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I Was Nine-Years-Old
By: Her Bessiness

1960

I walked home from the Shawmont School every day that fourth grade year and made my way past the playground and the Our Lady of Sacred Heart Church. I was busy selling my Girl Scout Cookies. After arriving home, I quickly slinked into the house through the back laundry room door and into the kitchen. I snuck an entire row of cookies, which God knows, “no one will eat as many of as Bessy.”

A covert operation.

Thin Mints were my favorite and I stacked up about six at a time and shoved them into my mouth before mother noticed. Mother didn’t have a sweet tooth. Pity. For strategy, I put two cookies in my pocket, so if she caught me, I would pull out those two, saying, “Yes, I just felt like a little something sweet.” I would have to deal with the row being gone later, but I could blame Richard, or maybe the dog. “Didn’t you notice that Mike the Springer Spaniel had stomach cramps from the chocolate last night? I think he may need to go to the vet and get his stomach pumped or have an even more serious procedure.” Catastrophic.

I did have to start watching my diet, because I was having my dance practice with the ever-so-talented Mr. Theodore Sheffield, the perverted choir director, who lived up the street. He was very petite, acted like a woman, and had a lisp. I believed that the lisp was part of his hair-lip, which makes his smile a bit strange, but I loved Mr. Sheffield because he thought I was a rising star with endless talent. Today, he would be throwing me in the air and we would practice our landing.

Several times, he dropped me without meaning to do it. It was just a bruise, but it turned all different colors of purple and then later a shade of chartreuse. Everyone asked me about it at Shawmont and I, of course, told them of my rise to stardom with the famous Mr. Sheffield with the way-off-off-off-Broadway credentials. He was well known all over the town of Conshohocken and the tri-state area.

I wore my red velvet short skirt with the white fir trim for my practice session with Mr. Sheffield. The skirt was from ice-skating and I planned on wearing it in the Winter Spectacular Ice Show at the Chestnut Hill Ice Skating Rink.

I wanted to wow them with my almost-flip and my halfway kinda-sorta hammel-camel. They would be particularly impressed with my grace and style, and I was sure to watch the front row for the scout, who was there to search for talented skaters like me. I wanted my hair in an impressive braid twist reminiscent of the Hansel and Gretel era. I smiled that beautiful Bessy smile, which everyone knows and loves. You know, the one that didn’t quite show the rubber bands on my braces, but was still lovely and memorable. I was sure that I heard everyone in the crowd whispering under their breath, “There she goes, that graceful, beautiful girl. Don’t you just love her to death?” I was well known back then for being fabulous.

I had the best night ever with Mr. Sheffield. We danced to music from “West Side Story.” I, of course, was Maria and with my lovely skin and dark hair I could tantalize a crowd. Mr. Sheffield, of course, was Tony, the handsome, debonair romantic lead. This was a stretch, I know, but my imagination was on fire and he was a gorgeous specimen of a man if I didn’t look too closely. Our dance-moves were outstanding and my spectacular singing voice was beyond stellar. “I feel pretty and witty and gaaaaay.” Mr. Sheffield also fancied himself as a singing coach, and said, “Just listen to her. Ah, the talent. Oh my, the range. She is without a doubt, and without question, astonishing.” I was beaming with pride.

Mother made hot chocolate and marshmallows for Richard and me and we sat, as we were accustomed to do, every Saturday night on the steps with our special “Rocky and Bulwinkle” mugs. Mr. Sheffield was downstairs with mother and was having his “usual.” After several “usuals” Mr. Sheffield was singing his rendition of Germont from La Traviata. His beautiful operatic-tenor voice resonated through the house and mother was laughing and laughing. I went up to put on my pajamas, and wanted to finish the end of “Leave it to Beaver.” The Beav was in trouble again after trying to make money for a school project. I just loved the Beav and, of course, Wally was a babe, so the show was my favorite. Mother told me to go to bed and found it necessary to screech like a hyena, because you know “I never listen with the cotton in my goddamn ears.”

“Mr. Sheffield wants to tuck you in, dear.”

“Hello, mon petit chou.”

I beamed when Mr. Sheffield called me French nicknames.

“You have those beaux yeux.”

I flashed my lashes and smiled my best and most charming Bessy smile.

“Je t’aime.”

“Yes, yes tell me more. Ah, wait a minute, what did you say?”

Just then, I was French-kissed and felt-up for the first time; I grimaced, but tried to act polite, knowing that he, and only he, could make me a star. I went to bed and didn’t see Mr. Sheffield much...

until the next month when he did it again.

Article Source: http://journal.ilovephilosophy.com

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