disarming

I saw her out of the corner of my eye, hobbling on black heels, not quite stilettos, but close. A spandex animal print skirt, if one could even call it that, just barely covering her skinny bottom, a black tank dipping between her small yet surely growing breasts. My boys and I were sitting outside Grahams working on our cones. It was 9 p.m. on a Thursday in Geneva. Not the time or place to see a 13-year-old hooker. It was extremely difficult not to stare at her unabashedly, because that’s exactly what she looked like.

After taking in more of the scene, I noticed another two middle-school-age girls in tight short skirts on the bench across from us and another small group of them huddled around a gangly crew of similar-aged boys. The boys were sitting in Adirondack chairs eating ice cream. The girls stood in a semi-circle around them, eating nothing, their necks, arms and upper thighs awkwardly exposed. Not one looked like she was convinced the outfits were a good idea. Not one looked comfortable.

Do parents really let their pre-teen and barely teen daughters dress this way?

The parade of young female flesh troubled me, but other than gather the 8 or 9 girls together and conduct an intervention, I had no idea how to let them know that dressing and acting more than a dozen years older than you are won’t make you happy or desired the way you long to be. You are losing a free and beautiful hunk of your childhood, I wanted to shout. Don’t do it! Put those stupid heels back in your mother’s closet. Wipe that black eyeliner off, go find a tin can and a flashlight and get a game of kick the can going. At the very least, put some clothes on.

I continued eating my ice cream and glanced over at Liam. Just eight and self-conscious enough not to want to be noticed, he eyed the boys cautiously. Then he turned his attention to the black-heeled girl as she stood off to the side, arguing on her cell phone with a person I guessed was her mother. Piecing together the story, it sounded like a girl named Olivia was having a sleep over and the mother was not agreeable to the plans. The black-heeled girl wasn’t taking no for an answer. Frostily, she hung up and wobbled over the flagstones back to her friends on the bench. That’s when Elliott saw his opportunity.

Cone dripping, he blocked her path.

“Hi!” he said with gusto. “It getting dark out.”

She looked down at him disdainfully, but was clearly surprised that a five year old had spoken to her.

“Um, yeah,” she agreed. “It’s dark.”

She tried to step around him.

He stepped with her.

“What you name?” he asked with a goofy grin plastered on his face.

She furrowed her brow and shrugged.

“Haley,” she said.

At that moment, Elliott noticed his shadow, cast by the light pouring out of the shop. Double-fisted, he crossed his arms in front of himself, thrust out his hip, stuck out his tongue and said, “Blah!”

In spite of herself, Haley laughed.

Fueled by the attention and pleased with seeing his silhouette in the shadows, Elliott struck pose after pose, making the silliest faces and noises into the growing darkness. A small group of short-skirted preteen girls stood and watched and giggled. For one minute they forgot about longing to be noticed and liked. For one minute they let their guard down. They were kids again.

A van pulled up and the girls grabbed their overnight bags. Like newborn calves finding their legs, they awkwardly hobbled to the van and tumbled in.

We threw out our napkins and headed to our car.

“Ugh,” Liam sighed. “Elliott is so embarrassing.”

I smiled.

“Actually, honey,” I said. “I think sometimes he is just what everyone needs.”

Then I said a silent prayer for the girls—that they would remember what it felt like to forget about themselves for a minute and watch a human who is truly happy to be exactly who he is. Special outfit not required.