Not That Kind of Girl, Part 3

December 26, 1970. I stand at the front of the Ava Methodist Church wearing a crimson velvet gown. Its sheer white sleeves and white velvet collar match the white netting shooting out the top of the awkward headpiece bobby-pinned to my hair. My mother made the entire get-up. Sue and JoEtta’s, too. They both look bridesmaid-perfect, but I feel ridiculous and out of place. An overgrown Christmas elf or something.

In moments my older sister will float down the aisle wearing yards and yards of silk and satin. Her train is 12 feet long and trimmed in hand-beaded lace. . .plus two or three teeny, tiny drops of Mom’s blood. Only 15 days into 19 years old, she followed her dreams to this candlelit church and the altar where Jim stands, waiting.

Jim and Deb were each other’s first dates five years ago. Neither of them has ever gone out with anyone else. Neither of them has—or ever will, I guess—kissed anyone else. Neither of them has any idea what they’re getting into.

Jim’s been in college for the last three and a half years. Every weekend he comes home to see Debbie, who is three years younger. On Saturday nights they sit in the center of town with Jim’s mom and dad to “watch the kids go round the square.”

That's a major bummer for me. Our mom’s rule is that we can only drive around the square one time. One time, she says, will get us where we want to go, and that’s all the square is good for, if you ask Mom. I don't ask Mom and I break this rule a lot, but not when Deb and Jim are sitting there. Deb would squeal for sure.

When she graduated from high school last June, Debbie turned down scholarships to music school and an art conservatory. She says all she wants to do is stay home like Mom.

I am not that kind of girl.