Nice Girls Don't

I held the white box, which was about the size of a record only deeper, with trembling hands. It was covered in gold leaves, hastily stamped on by my mother in an effort to disguise her dislike of the holiday season. I lifted and lowered it, listening for a clink, feeling for the shift of something sharp. The contents remained silent and motionless. It had to be the coveted jeans. I examined the knot in the twine. It was loose. A sharp tug would untie the knot, leaving the box naked, ready to yield its contents. I bit my lip in anticipation.
I had been begging for the jeans ever since I watched my brother fall out of a tree. He had broken his collar bone and scratched himself up pretty badly but his jeans had remained intact. To a girl who was constantly being scolded for catching her dresses on fence posts, for dragging her skirts through the dirt, even when she was only going to the gate to fetch the mail as she had been asked, these jeans looked like freedom. All summer, I watched my brother run through the woods around our house. I wasn’t supposed to join him. Nice girls didn’t run in the woods. Nice girls sat on the porch and worked on their sewing. Nice girls kept their nice dresses nice and neat. But I wasn’t a nice girl and after a few hours I would inevitably throw down my needlework and find my brother amongst the trees. Usually my disobedience, spelled out clearly in the forest debris that clung to my outfits or in the tears in my skirt, was met with a slap or at least an exasperated sigh. These reproaches hurt but they also gave me ammunition in my quest for jeans. “Think mother,” I would say “if I had jeans you would never have to mend them and they don’t show dirt the same way so you would only have to wash them half as often.” My mother’s reply was always the same, some variation on “nice girls don’t wear jeans,” But now, looking at her placid face lit by the candles on the tree, I felt sure I’d worn her down. Either she had accepted the jeans or the fact that no matter what she did, I would never be a nice girl.

My brother Daniel’s voice sliced through my covetous daze. “Open it already” he cried nearly bouncing out of his seat. He checked himself and settled calmly back into the sofa. He was almost as eager to open the rectangular box that lay on his gangly knees but was trying hard to appear as unenthusiastic as the adults. He knew it had to be the rifle. His almost stubbly cheeks, the width of his shoulders and the recently acquired gap between his pant legs and his socks all suggested that he was old enough for one, even if he was still young enough to be excited by it.
I shook my head. I wanted to be the last person to open a gift. Flavoured with anticipation, the cider would taste sweeter, the candles would glow brighter and the carols on the record player would sound cheerier. Even my mothers’ impatience would be momentarily dampened.
My mother sighed, indicating that we’d better hurry up or forget the whole thing. The sooner we opened our gifts, the sooner she could sweep up the pine needles, smooth out the wrapping paper and tuck Christmas safely back in the closet until next year.
I hated to be rushed but I also knew if I pushed too far my mother might just grab the box off my lap and throw the whole thing in the fire. I yanked on the string. The lid slid off with surprising ease, as if the contents were greasing the way to their freedom. The bottom half of the box landed in my lap, sending a denim pant leg onto my lap. A purple denim pant leg. My mother smiled at me expectantly, the veil of her annoyance lifting for one brief second. I forced a smile and pulled the jeans out, praying I would not find any more flaws. Unfolded, the jeans yielded a bouquet of straps, bows and buttons. I willed myself not to cry. There was a scratchy silence. Everyone was waiting for me to say something but I knew that even the shortest word would unleash a choked sob followed by the hot sting of tears.
“Well?” my father asked. I grinned with a clenched jaw, my gritted teeth holding back my disappointment.
My mother sighed. “Go put them on,” she said deflated. I had squashed the tiny bubble of eagerness she had allowed herself to feel. I had a flash of guilt but I was too busy dealing with the crater sized hole in my own dream. I dashed for the bedroom, glad for an excuse to nurse my hurt privately.
Inside the bedroom, I collapsed on the bed, wracked by spasmic sobs. Disappointment burned in my throat and my belly. Through the walls I could hear my parents. “What’s wrong with her?” my mother asked. “She’s bloody impossible to please. So ungrateful.” My father murmured something soothing.
I stayed in the room for a few minutes, trying to force my disappointment into a manageable size so that I could swallow it easily, but it stayed tough and stretchy, choking me at each breath. “If you don’t come out with the jeans on in the next minute, I’m going to throw them in the fire,” my mother yelled from the living room. Good, do it, I thought but then I heard my brother’s voice.
“Please Lucy,” he begged. There was something soft and vulnerable in his tone. He was still holding on to his eagerness. I pictured the box with the rifle on his lap. As hideous as the jeans were, I couldn’t’ ruin his moment. I stilled myself, rolling the anger into pellets, filling my belly with the heavy drops of disappointment. The sobs receded and I was able to sit up. As cold and calm as a statue, I put on the denim restraints.
The jeans were even worse on me. They rode up into my crotch and pinched my waist. The straps were too long and hung awkwardly across my back, making them look like reins. The number of buckles and straps gave the whole thing the appearance of a straight jacket. It didn’t matter.
I walked back into the living room and sat in my purple shroud. My parents barely acknowledged my presence, except to give Daniel the nod that he could now open his gift. His grin was everything I had hoped for.

Christmas day was the first and last time I ever wore the jeans. The next day, I snuck into the shed and buried them behind a moldy box of gardening tools. From time to time, my mother would ask me about the jeans. I got used to telling her what she wanted to hear. “You were right mother, nice girls don’t wear jeans.”