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Show Moon - 79 The American community partitioned off the things it didn't want to see, turned them more American, more normal, than they might have been in even, say, Toledo. As the hormones stirred and swirled in her blood, Joy wept and laughed like the sudden spring rainstorms, and she wanted passionately one thing only: to be kissed by a boy. She became unashamedly banal, a regular teenager, the closest she ever came to being a normal girl. Dancing to Little Richard; wearing white bucks and crinolines; kissing deeply in the back seat of a car, but keeping always the hands off the Zones. Her mother had told her about the Zones, which included knees and the back of the neck. Girls had to be alert. Their minds were trained around the rules like coiled strips of clay. The G.I.'s who clustered everywhere like swarms of bees did their part: they catcalled, whistled, hooted a running commentary on the size of breasts, the curve of hips. It was as if every time she set foot outdoors she was a horse led up for auction. The comments tended to be flattering ("Beautiful eyes. Great hips") and part of her felt triumphant. She'd won the right to be noticed and desired. She'd get to be loved someday. Another part of her was terrified, a creature up for grabs. What would be left of her at the logical conclusion of this exchange? That didn't bear much thinking about, for she wanted above all to feel pleasure in her future, and a future with a man was the only one she'd been taught to see. So she chose to enjoy the attention, though she had to pretend not to, for nice girls weren't supposed to like being noticed. When she approached a swarm of G.I.'s, she blushed, lowered her eyes and hurried past them, just as she'd been told to. The American boys at school said she was nice to look at, but her breasts were too small. This didn't stop them from rubbing their hands along the side of her ribs as they danced. German boys, whose handsome faces |