I need all the help I can get, and saying things aloud lights up a different part of the brain and deepens the belief, so I push myself to go ahead and admit it. “I look sexy in these photos.”
The images make me feel the same way I did when Noah put his hands on me.
“Because Iamsexy.”
If I could gift every woman this feeling of assuredness and appreciation for her body, not only would I do it, just think of the ripple effect. Not that men don’t need and deserve it as well, because they totally do, but too many of us have had our control over a situation ripped from us by a dude.
Just like that, I’m thirteen and in a parking lot, practicing relevés with the metal handrail that separated the sidewalk of the strip mall from the parking lot. Desperate to get out of the house and find an activity that could be all mine, when I stumbled across the faded pink leotard and battered toe shoes at a secondhand store, it seemed like a sign.
I was the oldest in the class by far, and Mom would leave me at the studio for hours so my siblings would get in their naps, long enough the instructor would lock up and leave.
If I complained, I knew she’d take dancing away and I’d have to spend even more of the summer changing diapers, so I bided my time kicking rocks across the parking lot. A few of the men going in and out of the liquor store blatantly leered, leaving me wishing I had worn the training bra I woefully declared I didn’t even need. Then there was the guy who tried to coerce me into his truck for a ride home, only to call me a snobby little bitch when I wouldn’t accept his offer.
Being female is so odd like that.
One minute you’re standing in front of a dance studio in your rummaged tutu, and the next you’re being ogled and experiencing a pinch of shame you don’t completely understand, so very aware of the danger of men.
Upon my next visit to Grandma’s, while seated around a table with her, Wanda, and Rita, I ended up spilling about the truck that’d show up like clockwork, leaving me hiding in recesses and dreading ballet. I’m not sure what was said that night over the phone, but my mom and my grandma’s relationship had been rockier since.
But the other thing tween Mia decided was that my mom couldn’t protect me or my siblings. Whether she couldn’t or wasn’t willing, it didn’t matter. What it meant was I had to remain ever vigilant and teach my siblings to also be independent.
An alarm rings on my phone, announcing the ten-minute warning before I trek back to the office. I quickly flag my favorite photos, including a picture where I’m peering at myself in a gilded mirror.
Then, filled with a type of gratitude I’ve never experienced before, I send a text to Sophia, thanking her for the photography session and boost in confidence.
With another glance at the time, I slam the lid on my laptop, slide it in my bag, and give Fifi a scratch goodbye.
Hours later, during that endless stretch of the afternoon when I need the jolt of a walk and a cup of coffee, I debate whether it’ll be weird if I run into Carlos. I never promised anything, and it’s not like he’s called, but I hate leaving things unfinished.
Although it’s not as if Noah and I have made any promises. We’ve exchanged a handful of texts, the last one informing me he was taking me on a real date soon.
The whine of a mobility scooter cuts through my reverie a handful of seconds before Jan bursts into my office for our meeting. Given how much she hates the business side, I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did running the property herself, honestly.
I launch right into it, relaying the game plan for the upcoming week. I’m working with a local journalist about a piece on the Seam Queens and how they provide blankets to hospitals and shelters for the homeless and victims of domestic abuse.
Not a hugely sensational story, as far as getting attention goes, but heartwarming and admirable. Plus, I’ve convinced the local news to film a segment, although I wish we could showcase more of our community and what’s truly at the heart of it in those sixty seconds.
Suddenly, a wild hare of an idea hops across my brain, and I can’t quite decide if it’s genius or the wrong side of outlandish.
It definitely pushes the envelope. Enough so, it’ll inevitably cause a few of the residents’ family members to pick up their pitchforks—especially before I fully explain it.
I happen to know one grumpy grandson who’s absolutely going to hate it.
…
At the beginning of the evening, I was so, so afraid someone would end up in the hospital.
I just didn’t think it’d be me.
When Leora and Ruth, the most tranquil duo of our group, informed me they used to do Roller Derby, I wasn’t sure whether they were lying or trying to give me a panic attack. Not that it’s not super impressive, but it was their turn to “Make Mia” as they’ve dubbed it, and that’s how they opened.
Naturally, I asked for proof.
There were pictures.
The ladies used to skate for a team known as the Terror of Tampa Bay and had decided it was time for me to carry on the legacy.
“It’s not like we’re asking to go to a rink and bash into one another,” Ruth had said, “we just haven’t been rollerblading in ages.”
