Cooper, Mary Ann

Suit of Armor

Mary Ann Cooper

My mother had that chirpy, excited tone in her voice.

“Can you come down here now?” she yelled up the stairs. She had just returned from her monthly jaunt to a temple’s rummage sale. With seven children and little money, most of our clothing came from these excursions, and we never knew what surprises she’d bring home for us. The majority of the garments were okay, some were borderline, but all had been worn before. Many of the pieces had someone’s name sewn on a little label inside them. When I asked about them, my mother told me it was because the people that wore the clothing before me went to summer camp. Once, I got the same girl’s old clothing two springs in a row, which felt weird, like a secret connection: we were growing up together.

I raced down from the room I shared with my sister, and found my mother sitting in the kitchen, a battered cardboard box nestled between her knees. She looked up and smiled.

“I got you a bathing suit! You’re going to love it. Very different.”

Hearing the words “very different” immediately made me anxious. At 13, I knew those were dangerous words for any teenager seeking the safety and warmth that conformity can deliver. And at the beginning of my eighth grade summer, I was tall, gangly and obsessed with my hair and my non-existent breasts. I definitely craved that conformity, wanting to blend in until my body figured itself out.

“Really?” I said, as I chewed on my thumb.

My mother had prowled around different rummage sales for weeks. A lot of us needed summer clothing, but I needed a new bathing suit, as I’d grown three inches over the winter. For the second consecutive year, my parents had bought a pass to the town swimming pool. We got it at a discounted price because we had so many kids in our family. This mostly cement complex housed a large swimming pool, a kiddie pool and a concession stand. It was the place to go in our Long Island town of 19,000 residents. Everybody went to the pool. Even my father. On summer Sundays, we’d find him sprawled out and asleep on a plastic chaise lounge, head back, mouth open, finally taking a break from his day and night jobs.

Most mornings after our chores were done, my siblings and I left home and walked the mile to the pool. There, huddled with my friends, I talked, ate and stared at boys. In between, we swam and evaluated each other’s dives off the low board. I loved being there; it was my blissful respite from our hot, crowded house. Returning home in the late afternoon, I was content, sated by chlorine and sun.

And so it was with trepidation that I stood and waited while my mother searched through the treasured box that her foot had pushed around the rummage room as she tossed her finds into it. I stepped from foot to foot as she moved aside wrinkled shirts and pants and hunted. Her bent-over face beamed with anticipation and delight; a lock of her short brown hair floated above one eye.

“Aha! Here it is!” I saw a flash of dark blue rise up from the remaining potpourri of clothing. My mother stood up and clutched my new suit with both hands and slowly flipped it back and forth for me. Speechless, I stared at a bathing suit made entirely of denim. Two wide straps held it up, overall style, metal buttons sewn on to secure them. Another strap went around the waist, which sat above boxer-style shorts. It looked like farmers garb gone awry.

“Well?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“Mom! I can’t wear this!” I said. A feeling of helplessness ran through me; I knew this suit was my only option.

“What? Why?”

“Because I hate it. It’s weird and I’m not wearing it.” My voice broke as I finished the sentence.

My mother handed the suit to me.

“Well, honey, I’m sorry, but that’s they only one they had. It’ll be fine! Give it a chance.”

I ran upstairs and threw the denim disaster into a corner of my room. My eyes burned as I dug through my dresser drawers and pulled out my one-piece from last year. After frantically undressing, I tried to pull it on. The straps barely reached my shoulders, while the bottom of the suit almost cut me in half. Frustrated, I picked up the denim one, put it on and went to look at myself in the long bathroom mirror. I stared and covered my mouth with my hand to stifle my sobs. My skinny legs hung out of the wide shorts, and the hard, formed bra moved around me independently. I went back to my room, lay on the bed and cried.

Three days after the new bathing suit arrived, the pool opened. I had already called my friends and made plans to meet there, but the night before I wrestled with not showing up. It wasn’t like me; I was the organizer, the funny leader of our little group. But the image of me in that suit lingered. I tried it on again and was miserable once more.

“Did you see the suit Mom got me?” I asked my only sister, Dianne. She had just returned from her part-time job as a cashier at Woolworth’s Five and Dime. She looked at me gravely.

“Yeah,” she said. “I saw it.”

“How can I wear that thing? It’s so embarrassing!”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Sorry.”

Once again, I wished she wasn’t five years older than me and I could wear her hand-me-downs.

“I don’t want it to be tomorrow,” I said. “I’m not going.”

However, at thirteen, the social lure overwhelmed me, and the next morning I put on the wretched bathing suit, covered it with my shorts and top and left for the pool.

The exhilaration of opening day was palpable. Flags flew, whistles blew, and the mingled smells of Coppertone and greasy burgers filled the air. I met my friends at our spot, and the six of us found chairs, staking out our area. I tried to act normal, but I felt uneasy as I waited for the inevitable, when my humiliating secret would be revealed. And it wasn’t long before one by one, my friends peeled off their outer layers and revealed their new, store-bought bathing attire: yellows and pinks, flowers and stripes, two-pieces and tanks. Normal stuff. I glanced back and forth at them with envy and dismay, yet didn’t move. My shorts and top still hid my shame.

Finally though, it was time to go in the water.

“I learned how to do a jackknife at the Y,” my friend Patty said. “C’mon, I’ll teach you.”

I sat, frozen.

“Are you coming?” she asked, as she walked away.

“Yeah.” I said. I started to take off my top. They were all in the pool now, their faces bobbing above the water, framed by turquoise painted cement,

Numbly, I walked towards them. The girls were quiet as they stared at me. Finally, Patty spoke up.

“What are you wearing?” she yelled.

“Yeah, is that a bathing suit?” someone else asked.

I felt sick. I wanted the blinding sun to melt me into the pebbled pavement. But I smiled and nodded.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s new. It’s like jeans, but on a bathing suit.”

“It’s kinda weird,” someone else said.

“You’re kinda weird,” I said and jumped into the water to end the conversation. I wished I could have stayed under forever. As we swam and jumped around together, the denim suit moved around my thin body, and gave me an unsettling feeling. Frustrated, I tried to tighten the belt, but that didn’t stop the huge bra cups from filling with water. I didn’t dare dive in it; instead I just paddled back and forth until it was time for lunch.

On my way back to our chairs, I walked past a group of teenage boys. One of them yelled to me.

“Hey, Ellie May. Where’s Jethro?”

His friends laughed, bodies bent over, fingers pointed. My face felt hot, but I continued walking and looked straight ahead, yet yearning to keep going right out the pool exit.

Patty came over and put her arm through mine.

“It’s not that bad, Mare.”

“It’s pretty bad,” I said. While waiting for my friends to come back from buying their hot dogs and sodas, I stared at my purple-stained peanut butter and jelly sandwich and once again wished I was home.

The first few days were tough: everyone seemed to have something to say about my new bathing suit. And it wasn’t good. I continued to look away as though I hadn’t heard each snide remark. But after each day of teasing, I felt more diminished and ugly. I became quiet and anxious, waiting for the next attack. I knew it was fruitless to complain to my mother; the money had been spent, the suit was mine. Lying in bed each night, I dreaded the next day, worrying about the pool until I fell asleep.

“Are people still saying things about your bathing suit?” my sister asked one night.

I turned over in our little bed and nodded.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “What should I do? Not go anymore?”

“Why don’t you just say something the next time it happens? Stop running away from it and just shut them up?”

Can I do that? I wondered.

She gave me a half smile.

“Do it.”

The next day, on my way into the water, I passed by a group of girls.

“Where’s your rake, farmer girl,” one of them said. I stopped for a moment. And then I walked right up to her.

“Did you just say something to me?”

Surprised, she turned from her friends. She looked to be my age, maybe a year older. Everyone stood quiet, waiting.

“Yeah. I was talking about your ugly bathing suit.”

Her friends giggled. And I stepped closer.

“Well, I’d rather wear this than look like you.” Shaking, I walked away, amazed that it had been so easy.

I continued my confrontations for a few days until finally, the name-calling died down. And gradually, through the rest of June and into July, I got used to wearing my bathing suit. I was still angry that I had to wear it, but I was resigned. I didn’t hide under my clothing anymore; I gave up. This was my suit and there was no way out of it. But at least the teasing had stopped.

One night at the end of July, I was in bed reading when my sister came into our room.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said. Dianne often saved money from her paycheck and bought little gifts for me.

I jumped up.

“What is it?” I said. She handed me a paper bag, a cat-like smile on her face.

I peeked inside, gasped and hugged her.

“Thank you, thank you!”

“It’s perfect!” I shrieked, picking up the pink and white checked confection, touching the tiny bows on each side. Not able to stop myself, I ran and tried it on. This time, in front of the bathroom mirror, I was thrilled with what I saw.

And for the first time all summer, I wanted it to be tomorrow.