by Emily Strempler
“I know you’re proud,” the teacher says, stopping in the hall to deliver this gem of wisdom as she passes, “but I’d be a little quieter about it, if I were you. Boys don’t like girls who are too smart. Trust me.”
Alison’s fingers tighten, crinkling the paper of her test. The one she got more than 100% on, all the questions, and all the bonus questions too. The one she’s been studying for, for weeks. “Um… well…” she says, but the woman is already walking away. Alison’s friends, who were talking excitedly with her a moment before, have scattered to their classes. She slides the test into her binder and turns the phrase over in her mind. Boys don’t like girls who are too smart. Adds it to a pile of similar statements. A list that grows and grows, until it seems to encompass every conceivable thing Alison could do, or wear, or think, or be.
Last week, an aunt pulled her aside to tell her “good Christian boys” wouldn’t like her brand-new, rainbow-striped, knee-high socks. Adding, for good measure, that she had heard that the boy Alison was rumored to like — who, for the record, Alison did not like, because as far as Alison could tell, Alison did not like boys at all — had mentioned that he only liked “modest” girls. The band of skin between the tops of Alison’s socks and the hem of her shortest skirt is usually less than a centimetre of knee. Which seems pretty modest to Alison.
The year before, it was a bobbed haircut. Also, apparently, a no-no, if one cared what boys, in general, thought. Six different women stopped her in the hall, or pulled her aside at church, or paused while dropping their children off at the door for Sunday School, to tell her that her haircut was “pretty” or “cute” but that she should keep in mind that “boys prefer it when girls have long hair.” One of them even winked, insinuating that there was some sort of sexual reason boys might prefer girls with long hair. And that really freaked Alison out. Still, this year, her hair is long again. Not because boys hadn’t liked her bobbed hair, but because an unfortunate number of mostly older boys had, and had taken the time to tell her so, and Alison did not want that kind of attention.
Other things that matter to boys, according to the older women in Alison’s life, include the correct method of setting a table, the ability to bake — which will apparently fill their minds with visions of domestic comfort, working well with children — so they can imagine you as a mother, and having a “heart for service” — which in this case meant volunteering to slop salad onto plates at a church dinner. Skirts are better than pants, pants are better than capris, and capris are better than shorts. A delicate necklace and a pair of “small” earrings are an appropriate accompaniment, but nothing “garish,” and definitely not Alison’s favorite earrings, which are large, iridescent hoops.
Once, Alison made the mistake of complaining to her mother that she wasn’t sure she “would ever want to have a husband,” and for her trouble received a lecture about the fact that her feelings “would pass” and, in any case, there was no other option. “Do you want to end up like Darlene?” her mother asked, “Single and sad at fifty because you went and left it too long?”
Alison thinks that’s a bit mean to Darlene, who is supposed to be her mother’s friend, and is, in any case, a very nice older lady. But she accepts her mother’s point. Alison wants to be happy, and liked. She does not want to be alone. The only part of all of this that she isn’t sure about, though she doesn’t dare say it to anyone, least of all her mother, is liking, and being liked by boys.
The truth is, Alison only bought the striped socks because her friend, Phoebe, said they’d made her legs look “incredible” when she saw them at the mall. She bought the iridescent hoops, and three other pairs, because they matched pairs Phoebe already had. She volunteered to serve food at the church dinner, and in Sunday School, because Phoebe wanted to, and she wanted to do what Phoebe was doing. Alison has never met anyone she likes as much as she likes Phoebe. Has never wanted to be liked by anyone as much as she wants to be liked by Phoebe.
The truth is, Alison is over the moon for Phoebe. And Phoebe is over the moon for a boy named Dan, who goes to her school, which is, admittedly, not ideal.
On the weekend, Alison packs a bag full of movies and heads to Phoebe’s house for a sleepover. They eat pizza, and popcorn, and watch all the movies they can handle. They joke and laugh and cling to each other through all the “scary” scenes. And then they lie awake, talking about boys, and Alison makes up feelings she doesn’t feel, for the boy everyone thinks she likes, because it’s safer that way. She tells Phoebe about the test she aced, and Phoebe beams. “Oh my God, you’re so smart! Maybe you could come over next week and help me with this essay I’m supposed to do. I’m useless at essays.” And, of course, Alison will help.
Of course.
© Emily Strempler
Emily Strempler (she/her) is a queer, German-Canadian, ex-fundamentalist writer of inconvenient fiction. Raised in a deeply conservative prairie community, she married at eighteen before leaving the church and moving out west. Her work can be found in numerous publications, including The Bitchin’ Kitsch, New Critique, and Luna Station Quarterly.
Find her on Instagram/Threads @estrempler or Twitter @EmilyStrempler.
Share the love and wonder by making sure to respect the copyrights! Everything we publish belongs to the authors. You can share their texts via the official link. If you quote them, please credit them. If you wish to republish their work, you can always write to us and we will put you in direct contact with them. Supporting creativity starts with respecting those who create, so we thank you in advance for doing your part!
The Amazine Community 