HOW GIRLS ARE
by KATHERINE GRASSO
I used to gather with a group of girlfriends to play “The Honest Game.” The rules were simple:
1. Go around the circle and tell a member of the group something they needed to know.
2. That person couldn’t get mad.
As we talked, the squeals of other kids playing tether ball and the clack-clacking of double dutch filled the air.
“You wear your hair in a ponytail too much and it makes your forehead look big.”
“You’re a teacher’s pet.”
“Your tuna sandwiches smell weird.”
“You can’t like the boy I like.”
Everyone had her turn as target for the others’ verbal darts; her turn practicing not to flinch. Those small, cutting remarks were especially sharp when the other girls around the table raised their eyebrows, pursed their lips, and nodded. The power of watching someone else bleed a little was intoxicating, even when we knew our turn was next.
The Honest Game was ruthless. That’s just how girls are.
*
A woman saved me from drowning once. Or maybe I saved her from drowning. Does it matter who saved whom? Maybe we’re all drowning, all reaching for each other.
*
The ocean has always scared me. I grew up around a lake with minimal waves and no tide. If I got water up my nose while swimming, I didn’t feel that horrible burn from the salt. I know people consider the ocean’s size a reminder to reflect on their tininess in the world, an opportunity to be humbled. But usually, I just look at it and worry.
My home state, Nevada, is the only state in the U.S. where prostitution is legal in certain counties. While in middle school, my small-town newspaper ran a cover story about a prostitute who worked at a brothel in Reno. The image showed her on her bed, facedown and propped up on her elbows, knees bent to show her pink, fuzzy heels behind her. In the interview she talked about paying off her student loans and how she felt safe at work because of the high-level security and regular HIV and STD testing.
I wrote an angry letter to the editor. I’d never seen a woman featured on the cover of our local paper. I wondered if they were going to be running cover stories about other women; I wondered why this was the profession for women that was highlighted. I think the exact question I posed was, “Why not an oral surgeon?” Perhaps because my older brother had just had his wisdom teeth removed. I was eleven.
It was a few years later that I told my parents I wanted to be a go-go dancer. We lived near a bank of casinos, and I grew up walking through them to go to the movie theater or our favorite buffet. At any time of day, there were cocktail waitresses in heels, black tights, and leotards carrying trays of drinks to gamblers. And behind the doors to any of the theaters or nightclubs, I knew there were showgirls and go-go dancers. Women that someone deemed attractive enough to be on display.
“When you’re eighteen you can do whatever you want,” my dad said. “You’d hate it.” My mom stood next to him, nodded in agreement.
Years later, in my attempt to break into go-go dancing, I worked as the door girl at a nightclub called Onyx. I wore jeans and a high cut floral tank top with ruffles. It was an outfit my mom liked, and if I had put on a cardigan, I could’ve also worn it to Mass. The woman who was assigned to train me wore a push up bra under a lacy crop top and a mini skirt. Underneath, her thong read “Tip Me” across her crotch. She would flash it to men walking into the club and win happy groans and crumpled dollar bills. I was envious of all the attention she got, and a part of me was judging her, positioning myself above her. I barely lasted the one night.
*
drown
/draʊn/ verb
To drown is to die through submersion in and inhalation of water.
To drown is to deliberately kill (a person or animal) by submerging in water.
*
My high school had a homecoming dance themed “Pimps and Hoes” and a spring fling called “The Player’s Ball.” For each dance, we designed different variations of the same outfits. Short skirts and t-shirts cut into halter tops with plunging necklines. Whether dressed up as an unapologetic “ho” or a sexy basketball player, the goal was always to be hot. This trend wasn’t confined to our quiet mountain town. It was mocked in the 2004 film Mean Girls when each female lead was dressed up as a sexy animal for Halloween. It didn’t matter if they were a bunny or a mouse, the focus was on a costume displaying both legs and cleavage.
That same year, my friends and I dressed up as Tom Cruz in Risky Business for a Halloween dance. We wore white, oversized men’s shirts unbuttoned over our underwear with white socks. Our teachers, noticeably horrified, nonetheless said nothing, took our tickets, and waved us into the gym.
Despite our overt attempts to be sexy, we never wanted to be seen as slutty. None of us was having sex. And a few of us wouldn’t for years. We had never considered much of anything related to sex and sexiness except what the boys thought of us, our bodies. But you could be considered slutty for almost anything, and once that word had been lobbed, accurately or not, it was hard to shake the damage.
Slut.
Diane’s boobs are big; she’s probably wearing a push-up bra. Slut.
Holly’s dating a nineteen-year-old guy. Slut.
I heard Ava got fingered in the library at homecoming. Slut!
The word “slut” was a punishment for doing something too sexual, being seen as too sexual, or for being perceived by another female as a threat.
*
People often need to be reminded that drowning doesn’t look like what you’d expect. It’s not violent thrashing and screaming for help. It is quiet, easily unnoticed.
*
While in college I began to understand that female friendships were rich, necessary, and best without judgment. With my female friends we explored our views on everything—pain, love, family, politics. We studied for exams together and dreamt of living abroad. We walked to the cafeteria and talked about calories. Back in our dorm rooms, we’d pinch our teeny rolls of fat in the mirror and look to each other for reassurance of our beauty. On long jogs around a nearby neighborhood, we pointed out the types of houses we’d live in. We described our sexual encounters in detail and passed around flip phones to decipher text messages from boys. When we had to share hard truths, we did it with gentleness, not ruthlessness.
I learned ever so slowly. Women were not a threat to me, they were my allies, my inspiration.
*
During my sophomore year of college, I studied abroad on Semester at Sea, a program designed for 700 college students from across the country to live on a ship, take classes, and travel the world. Over the course of four months and fourteen countries, I’d joined a circle of women that would end up being lifelong friends.
While we were stopped in Thailand, my friends and I explored Bangkok before flying to check out the island of Phuket. We had reserved beds at a hostel that cost us each the equivalent of $5 a night. It was filthy and damp, the beds were made with unwashed sheets and the bathroom was a large, tiled room with a toilet, a small sink, and a faucet with a hose attached. Nancy, a new friend with whom I’d felt an immediate closeness, tossed down her backpack. “Home sweet home,” she laughed. And we went to the beach.
We didn’t have beach towels, so we sat in the fine sand. It stuck to every part of us. I talked nonstop about what we had seen in Bangkok, filling my hands with sand like they were hourglasses, letting the tiny grains fall through my fingers over and over. Prostitutes hung outside of the city’s bars and strip clubs. They wore matching outfits—fishnet tights under skimpy underwear and bras, or miniskirts and halter tops. They had lined the streets; in one instance I saw them wearing numbers. White men draped their arms over their shoulders on Khao San Road and in Patpong. I knew Thailand was known for its sex tourism, but I hadn’t pictured it being so obvious, so drenched in the city’s neon glow.
*
I went to a Halloween party in graduate school I wasn’t excited about. I said yes to going with a guy because it made for a convenient double date with my friend and her boyfriend. I dressed up as a black cat, like I’d done each Halloween for the past ten years, and I wanted him to think I looked hot.
It could’ve been any college party—loud music, people gathered around the kitchen island drinking, others walking around looking for the keg or their friends. Couples pressed together; single people scanned the crowd for someone to pair up with. My date was overbearing—he stood behind me and touched my shoulders, whispered into my ear about how much he liked cats. I told him I’d be right back.
He followed me into the bathroom and shoved his face against mine. He closed his body around mine, like he might swallow me whole. I turned my head, and his big hand grabbed my face and turned it back towards his. I forced my body to go limp, as if I might shrink away from his grip, might melt into the tile and escape him.
“I really just have to pee,” I said, a quiet plea for him to go.
“Just wait a minute,” he said, laughing, looking down at me. He ran his hands up and down my body, tugging at my thin black dress. His calloused hands snagged on my black tights. I was both self-conscious and terrified. Embarrassed that if he ripped off my dress, he would see my Spanx. And petrified that he was going to do whatever he was going to do. I kept squirming, lips and eye squeezed shut, like a child avoiding cough syrup. I turned my head back and forth, breaking free from his lips, gulping for air. His wet, open mouth pressed against my neck and shoulders, his hands kept grabbing fistfuls of my curly hair, somehow also digging into my ribs, my hips, my thighs. I kept hearing my own voice in my head, “no. no. no. no. no.”
A heavy knock at the door saved me. Someone had been waiting for the bathroom and got impatient with how long we were taking. Their knuckles rapped on the door again, “Hurry up in there!”
While he looked over his shoulder at the door, I pushed him off me and went to lean over the sink. I flipped up the faucet, wet my fingers, and swiped my fingers under my eyes and fluffed my hair. The whiskers drawn on my cheeks in jet black eyeliner had been smudged. He stood behind me, hands on my hips, and looked at me in the mirror. “I can’t keep my hands off you,” he said.
I turned toward the door and we both walked out, the water still running. The guy who had been waiting looked at him and chuckled. “Sorry man. Didn’t realize.”
*
My friends and I had moved from the sand to the water. We stood in a circle, crouching down to cool our shoulders. We saw a woman, maybe a girl, walking down the beach towards us. She was barefoot with long legs, and it looked like she was still dressed from the night before. She wore a jean miniskirt and a shimmery halter top that was twisted across her torso, as if she’d tossed and turned in it all night.
Her gait was uneven. Stumbling slightly, she looked beyond us, the same vacant look as many of the women in Bangkok. Our conversation slowed as she walked into the water with her clothes on. She waded over like she might want to join our circle. I can still see her jet-black hair slicked down on either side of her face, her chin and lips dipped under the water, just her nose hovering above the smooth sea, eyes peering at us.
We smiled and greeted her, but she didn’t respond. We let out gentle, uncomfortable laughs. I’d complained at lunch that day that Thailand had been frustrating to me because the language barrier felt impenetrable. The handful of other people in the water looked at her, trying to sort out her odd behavior. We shifted, acted naturally.
A police officer appeared on the beach. He looked at everyone in the water, blew his whistle and motioned for everyone to get out. Everyone but the woman moved back up onto the beach. We watched her, confused and worried. The whistle continued. The woman was the last person in the water and, like a stubborn child giving in to a parent, she walked to the shore, staggering as she emerged.
*
What I needed was a cop, but I settled for a cab. We left the party to head to a bar downtown and as soon as everyone got out of the taxi, I hung back and asked the driver to take me home. My date saw I wasn’t following the group and tried to get in the car with me. He stood in the way of me pulling the door shut, hunching down and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Come on, let me come home with you. I want to make sure you get home safe.”
My words caught in my throat. I felt stupid for crying. But I kept pushing him away and wrestling my arm past him to grab the door handle. “I just want to go home.” I thought the driver might jump in to tell him to lay off, but he sat there, impatient. As soon as I managed to slam the door, he asked me if I had cash. I didn’t and he insisted his card machine was broken.
“Please just take me up the block.” I begged, my date still standing on the sidewalk. I just wanted to go home.
He grumbled something and drove up two blocks, stopped on a dark corner and told me to get out. I thanked him.
*
From the beach we watched as she turned away from the police officer and continued down the shoreline. Her back was to us, just her against the backdrop of the expansive horizon, as if she was considering her tininess in the world. And then she dropped to her knees, two bony knobs landing in the sand. She perched upright for a moment and then, like a tree logged in a forest, her torso fell forward, her arms useless and limp at her sides. Her face landed in the shallow water. A wave broke and her head submerged.
I remember the slow panoramic of my view as I turned my head, trying to figure out who was going to help her. But nobody moved. There was a silence. I imagined the salty burn of water up her nose.
I ran over to her, hooked my wrists under her shoulders, and flipped her onto her back. Her heft was unexpected as I dragged her from the shallow water higher up on the sand. I screamed up the beach for someone to get help. There was a row of tourists watching from under umbrellas: big and bronze motionless bodies sagging into lounge chairs covered in tight rows of nylon straps.
I kneeled over her, calling over and over for help. The police officer just watched. I slapped her face and begged her to wake up. I had no idea what I was doing. My friends had joined, telling me someone had called for help. I turned her head and rubbed her sternum. Finally, she groaned and gasped but she didn’t move. I brushed the sand from her cheeks, unsure of what was next.
*
I called my friend Jannath, whom I knew was home finishing a chapter of her dissertation due the next morning. But I needed her. And when I called, she answered.
She pulled up in her shiny, blue sedan, looking at me with alarm as I climbed in.
I stared out the window, looked at the lacy clouds in the sky. My silence scared her.
“What happened?” she asked over and over.
Inside my apartment, I told her about the guy in the bathroom. I howled with rage and relief. Those tears had been pent up my whole life. A lifetime of holding back, of treading water, of not flinching.
Jannath sat there, a buoy. She cooed and fed me sips of cool water, she touched my arms and shoulders with a gentleness I collapsed into. My panic and crying subsided, but I couldn’t find the words to explain or to thank her or to let her know I’d be ok. But she knew.
And at the perfect moment when we needed just a tiny slice of levity, she said with a small smile, “Come here. You have to see how bad you look.”
I leaned over the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. My frizzy hair was pulled back into a ponytail, my eyes were so swollen I could barely open them, and my makeup was smeared into grey, tear-streaked clouds. I looked at our reflection in the mirror. I saw her see me.
*
The paramedics came down, shooed us away and dropped a narrow, red body board next to her. Her hair was matted with sand; her eyes were closed, lips open. We watched them transfer her, taking fistfuls of her denim skirt and slippery halter top to shift her onto the board. They folded her arms across her chest before lifting her up and carrying her away.
I wonder about her sometimes, but I’ll never know.
*
I’ve been rescued by many women other than Jannath, who saved me that night. Women who have watched me and worried, yanked me from the waves, dragged me to safety.
That’s just how girls are.
author pic here
Katherine Grasso is an associate professor of communication studies at DeSales University, a liberal arts college in PA. Her work can be found in Pithead Chapel, trampset, West Trade Review, and Cimarron Review (forthcoming). She loves traveling, eating chocolate, sleeping in a tent, and snuggling with her dogs.
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