We wear the required light green, short-legged, one-piece cotton gym suit with elastic at the waist, cap sleeves, and snaps down the front. We jog a circle in the gym. Sit-ups—elbows to knees. Climb a rope. We all look alike in green, until the showers. Some big on top, some flat as a prairie. We look—but we don’t look. Look away if someone looks at us. We hold our towels in front as bottoms jiggle from behind, tippy-toe-skitter to the gang shower, except for those who have their periods—they can get dressed. We fake our periods to avoid the shower. The gym teacher makes us go in anyway.

Towels gone and naked, the flat-chested hug elbows in front, showered in a spotlight of water. The girls in the clique have it all: perky breasts, curves, and confidence. The rest of us side-glance—so many different boobs—and nipples! We turn around once in the stream of water then rush out to our lockers and the wooden bench. Pull our panties over damp skin, tug the crotch out of the crack. Fast-fasten the bra in front, turn it around, pull up to cover bare breasts. Button the blouse; cardigan next, arms slide from shoulders into sleeves. Without a snag, gather up nylons one at a time, clip them into a girdle-like garter belt—impossibly damp, stick, stick, sticky. Slip on the half-slip and skirt. We grab our books, almost late for class; sweat pours down our necks, trickles the “V” between our small breasts. Cheeks red, but not from exercise.

White apple blossoms
scatter in the rain
fruit swells plump and red.

Annette Langlois Grunseth, Green Bay, is published widely in journals and anthologies. She received the 2022 Hal Gruetzmacher Prize for poetry, a Gold Medal with the Military Writers Society of America, and a Pushcart Prize nomination. She has published two books. Learn more at www.annettegrunseth.com