Free Girl Unwrapped by Gabriella Goliger Page A

coolly curious gaze of strangers. Her body betrays her in other ways too: feet that trip over themselves, hands like bunches of bananas, hair where no hair should be, curling under her arms, fuzzing her legs, sprouting from her private parts. And then there are the breasts she’s supposed to be proud of but that feel like something soft and vulnerable has leaked out from inside her.
    For weeks she’s been dismayed to see that the flat pennies on her chest have risen to become two swollen bumps, which could officially be called boobs. Boo-boo, booby prize, booby trap. She tries to hide them under her navy cardigan buttoned to her chin, but her mother crows, “My little girl is developing,” as if it were an achievement, and drags her off to see Nadia, the saleslady at the lingerie department of Zellers. While the two women discuss the virtues of double-stitched reinforced cups, elastic backing, and adjustable straps, Toni huddles in the corner of the dressing room avoiding, as best she can, the sight of the long, pale stalk with the stricken face in the mirror. She is measured, prodded, jerked this way and that and finally trussed in her first bra, size 32A. Itchy and tight around her ribcage, the bra sports two dunce caps in front that end in squishable cones of empty air.
    “Room to grow!” her mother chirps.
    Dressed once more, slouching along the street behind her mother, Toni feels the presence of those dunce caps beneath her cardigan, pointing, thrusting, announcing themselves to the whole world. And the world stares back in bone-tickled astonishment.
    At school she’s among the outcasts, though not openly tormented. She doesn’t merit such attention. Despite her long, galumphing body, the boys barely notice Toni, and for this small mercy she’s grateful. The girls have a more pointed way of dismissing her. They size her up, exchange glances, arch their brows, and look away as if offended by the sight of her, then turn back to their intimate huddle. She pretends not to care, shuffling down the hall with her nose in a book, but can’t help sneaking peeks at her classmates. What are they saying? What are they thinking? Sometimes the need to know is so fierce, she’ll drift toward the edge of their circle and then have to endure the sudden turn of a head, a sarcastic, “Ex-kyoose me?”
    Gym is agony, not just because she can’t accomplish a single movement with grace, but because of the humiliation of showers. She emerges from her towel at the last minute, dashes under the stream, trying not to look at who is looking, trying not to let her eyes register the sight of her classmates’ nakedness. But there they all are, soft-skinned, bare-bummed, bare-boobed, shining under streams of water, setting off an uncomfortable commotion in her chest.
    Her mother brims with advice and hopeful projects. She comments, criticizes, coaxes, cajoles, clips out magazine articles about makeovers. Here’s a photo of dowdy Sue with the horsey face, lank hair, downcast eyes—the “before” shot. And now, look! The “after” Sue, with hair clipped and puffed, kiss-curls caressing her cheeks, drawing attention away from that long, unfeminine jaw line. The new Sue smiles into the camera, eager and bright as a squeaky-clean plate. She has been groomed.
    “Stand up straight, for God’s sake. You look like a question mark. Tall can be lovely. Models are tall. Maybe my daughter will become a model. Hmm? Don’t hide your face. Be proud.”
    Her mother delivers this lecture after her own recent makeover, which includes a powder-blue jersey-knit dress—the latest spring fashion from Shmelzer’s—a hairdo of high, stiff, lacquered waves, and nails gleaming with Coral Dust polish. Since moving to their Snowdon duplex three years ago, her mother’s hair has gone several degrees lighter, from muddy brown sprinkled with grey to Mahogany Lustre to Chestnut Glow to Arresting Auburn. But newly awakened to ugliness—her own and the rest