Stockings

 

“Absolutely no stockings,” confirmed Mrs. G.   She assured my mother, “Francine will be wearing anklets to the party,” Mom placed the receiver on the phone and turned to comfort me. I would not be the only girl at the party not wearing stockings. We party invitees were eleven. We were on the verge.  We wanted to wear little kitty heels, shoes that would reflect the fact that our bodies were beginning to change, that we would soon be wearing real heels like our older sisters and the sophisticated models in the magazine ads. We wanted to wear nylons, those sheer, sensuous stockings so coveted by cinema femmes-fatales. All those handsome movie war-heroes presented silk stockings to their love interests on screen, implying a certain intimacy that we eleven-year-olds perceived, but did not fully understand.

It didn’t matter that our skinny legs had no calves to define a shapely stockinged leg. Wrinkled material drooped in all the areas that mature curves would eventually fill out. Those pre-pubescent legs resembled puny twigs swathed and wobbling in stilted shoes.

I went off to the party with misgivings, although I repeated to myself encouragingly, “I won’t be the only one. I won’t be the only one.” I was greeted warmly by my friend’s parents and was directed to the stairway down to  the basement. As I slowly descended the basement stairs, I become more and more self-conscious. I looked around the room, Marjorie wore stockings; Susan, wore stockings, Debra wore stockings. They all wore stockings. I searched out Fran in her party dress. My eyes moved from her hair to her hem, to her shoes. My face fell, along with my heart. Cold betrayal. Francine was wearing stockings.

At the end of the evening, Fran snuck off to the bathroom. When she returned home from the party, Fran was wearing anklets. Her mother was none the wiser. My mother was disappointed, but not nearly as much as I was.

Marsha H