Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker, Part 2

(Author’s Note: I’ve employed every procrastination trick in the book to avoid sitting down and writing today. It’s Sunday, a nice spring day in a part of the country where we weren’t sure we’d ever see the sun again. I’ve got some happy girls playing outside and the final round of the Master’s beckoning me. I have no compelling reason to peel off from my current life and revisit the atrocities of long ago. Nonetheless, I found some libations and a secluded part of the house, so here we go…)

I was in second grade, so I must have been 7 or 8 years old. I made the bathroom trek in the wee hours, and thought I had managed it pretty well. I did not hear any stirring from the beast. Since we all shared the one bathroom in that tiny house, it was common to see mom’s makeup paraphenalia strewn about the counter. I normally didn’t pay much attention to it. But as I was sitting there going about my business (remember, stand-up tinkling was a no-no — too loud) I noticed a big orange tube of Bonnie Bell lip smacker. I love both the color and the flavor of orange. I picked it up and sniffed it. Mmm. Smelled good. As a second grade boy, I had never had an encounter with lip smacker before. Did this stuff taste as good as it smelled?! No wonder girls are always putting the stuff on!

The curiosity got the better of me. I had to find out. I ran the tube around my lips the way I had seen women do. Then I licked my lips. Blech! Turns out, it doesn’t taste anything like it smells. Well, that’s a bummer. Why do girls wear this stuff anyway? If it were up to me, I’d sit around sniffing it, not slathering it on my lips. Girls are weird. Ah well, time to sneak back upstairs.

That’s when I heard the thumps. Freeze. The beast has arisen. Oh shit oh shit oh shit (or whatever a second grade brain spits out in that instant). Must mitigate damage. Do I flush the toilet? That will make noise. But if I don’t flush, I’ll get smacked around for that. Do I try and get upstairs before she gets here? No chance. There’s no such thing as a silent escape in these parts.

Suddenly she appears on the doorway, a mask of rage. She steps in and grabs my hair (that was a favorite of hers — anything that didn’t leave marks). She yanks my head back and starts into a rant about making such a racket in the middle of the night and my disregard for anyone but myself. This is not new territory, and I have begun to learn that keeping silent in tacit agreement is the best course of action. The sooner I can get out of here, the sooner I can crawl back into bed for a long night of staring at the ceiling.

Suddenly, she stops. She sees something is amiss. Shit. I didn’t put the lid back on the lip smacker. She’s noticed. She stomps over, picks it up, and I see the transformation. There is a difference between the sleepy, angry, auto-pilot monster and the conniving, diabolical face of pure evil. She has just crossed over, and there is no turning back.

At first, she doesn’t speak. She looks at me curiously, like a viper sizing up it’s prey. She notices a sheen on my lips. She bends forward to investigate. She catches a faint whiff of orange, and now her suspicions are confirmed. It’s time to pounce.

“So you’re a girl? You want to be a girl? You like makeup? You want to wear dresses, too? How’s your lipstick? You like it? You want to wear it every day? Let’s show everyone what you really are. I’ll help you get ready for school tomorrow.”

After a few more admonishments to avoid touching anything that belongs to her, ever, she sends me off to bed. I hope that I have just experienced the worst of it. I know better. The long night continues.

The next morning, it’s clear she’s had a full night to scheme. To this day, I have no idea where it came from, but there was a full ensemble for me to wear to school. Since I went to a Catholic school at the time, this means that my shirt, pants, and clip on tie have been replaced by a nice white blouse and a blue plaid skirt in the appropriate school colors.

“Put this on.”

I hesitated for the slightest second, but it was enough. She picks up the clothes and hurls them at me.

“PUT IT ON!!!”

I know now I have no choice. I put on the blouse. This is when I first realize that girl’s clothes button on the opposite side. Jeez, do girls do everything backwards? Now comes the skirt. I wonder if it will clash with my wing tips. Perhaps the extra wiggle room will help me run faster at recess.

And then I see the makeup kit. She beckons me to sit down. She reaches for some pink powder and starts making swift circles on my cheek. She takes a small Q-tip looking thing and tells me to close my eyes while she strokes some blue stuff on my eyelids. My eyelashes are brushed with a black thing that looks like a skinny sea anemone. She pulls out some of my baby sister’s pink hair clips and fastens them to my head. My stomach is churning. It’s going to be a long, shameful walk down the bus aisle today.

She steps back and gazes at me with mild amusement. “You look so cute. How do you like being a girl? I bet you can’t wait to show off how pretty you are to all your friends. You make a better girl than a boy!”

She tells me to get in the car. I’m a bit taken aback. She’s driving me to school? She’s never done that before. I climb in the back seat. The five minute drive takes an eternity. She pulls right up to the entrance and puts the car in park. She gets out and circles around to open my door with a flourish. She clamps a hand on my neck and steers me inside. I keep my head low and try to become invisible.

There is the usual bustle of activity at the entrance. There is a bench right inside the double doors, and she give me a heave onto it. She trudges down to the office, glancing back at me once to make sure I don’t go anywhere.

The rest of the school is filing in. First graders through eighth graders all stop to stare at me. I try to blend into the brick wall. There are hushed whispers and overt pointing and cackling. There are friends pretending they don’t know who I am. There is taunting and catcalls. A nun stops to see what the commotion is about. She stares at me, mouth agape, then quickly hustles down to the office.

I don’t know what was said in that office. I can’t imagine what would happen in this day in age if a parent dolled up their little boy and took them to school. I do know my mother wanted me to go through that school day as a schoolgirl. I can only assume the nuns told her that was unacceptable. Regardless, she stormed out of the office, grabbed me by the hair, and pulled me back to the car. We went home, and I honestly can’t remember what happened next. I think I was allowed to change back into my regular clothes. I think she wiped off the makeup and took me back to school. But I have blocked out the details. The damage was already done.

Kids are cruel. They’ll use any ammunition at their disposal to belittle you. The younger kids weren’t so bad; I’m not sure they could even process what had happened. But the older kids. Getting on the bus, going out to recess, anything that involved the upper grades was forever going to be an exercise in humiliation. I spent the next couple of years enduring the ridicule and torment that emerged from that one night of curiosity.