In the locker rooms I'd been in, the white women always seemed
embarrassed by their nakedness and wrapped towels around their waists
before slipping off their underpants, but here most of the women were
buck-naked. Some of them were skinny, with angular hips and jutting
collarbones. Others had big pillowy behinds and huge swinging breasts,
and they were bumping their butts together and pushing their breasts up
against each other as they danced.
As soon as the women saw me, they stopped dancing. One of the naked
ones came over and stood in front of me, her hands on her hips, her
breasts so close I was terrified her nipples were going to touch me.
Dinitia explained that I was with her and that I was good people. The
women looked at one another and shrugged.
I was going on thirteen and self-conscious, so I planned to slip my
bathing suit on underneath my dress, but I worried this would only make
me more conspicuous, so I took a deep breath and stepped out of my
clothes. The scar on my ribs was about the size of my outstretched hand,
and Dinitia noticed it immediately. I explained that I had gotten it when
I was three, and that I'd been in the hospital for six weeks getting skin
grafts, and that was why I never wore a bikini. Dinitia ran her fingers
lightly over the scar tissue. "It ain't so bad," she said.
"Hey, 'Nitia!" one of the women shouted. "Your white friend's got a red
bush coming in!"
"What did you expect?" Dinitia asked.
"That's right," I said. "Collar got to match the cuffs."
It was a line I'd heard Dinitia use. She smiled at it, and the women all
shrieked with laughter. One of the dancers bumped her hip up against
me. I felt welcome enough to give a saucy bump back.