Movin On / Ch. 9 / Pt. 3 / King Jr. High

Paula
Movin On / Pt. 3 / King Jr. High


Summer vacation was at an end, even though the sun was still scorching. It was time to say farewell to the Beaches of Sorrento, Venice and Malibu. I entered the ninth grade at Thomas Star King Jr. High School. It was much more overwhelming, than Le Conte summer school had been; surpassing my farthest expectations. Thankfully, my guardian angel, Judy was right there by my side, paving the way, until I could manage on my own. And, of course, Mike was always on the horizon, making sure I was safe and because of that, I was slow to realize that King was a rough school.


Slowly, in spite of my inner turmoil, a new horizon unfolded. I felt free for the first time. Free from the shackles of Catholic school. This was the real thing. No more uniforms, no more nuns, and no more censorship. I could dress the way I wanted and express my views without harsh repercussions. My babysitting jobs had allowed me to save up a good amount of money, even though I only earned fifty cents an hour. Before the semester started, Mom gave me back two hundred and fifty dollars of the money I earned and took me shopping for school clothes. But, this was not nearly enough money for a decent wardrobe; so, I clearly needed to use my imagination. With an edgy use of accessories and a few hand-me-downs, I built up my repertoire.


My mother picked clothes for me that bent toward the classics, so I altered them with quirky touches. In no time, I exhausted my stock of cloth and looked for ways to expand. That's when I began sneaking clothes from my sister, Geri’s closet, and stuffing them under my bed, instead of putting them back. She didn't have much herself and kept her clothes in such pristine order that she could tell when something was missing. It was of little consequence to me, that my actions drove my sister to tears. I was really being a brat.



“She’s ruining my life! Do something!” she cried to my mother.

“Gosh I only borrowed a few things.”

My mother locked me out of my sister’s room, with a warning.

“Fine!” I said, and stomped off . . . but I was pretty concerned, about the whole thing.



This new affair, turned out to be only a temporary setback. I was a desperate girl, with a mission and eventually I found a skeleton key, in my Dad's first drawer. Mind you, it was not so much that that I wanted to look pretty, it was, that I was up against the ruling click of rich, princesses; whose cashmere sweaters and skirts, expensive shoes, purses and jewels, were their daily faire. Why was it that everywhere I went, there were so many rich people? The pressure was intense, but I refused to be ashamed of what little I had. In less than a few months, I was setting trends. I did things like dropping my sweaters down like a lazy shawl, or folded my skirt over at the waist and pulled it down so it would hang inside out and tight over my hips, like an under garment and at the same time making the skirt really short. Soon every girl was doing the same. This was about the point where I let my hair grow really long, again. I was looking sexy and I knew it.