A Good Girl Wears Pearls

I’m a good girl. More than this, I have an innocent face-round with big blue eyes and an easy smile that constantly betrays me. People take one look at me and immediately decide, “she’s such a good girl.” They’re right. I am. I look in the mirror every morning and fall prey to the same things they must be seeing. Then, I exaggerate those qualities. I brush my hair to a glossy sheen, put on just enough make-up, throw on Grannie’s pearls and, voila, my good girl look is complete.

These pearls are mine because I am the first born child and the most beloved. I am always safe, I am always pretty, I am always loved. Knowing this does not mean that I live in a vacuum of sweet perfume and soft light. There are back rooms and dark recesses where the integrity of Grannie’s pearls have been compromised. Still, they shine. No matter what, they always shine.

For some, such an heirloom might represent responsibility or obligation. Not for me. The necklace draped around my neck often represents a free pass. And, as long as they are there, adorning my neck for all to see, then everyone else will know how safe, how pretty, how loved I truly am. So, by moonlight, I can do what others can not. All the while, maintaining the image of good girls everywhere.

This prevailing image is based on unspoken rules: good girls do not get drunk in public. For that matter, it should remain questionable as to whether a good girl has been drinking at all. Good girls are never asked to attend soirees where questionable chemicals are offered as party favors, not that they would ever socialize at such an event anyway. Good girls do not make-out with boys they just met. They always conduct themselves as though their mothers were present. Some even go so far as to conduct themselves as though dear sweet Grannie herself was present.

But, I am here to tell you that all of these things can be accomplished without the slightest tarnish to your Grannie’s pearls. Since this sprawling southern city I call home does not offer much in the way of cultural amusement, at some point, even a good girl will receive a random dinner party invitation whose party favors turn out not to be some cute memorabilia to commemorate the night’s camaraderie but instead a dusty mirror where guests gather to breathe in something other than their reflections. If I am there, do not be fooled by my schoolgirl giggles. This is not the first time that my Miami Vice fantasies have materialized before me. For a moment, my new friends here are reminiscent of some superficial eighties sitcom-- handsome, aloof, young men whispering in the bejeweled ears of beautiful twenty-something girls. As I sit and toy with my Grannie’s pearls, residing for the moment on my collar bone, a striking boy with green eyes hands me the twenty dollar bill he just rolled up. I lean over and feel the vortex of time shift back to the present. My pearls, a tad too long, sweep over the mirror, making a mess. It’s a definite faux pas, but everyone laughs.

“Oh, sweet girl. She doesn’t know any better,” someone says and I giggle in their direction.

I’m giggling, though, because of the suburban incongruity of the moment. Everyone here should be at home watching The Late Show or some other equally mundane thing. I should be home, too. I should not be arranging what I see into parallel lines. And, normally, this is not my job. Because, normally echoes would bound around the room that they’ll be too long, too short, too fat, too sparse, too clumpy. But, remember, I am a good girl so I do it just right. Girls in Grannie’s pearls know how important party etiquette is and this is a party after all.

I always look around the room to freeze a picture for my memory. I usually only know a couple of people intimately. The names of everyone else are interchangeable. I never understand how I get on the guest list for these festivities. Its not as though I bring anything for the goody bag. I can’t find anything or buy anything and I’m never holding. I get invited because its cute. I’m a novelty, you can be sure. They think they are corrupting the good girl. They think I’m smiling because I don’t know what else to do.

Actually, I’m smiling because of my secret good girl thoughts. This good girl knows that tomorrow most of the people here will start planning next week’s party. Not me. Who knows when I’ll do this again. Who cares. I don’t need it, won’t miss it, won’t crave it. And, secretly, that’s what I think makes me a good girl. It allows me to think that I am better than the other people here. That girl over there will wake up in the morning with raccoon eyes and knotted hair. She’ll forget to get a bath tonight and wake up tomorrow smelling wretched. I’m definitely better than her. Tomorrow I’ll get up smelling like my favorite designer soap, my hair will curl just right, and my make-up will be fresh.

I’ll throw on Grannie’s pearls.

I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll see the same good girl I saw the day before.