through my mother’s skirts and pants, I crouched down in the far corner of the closet, my favorite hiding spot since I was little.
My head was pounding, and I could still feel the pit in my stomach that appeared when my mom saw her ruined blouse. I started picking off the remaining pearl beads one by one. Every so often, I’d hit on a bead and a whole length of thread would come loose and multiple beads would fall off at once. I liked the way they echoed in that quiet space, the soft ping of the beads hitting the floor like raindrops, while the fabric of my mother’s clothes softly pressed against my legs.
Paula Ibieta is a writer based in New Orleans. In addition to writing, she enjoys sewing, taking her dog to the park, and spending time with her husband.