...women's small belted cardigan, women's small zip-up sweatshirt, four issues of The Sun magazine, a pair of large jeans, a pair of large blue corduroys, two small boxes with lids.
When I was in middle school, I had two pair of corduroys that I loved: a gray pair, and a forest green pair that my brother had outgrown. In addition to these, I also had a pair of red, blue and white checked pants. They'd been handed down by a former babysitter of mine, Laurie Kelly. They weren't exactly my style, but I had a soft spot in my heart for All Things Laurie. In 4th grade, I wore a pair of soft blue pants of hers that would have fit me better in 6th grade, as well as a white short-sleeved shirt with a little bluebird on the collar. It was years later before I learned that this shirt was part of the uniform worn by Bluebirds. What Brownies were to Girl Scouts, Bluebirds were to Campfire Girls.
One fall-like day in November in 7th grade (Sharon, Massachusetts), I wore the Laurie Kelly pants to school. My day went along fairly normally: band during "A" Lunch then actual lunch during "C" Lunch: a lunch from home unless it was clam chowder day, in which case I'd have hot lunch. Science was my last class of the day. I don't remember my teacher's name, but he had straight blondish hair that he cut in a bowl cut, wore large round glasses, and often inexplicably came to class in tennis shorts. I had transfered into his class a few weeks into the school year, and he steadfastly refused - for the entire year - to be won over by me.
In science class, it was not uncommon to be on our feet at lab tables where we'd conduct various scientific experiments and observations. Halfway into the class, I felt cool air on the side of my leg. I inspected that part of of my leg, and noticed that the thread at the seam was fraying and the seam had started to separate. No problem. I'd just hold my hand there and cover it up until the end of class. I turned most of my attention back to my science group, but as I moved around, taking my turn at the microscope, going to my desk to get my science notebook, the sewing for both the outer and inner seams on both legs simply disintegrated - held together only by the hem sewing at the bottom and the reinforced sewing at the pockets.
My only hope at escaping humiliation would be to get permission to go to my locker. I could get my jacket, tie it around my waist, and that would at least cover my upper legs. Taking care not to stride - which would have revealed more of my leg than I cared to show in school - I made my way over to my teacher. "May I go to my locker, please?" He looked at me skeptically. Actually, I am pretty sure he smirked. "You just want to get all your stuff to go home with so you can beat the other kids to the bus," he said. I stared at him, panic rising in me. He said, "No." My face got very hot. As quietly as I could, I leaned toward him and said, "My pants are falling apart." The smirk persisted. No doubt he was thinking this was one of the less creative excuses he'd heard, and wasn't it just like Katrina Gould to try to get away with something, and to do it so poorly at that? "Look," I said. My hands had been in fists, holding the outer seams together. I let go of one seam, and the two pieces of cloth flapped apart. My teacher's eyes widened and he pulled away from me. "Go to your locker," he said tersely.
On the way to my locker, the seams also came apart at the hem. I got to my locker without being seen and gratefully cinched my coat around my waist.
When I was in middle school, I had two pair of corduroys that I loved: a gray pair, and a forest green pair that my brother had outgrown. In addition to these, I also had a pair of red, blue and white checked pants. They'd been handed down by a former babysitter of mine, Laurie Kelly. They weren't exactly my style, but I had a soft spot in my heart for All Things Laurie. In 4th grade, I wore a pair of soft blue pants of hers that would have fit me better in 6th grade, as well as a white short-sleeved shirt with a little bluebird on the collar. It was years later before I learned that this shirt was part of the uniform worn by Bluebirds. What Brownies were to Girl Scouts, Bluebirds were to Campfire Girls.
One fall-like day in November in 7th grade (Sharon, Massachusetts), I wore the Laurie Kelly pants to school. My day went along fairly normally: band during "A" Lunch then actual lunch during "C" Lunch: a lunch from home unless it was clam chowder day, in which case I'd have hot lunch. Science was my last class of the day. I don't remember my teacher's name, but he had straight blondish hair that he cut in a bowl cut, wore large round glasses, and often inexplicably came to class in tennis shorts. I had transfered into his class a few weeks into the school year, and he steadfastly refused - for the entire year - to be won over by me.
In science class, it was not uncommon to be on our feet at lab tables where we'd conduct various scientific experiments and observations. Halfway into the class, I felt cool air on the side of my leg. I inspected that part of of my leg, and noticed that the thread at the seam was fraying and the seam had started to separate. No problem. I'd just hold my hand there and cover it up until the end of class. I turned most of my attention back to my science group, but as I moved around, taking my turn at the microscope, going to my desk to get my science notebook, the sewing for both the outer and inner seams on both legs simply disintegrated - held together only by the hem sewing at the bottom and the reinforced sewing at the pockets.
My only hope at escaping humiliation would be to get permission to go to my locker. I could get my jacket, tie it around my waist, and that would at least cover my upper legs. Taking care not to stride - which would have revealed more of my leg than I cared to show in school - I made my way over to my teacher. "May I go to my locker, please?" He looked at me skeptically. Actually, I am pretty sure he smirked. "You just want to get all your stuff to go home with so you can beat the other kids to the bus," he said. I stared at him, panic rising in me. He said, "No." My face got very hot. As quietly as I could, I leaned toward him and said, "My pants are falling apart." The smirk persisted. No doubt he was thinking this was one of the less creative excuses he'd heard, and wasn't it just like Katrina Gould to try to get away with something, and to do it so poorly at that? "Look," I said. My hands had been in fists, holding the outer seams together. I let go of one seam, and the two pieces of cloth flapped apart. My teacher's eyes widened and he pulled away from me. "Go to your locker," he said tersely.
On the way to my locker, the seams also came apart at the hem. I got to my locker without being seen and gratefully cinched my coat around my waist.
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