Suzanne, the blonde girl from across the street, was a year younger than me (I was six), but one day we decided to ignore the age difference and become friends. We sat in my back yard, amidst the flowers, woodpeckers and baby rabbits fleeing my cat, and tried to think of something that would formalise our friendship -- a solemn ritual.
Me in a different dress -- also made by my mom. Painting by my mom.
"I like your dress," said Suzanne.
"Thank you. I like your hair."
Somehow, exchanging compliments didn't seem enough, especially after she'd rejected doing somersaults till we got dizzy.
"How about we promise to give each other whatever we ask for. Like, if I were to ask you for a flower from your garden, you'd have to give it to me."
I hesitated. "My mom would get mad."
"Well, ok, I won't ask for a flower, then, but something like that. Then we'll be friends forever."
"OK."
"Promise, promise?"
"I promise."
Suzanne said, "I promise, too. You go first. And then I'll have to give it to you, whatever it is."
"A red crayon." I felt guilty as soon as I said it -- while in return I would get a friend for life, her crayon box would be missing a primary colour.
"But red is my favourite colour."
"Blue?"
"OK. Now my turn." She looked around the yard. I was glad we'd put the flowers off limits. And thankfully Charlie, my cat, made her break out in welts. Then she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in a way that I'd later recognise as signs of a bargain hunter catching a scent.
"Your dress."
"My dress?"
"A promise is a promise."
I had on a blouse made of light green cotton covered in pink rose buds, and over that, a pink corduroy sleeveless dress, which my mother had made. I'd posed for ages as she stuck pins into me and sometimes into the actual fabric. My mom sewed most of my clothes, "Oh, did I forget the pins again?" she'd say, chuckling, as I withdrew my pin-laden foot from a trouser-leg. "Oops!"
I wished I'd insisted on the somersaults. But, as Suzanne pointed out, a promise is a promise, though I was beginning to wonder whether the same could be said of a friend. And now I had her for life.
We snuck into the house and up to my bedroom. My mom was in her sewing room, working on her latest doll -- these dolls were almost my size, and I was almost life-size (the doctor had twice refused my mother's request for growth hormones, saying I'd have a growth spurt any day now). One had soft, curled red hair. One had long blonde ringlets. The latest one was bald and naked, but Mom promised it would have the same brown hair as me. They each had lacy petticoats and little leather shoes with buckles. The dresses were made of the same sort of cloth as my rose-petal blouse and had lace collars, clasped at the throat with a jewel, and cinched waists. They didn't break things, throw tantrums, punch their brothers, or get suckered by dolls younger than themselves. They were beautiful.
Suzanne stood with my pink corduroy dress mashed in her hands. "And the blouse?" She didn't say it as a question. More as a reminder. I was so depressed at this point, I didn't quibble. I unbuttoned my blouse and handed it over.
"Thanks! I'll give you my crayon next time." And with that, she was gone.
I lay down on my bed, staring at the Chagall my mom had painted on the ceiling. The lady in the picture was in a state of nature, like me, but I could tell she didn't feel so used.
At dinner, my mother had instantly recognised my change of outfit. "You what?"
"I gave it to Suzanne." Feeling she wouldn't sympathise with such things as pacts of friendship, I skipped over that and instead said, "I was growing out of it. Maybe it's that growth spurt the doctor told us about."
Mom's eyes, when she got angry, turned from grey to green, and now they were were greener than I'd ever seen them.
"It fit you perfectly. And Suzanne is four inches taller than you."
I hadn't thought of that.
"When you did grow out of that outfit, I was going to use it to make clothes for the dolls."
"But, well, it was a pact of friendship."
She gave a sharp, humourless laugh, confirming my suspicion of being suckered.
"Listen, while you're living in this house, your clothes, your things, are not yours to give away. Especially to the Smiths."
The next day, my parents went off somewhere and Nan, my dad's mother, came to babysit. I spent the morning sitting in the spot where Suzanne and I had made our pact. In the meadow outside the picket fence, I could see the tips of Charlie's ears poking out from the tall grass, as she waited for the baby rabbits to emerge, one after the other. My brother was inside, reading science fiction. Nan was lying on the family room couch watching a soap opera and drinking whisky. The back screen door was open.
I decided to run through the doorway. I built up some speed before I altered course slightly, so that instead of running through the doorway, I ran headfirst into a low brick wall that extended a few feet into the yard. I don't remember anything after that. My mom said when they got home, Nan was passed out. Then they followed a trail of blood through the kitchen, up the stairs and into the sewing room -- it was the first room you reached after climbing the stairs -- where I lay unconscious on the small cot, overseen by a table full of primly sitting dolls, hands in laps.
At the hospital, I got nine stitches. They had to cut off my hair -- since it was the top of my head, they cut it short everywhere.
A couple weeks later, I went over to Suzanne's house. Her bratty little cousin, age three, was running amuck, throwing food on herself and everyone else. Beneath the outer layer of pudding, I could see an inner layer of pink corduroy.
"That's my dress."
Suzanne looked at it, as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh yeah, that's right. It was way too small for me. My mom was going to throw it out, but then my aunt thought it would do for Marie."