Skirt across the water

Friday 19 September 2008

It was windy and chilly this morning and from my window I could see the ocean rolling in fast white combers that broke upon the barrier islands and disturbed the bay even these two miles away. When I stepped out of my morning shower I was shivering in spite of the steamed-up mirror. Jessy met me with a towel. 'What are you wearing?'

She shrugged, smiling shyly. 'Just... stuff.'

It was cute stuff, short, snug khaki shorts with a multicoloured bandanna for a belt over opaque aquamarine tights, a black tanktop under a plain white cotton shirt with the tails tied up at her middle, and her plain black pumps. 'It's cute,' I said. 'Where did you get the tights?'

She got a little red and looked away. 'From ballet,' she said.

'From ballet!' I smiled. They were. 'Clever.'

'Well....'

Jessy will often do this, so I will have to play catch-up and try to at least compliment her. It won't do for her to put together something pert and witty and then have me in jeans schlumping in to school with her, you know. I went out to my room, got on my underwear, and then stood in front of the wardrobe thinking till steam came out of my ears. (Well at least I was warm inside!) I ended up with a pale blue shirt with faint gold and grey lines from Pac Sun, worn unbuttoned over a navy tanktop, and last year's pleated grey school skirt from HOH with navy tights and my black shoes which are like maryjanes but with 2-1/2" heels. Surely Jessy would approve of that.

Now I know it's kind of conservative, but that is the influence of my stepmother as well as my mother and father. This is how we are here. I do not have my ears pierced, but I never wear earrings anyway. I have never worn bare-tummy tops to school, even though half the girls here wear them even as the weather gets cold. I like heels but nothing too high. I never wear anything that shows cleavage except for two of my formal gowns. More of my stuff is solid colours than bold prints, and I tend towards navy-blue and grey, like we wore at HOH, or else girlish pink and pastels. I hate red. I don't like shiny or satiny-finished clothes. I like a close fit but nothing too tight. I never show ANY part of my underwear deliberately or even negligently.

If all this makes me boring, then I am boring.

In school, wearing a skirt always gets attention. Even though Jessy and I have been wearing skirts at least three times a week since we started here (and five times a week last year!), the boys still stare and the girls still glare. Teachers, for some reason, seem to like seeing us in skirts. I think it is true what my stepmother says, that everyone appreciates a young lady in a skirt. It seems proper and satisfying somehow, and of course Jessy and I are always proper about it, legs crossed, knees together, back straight to ascend the stairs, and all that. We were raised to set good examples and this is what we do to do it.

At lunch, Rita raved over Jessy's whole ensemble and then wanted to know about my skirt. 'Where did you get it? It's so cute.'

'You'd never guess,' Jessy said slyly.

'Wait,' Chris said, 'it's a uniform skirt.'

I looked at her. 'From our old school.'

'From your English school!' Rita said. 'Oh, that is so hot.'

I laughed. 'Hot?'

'Sure. Real English girls' school skirt.... Totally hot.'

We all laughed then. They asked, and Jessy and I told them about what we wore at HOH-- skirts like this, navy knee socks (or tights in winter), black maryjanes, pale-blue shirts (they actually called it a 'blouse' there), and navy-blue jackets, which we didn't have to wear during each class but pretty much all the rest of the time. The girls in 6th-form (like 11th and 12th grade in the US) wore blue-and-white printed scarves like neckties. (When 6th-formers address you, you have to call them 'Ma'am'. You do not address them first.) It was all very prissy and proper, exactly what our mother would have wanted for us, exactly what our father and stepmother were looking for before we actually moved there. As the one American in each of our classes Jessy and I were very careful to be modest and humble, to observe, to ask for guidance, to fit in, and not to arrogantly assume we were automatically an exception because we were American, as though that made us somehow better in a society that doesn't value anyone who assumes that. As a result the other girls accepted and loved us from the start, considering us respectful and respectable, and we were no longer outsiders saying 'us' and 'them' but all of us saying 'we' about all of us together. We were a real part of the school, just as all the girls born and raised in England were too.

And even though this school has turned out to be pretty positive for us (so far), we miss that life too. The other night I felt terrifically maudlin and actually wept on my pillow over it. Living there for two years was a privilege that most American girls will never know, and coming back here was a privilege most British girls will never know. That's pretty humbling, and it's a lot to miss.

This afternoon I sent an email to a group of my HOH classmates, wishing them luck as they start their fateful 6th-form year. I've been getting responses back ever since. Most of them have asked 'How's it going?' and 'Have you forgot us yet?' --to which I have already replied, 'It's just fine,' and 'NEVER.' I wonder if they know how much Jessy and I dearly love them, not just because they represent a wonderful experience we have had with them at HOH, but because they have been such loving friends to us as well.

Daddy says we will pay them all a visit over Easter break, or else invite some of them to visit us here in Virginia. Photos and e-mails are not enough to bridge that whole ocean. I guess it's true that hands across the water should never, ever, let go.

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