Falsies by Gleah Powers

Dicky Campbell looked like one of the models from the pages of my mother’s Vogue magazines. I pictured him on a beach in Acapulco in skin tight bathing trunks, his thick blonde hair, tanned olive skin and sea green eyes enticing me to join him. He must already be a playboy, I thought.

I stood by the passenger door of his red corvette expecting him to open it, but he got in the driver’s seat and waited for me to get in.

“Ready?” he said, nodding in my direction from behind his Aviator sunglasses.

We ate cheeseburgers, fries and sundaes at Bob’s Big Boy on Central Avenue. I was horrified when a glob of fudge fell onto my silk blouse. I scooped it off with my spoon as quickly as I could, hoping he wouldn’t notice, though he’d been staring at my chest the whole time. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Everyday, I laid the foam rubber domes my mother gave me in my bra, hoping my breasts would get the message to grow. She called them “falsies.” “You’re much smaller than I was at fourteen,” she said. I wondered if Dicky could tell they were fake. Finally he said, “My father gave me that vette in exchange for going to college.”

“Where will you go?”

“Don’t know yet. I want to make as much money as possible. My mother thinks I could make a fortune modeling.”

“I’m going to art school.”

He laughed. “There’s no money in that.”

“Maybe I’ll be famous.”

“You’d better marry a rich husband.”

After we ate, we went to see Where The Boys Are at the Palms Theatre. The movie was about four college girls from the Midwest with pointy breasts who traveled to Ft. Lauderdale for Spring Break. One of the girls, Melanie, had sex with two of the boys and was raped a few days later. She wandered into traffic after her trauma and got hit by a car.

After the movie, Dicky drove back to my house in silence. He parked in the driveway, leaned over and kissed me with his tongue. I let him feel me up on the outside of my chocolate stained blouse.

I felt no sensation when he squeezed my breasts, but when he lifted my skirt, slid his hand under the waistband of my underpants and slipped his finger between my legs, I didn’t want him to stop. I hoped he didn’t think it would be okay to rape me later.

The porch light came on. My mother opened the front door and waved. “Dicky,” she shouted, “come in the house. Have something to drink.” I pulled my skirt down. He started the engine, nodded for me to get out. “See ya,” he said, backing out, his car grazing the white flowers of our oleander trees, then gunning his vette down our street through the hot, dry summer night.


About Gleah Powers

Gleah Powers’ work has appeared in print and online in Canopic Jar: An Arts Journal, KYSO Flash, riverSedge, The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Red Savina Review, Southwestern American Literature, Lumina, Prime Number Magazine and many other literary journals. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee recognized in “Notable Stories” in the Million Writers Award; a finalist in Split Lip Press’ Turnbuckle Chapbook contest and in Brain Mill Press’ Driftless Novella Contest; a shortlisted finalist in the Summer Literary Seminars Contest; and has been awarded writing residencies from Vermont Studio Center, Rancho Linda Vista arts community, Starry Night Retreat/Artist Residency, as well as a grant from the Barbara Deming Memorial fund. Gleah holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. She completed her formal art training at the California Institute of the Arts and has worked professionally as a painter, actor and dancer in New York, Los Angeles and Mexico City. Currently, she is at work on a memoir. Visit her website at http://www.gleahpowers.com

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