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A bell rings and a sea of white and indigo floods
the city street
in front of St. Cecilia High, flowing towards the main road and city
center
Crisp blue tunics, stiff as cardboard,
White starched shirts peeking out
But underneath our armor, bodies twitch and pulse
Dancing in school-girl anticipation
And me, I walk in determined strides, waiting to be named.
My uniform holds everything in place
The pleats do not become undone
During morning prayers, history, algebra, the daily sprint to the
cafeteria
and even through our headmistress’ afternoon announcement:
Remember St. Cecilia girls,
You are representatives of your school
Uniforms at or below your knees
No jewelry except for a watch
Do not antagonize the girls from School of the Holy Virgin
No public displays of affection if you converse with young men
from St. Michael’s
And do not even speak to those technical school boys!
Our indigo river flows into a multicolored sea in front of the
bus stop
School of the Holy Virgin white, St. Michael’s green, and
the crushed uniforms of the boys from City Technical.
The Technical boys line the sidewalk under Miss Edna’s shop
near the bus shed,
Balancing tight buttocks on the edge of soda crates in
creamy shades of khaki, bursting at the seam.
I approach Miss Edna’s and slow down, so my naming ceremony
will be slow and special,
The Holy Virgin girl in front of me races ahead too quickly,
Afraid of what the word might do to her ears, but me,
I am ready.
I saunter to the edge of the shop, pause, and then the ceremony
begins.
“Cecilia Girl, pssssst, what-a-way you looking nice
today.”
My steps remain paced.
“
You lookin so good; how you goin on like you don’t want to
talk to me.”
I lock my eyes ahead and sway my hips more distinctly.
“
You looking like…”
Here it comes.
“… a nice fresh fish, a big snapper that I could
eat right now.”
My body burns red with delight under my blue sheath
as I turn to the khaki clad boy,
“
Bite me, nuh,” I say, reveling in my name.
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