Page 28 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Strip,” Sister Miriam commands.

I stop walking and cough like I’ve swallowed a fly. “Excuse me?”

She turns, clasping thick arms over her stomach. “I need to take your measurements. Ruth!”

An older woman looks up from folding a bedsheet, and hurries over.

“Did you find any?”

“Yes, Sister.” Ruth detours and heads over to one of the emptier racks. Hangers clatter as she drags it closer to us on squeaky wheels. With a glance in my direction, she starts going through the clothes hanging on the rack.

“Are you deaf?” Miriam asks. “I said strip!”

I glance at the other people in the washroom. All of them have their back to me, but the two boys are staring so hard at their soapy buckets I know for a fact they’ll peek over their shoulders as soon as no one’s looking.

I grit my teeth and force down a swell of irritation. Fighting this won’t do me any favors.

I slip off my dress and hand it to Ruth. I move my hands around to take off my bra.

“Leave it.”

My skin crawls, but a quick glance at the boys shows they’re still engrossed in their task.

“Turn.”

I pivot on my heel, and then hold up my arms so Miriam can measure me. It’s the weirdest thing—standing still while a complete stranger takes stock of how big and small you are in all the important places.

My parents raised me not to be vain, but there’s no way you can sprout a pair of breasts and not stare at yourself a little longer in the mirror. I know I’m far from perfect—my hips and thighs are too large and my breasts too small in comparison. I kinda hoped they’d grow a little to balance things out but that never happened.

Invisible eyes drag over my skin again.

Not the boys. Not the other washerwomen.

I scan the laundry room.

“Got it?” Miriam says.

“Yes, Sister. But I don’t think any of these will work.”

“They’ll have to. I can’t stand seeing her walking around like this.”

Their voices become white noise.

The laundry doors, like the ones on either end of the dining hall, have little windows set at eye level. I barely noticed them on the way in.

The baker is on the other side of the door. With his hair net gone, his long, sandy hair hangs in his face. He drags it away with thumb and forefinger, but it just falls forward again.

He’sthe one watching me.

What the hell is his fascination with me? First the video camera, now this?

I get an overwhelming urge to cross my arms over my bra, but I’m not sure if the sisters are done measuring me yet. Ignoring my reddening cheeks, I lift my chin and glare at him.

So what if he wants to look? There’s not much for him to see. Just a girl in her underwear.

His lips quirk up in a smile that immediately spreads into a wide grin. He takes the first two fingers of his hand and presses them to his lips. Then he touches them to the glass.

I stiffen. In a blink, he’s gone.

---