Mom jumps back when I swing the door open. She flattens a startled hand against her chest. “Oh, thank heaven—Wait—Did you forget your bra?”
“No.”
I one hundred percent did not forget my bra. I never had any intention of putting one on.
Bras are worse than tulle, and that’s saying something.
Mom sags with disappointment, so heavily that even the peplum ruffle of her jacket droops. “Hattie, honey, we’ve talked about this.”
She’s not yelling anymore, thank God. Honestly, she just looks tired. I know this is my fault. Whenever mom looks tired, 47 times out of 50, it’s my fault.
But this time, I’m hoping she’s too tired to have The Boob Talk.
She’s not.
“Hattie—” Mom’s voice turns pleading as she winces. “You are too… well-endowed to go without a bra. You know this.”
Does she know that her neck turns red every time she says well-endowed?
“I go without a bra all the time, Mom,” I drone.
“Yes, but—” Mom smooths down the front of her suit jacket. Her own boobs have the restraint and decorum to fit into B cups. She has Honor Roll boobs.
My D’s will never make the grade.
Mom lifts her chin in the air. “Just because you do doesn’t mean you should. It’s not the right… look.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t even see my nipples.”
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please don’t say nipples,” she whispers, sounding exhausted.
“You can’t see my nipples. I have on a camisole, and this tulle might as well be chainmail,” I tick off each reason Why. I. Am. Not. Putting. On. A. Bra.
She’s already heard my objections to the cut of the dress, the fabric, and the color. But because Margaret picked it out, it’s not really fair of me to enumerate those again for Mom.
Besides, it’s clear that defeat already weighs her down. “Fine. Fine.” She waves a hand. “Your grandmother will need to say the rosary, but I suppose Margaret and her friends won’t care.”
My sister definitely will not care that I ditched the bra.
What her friends think? Why would that matter? They’re not my friends.
I’m not sure why Grandma Eloise is going to the bridesmaid luncheon, but I know better than to ask. My mom is really good at getting things her way, but my dad’s mom is way better.
We arrive at The French Press fifteen minutes early, but my grandmother is already there. That’s a bad sign. What’s worse are the high ceilings in this place. The acoustics in here are brutal, and I didn’t bring my Loops.
Grandma Eloise rises from the balloon-festooned table to greet us. Grandma Eloise smiles like a shark.
I know. Sharks don’t smile. They just open their jaws to show rows of teeth. Grandma Eloise doesn’t have extra rows of teeth, just flawless, bleach-white ones. The corners of her mouth don’t lift when she greets us.
“Hillary, don’t you look lovely. And Harriet…” Her gaze sweeps me, her eyes bugging out when she scans my unbound bust. “My, my…”
“You can’t see my nipples,” I announce.
Grandma Eloise staggers back and Mom coughs before gripping my elbow, and it’s only then I remember that she asked me not to say nipples.
My face heats though it makes no sense why the word nipples makes Mom and Grandma Eloise look like they’ve swallowed rocks. Everyone has nipples. Women. Men. Even babies have nipples.
It’s the mammalian calling card, right?