Ms. Margaret had lined us all up according to our heights and the color of our cotton and linen dresses. She smiled with satisfaction as we stood with our heads high, shoulders back, stomachs poised, and eyes demurely down cast.
I glanced to my left and then cut my eyes to the right at the girls standing on either side of me. Not only did they look prettier than an uncut sweet potato pie, they looked as if they were enjoying being trained to put themselves on display like one of those fancy cakes in the county fair baking contest.
One by one she had us walk to the center of the room, pivot, and return to our spot in line. Periodically, she would bark out some order to the girl, 'Straighten up, Sophie, imagine there's a string on top of your head pulling up.'
The purpose for this was beyond me. Maybe she just liked the sound our shoes made, tiny taps on hard wood floors, as we paraded back and forth across her sitting room.
I couldn't tell how old Ms. Margaret was and for the life of me, didn't remember her last name. She was a plump little lady, shorter than all but one of us. I knew she was older than my mother, but after that I had no idea of how old because her face was smooth and lineless. And when she smiled her eyes sparkled and her teeth, a perfect shade of white, shinned; she was, well, beautiful.
She was the kind of beautiful that made you stop and look at her again just to make sure you didn't miss something the first time. Somebody said she used to be a beauty queen, back in her day. Now, the only thing that was left was that face.
'Well, don't you all look nice,' she said her voice dripping with charm and gentility. 'This is a wonderful way for you young ladies to practice good posture."
She clasped her hands together with glee, as if she were happier than big Ben Phillips waiting for the ice cream truck. Dramatically, she waved her arm toward us and made a delicate bow.
"And," she said, eyes twinkling toward us, "you'll be ready for the graduation in no time. Again, one at a time, walk."
Still, Ms. Margaret's idea of preparing us for the fifth grade graduation at St. Thomas Aquinas School for Girls felt more like being prepared to go before the firing squad; I've been known to exaggerate from time to time, but not this time. If any thing this was an understatement.
I wanted to bolt, if I hurried I could still go swimming. It took every single ounce of strength I had not to run out of there.
The torture that I already endured before arriving for this line up went beyond the normal primping for a special occasion. And no part of me, from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet, had been spared. I had already been scrubbed and brushed, dried and sprayed, and then sprinkled with a layer of sweet white powder like a Christmas sugar cookie.
To say I was uncomfortable was putting it lightly. My hair had been pulled until every single strand sprouting from my scalp was flat and arranged into a tight ballerina bun on top of my head. Nearly a thousand bobby pins had been used to make this bun and I could feel every single one of them pricking and pinching my skin. No plain bangs would do for today's special occasion; my average school girl bangs had been hot curled into hundreds of tiny ringlets framing my face.
Despite my efforts to assure Ms. Margaret that the holes in my ears did not work, "because I hadn't wore earrings in over a year," she insisted they'the holes in my ear lobes'only needed to be re-opened. What she failed to mention was that having them reopened entailed her barbarically re-piercing my ears with the surgical steel posted fresh water pearl ear rings'nickel free of course'she insisted we wear. She gave each of us a pair as a token, of what she never said.
Had I known the torture would continue past getting ready, I would have become inexplicably ill before reaching Ms. Margaret's house. But my mother prevented any of this from happening. She was determined to root out all semblances of my former self and dedicated to reforming my tom boyish ways. Ms. Margaret's little program was better than twelve step, in mama's opinion. She was certain after Ms. Margaret was finished with me, I'd be transformed into a proper young lady.
Mama was tired of buying me tough skins because I'd ripped all my other pants, and Converse Sneakers, the only shoes I'd keep on my feet.
'Evangeline,' she called me this when she was being stern.'Evangeline,' she said to me, 'you're almost eleven years old and it's time you stopped gallivanting across Gregg County like you have no home training and live out doors.'
Was that what I'd been doing? I smiled when she said this, then gallivanting was a lot of fun.
'But mama,' I replied, 'what's wrong with having fun? I ain't hurting no one being outside.'
"Evangeline, what have I told you about talking like that? You aren't hurting any one being outside."
"Exactly, my point mother."
'Oh Evy,' she said, "I know. But it's time for you to be a little more civilized. From now on, you're Evangeline.'
'Dag nab it! Evangeline? I hate that name!'
"Now, cut it out. I want you on your best behavior with Ms. Margaret and the other girls. None of that talk either."
"Oh, all right then, shoot."
"I mean it," my mother said tilting her head ever so slightly so I knew she meant business.
Enter Ms. Margaret, the master at civilizing the wild child, the tom boy, and the constantly clumsy. I fidgeted a little trying to shift my weight from one foot to the next.
'Evangeline!' Ms. Margaret admonished me, 'Stop wiggling.'
'Yes, ma'am,' I replied, trying my best to sound sincere.
'Ladies,' she said, 'soon we will sit for tea.'
In unison we sighed a collective "ah" as we gazed at the food. It was past lunch and after three hours of standing I couldn't tell if the stomach I heard growling was mine or one of the girls standing next to me.
Ms. Margaret had an enormous round table in the middle of the room laid out with most splendid sweets I'd ever seen. My eyes grew wide as I beheld dainty sandwiches in cookie cutter shapes, delicate pink and chocolate petit fours, and fluffy miniature cakes with frosting the color of pastel rainbows.
'But now, we continue to walk. Remember, heads high,' Ms. Margaret said with a beautiful smile on her face. We turned from the table and returned to our endless walk across the room.
The freshly laundered cotton slip that I was wearing under my dress, with frilly lace around the neck and hem, was making me itch. And the opaque tights I had on fit snugger than a wet suit. If that wasn't enough, Ms. Margaret had inadvertently given me the size five patent leather shoes rather than the six sixes. From the top of my carefully coiffed head to the bottom of my tightly fitted feet, I was in pain.
The lesson I learned that day was clear to me then and haven't learned anything different up until now'being beautiful hurts'and this, this was only the beginning of my pain.
