Size Matters

Bone

Thomas, who was called Bone, assessed himself in the full-length mirror tacked to the back of his bedroom door. He slouched, crossed his arms, frowned, and raised his right eyebrow until the effect was perfect—except for the skin tone. He couldn’t do anything about that, not without considerably more skin pigment and a drastic predisposition toward tanning.

Now if he could just get out of the house unnoticed.

Thomas, who called himself Bone and was well on the way to getting his friends to call him that, rounded the bottom landing of the stairs and thought he was home free. The front door was barely ten feet away, and he could hear his mother banging away at something in the kitchen.

But then his father, Thomas Sr., who was most definitely not called Bone or anything but his first name, maybe Mr. Towles, or most certainly Sir or Dad (by Thomas Jr.), rounded the corner on his way to the den.

“Good God!” said the senior Thomas. “What the hell is that?”

Thomas slouched further and assumed what he assumed was a very gangsta-like pose. He wished he had the lingo down better, but his dad wouldn’t grasp it anyway, so he settled for the WASP dialect he had grown up with.

“I’m going out with Ci Ci, Dad.”

“Not dressed like that, you aren’t!”

“What do you mean?”

Thomas Sr. didn’t know where to start. If he started from his son’s feet, he would have to mention the zip-up sneakers, which weren’t objectionable other than looking huge and clunky on his feet. Moving up, he would have to spend a while dissecting the voluminous pants his son wore (beltless). Again, the pants weren’t that bad except for the fact that they were clearly made for someone nearly twice his son’s size. The waistline of the pants rode so low that if his son hadn’t been wearing boxers, the boy might have been arrested for indecent exposure. Which brought Thomas Sr. to the boxers—they’re called underwear for a reason, he thought, but in this case, they are mostly outerwear. The sports jersey wasn’t objectionable at all, except that it, like the pants, was several sizes too large. Add to that the yards of faux-gold jewelry, the baseball cap worn backwards and at an absurdly rakish angle, and the effect was, in Thomas Sr.’s opinion, perfect—except for the skin tone.

Father and son stood silently for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Thomas Sr. said the only thing he could think of.

“You do know you’re white, don’t you?”

Again, the pair stood silently. After a moment, Thomas Jr.’s scowl faded. After another moment, father and son both began to smile, and soon thereafter, they began to laugh. Thomas Jr. removed the baseball cap, balancing it on the newel post at the base of the stairs.

Thomas Sr. slapped Thomas Jr. lightly on the shoulder as he turned towards the den.

“Now go upstairs and put some clothes on that fit before your mother—or Ci Ci’s mother—sees you.”

Thomas Jr., who still wanted to be called Bone but could probably do without looking like a gangsta rapper, went up and changed into a similar outfit, though the pants and shirt were of a size more suitable to his frame. He dropped the cheap faux-gold jewelry in a drawer and found his belt under the bed. When he finished redressing, he stood again before the full-length mirror, a smile on his face.

Ci Ci

Ci Ci was stretched across the bed, her legs held stiffly out in front of her, struggling to get the zipper on her hip-hugging jeans to go up the last inch. She took a deep breath and finally managed to tug the stubborn piece of metal home. When she could rock herself off the bed and looked in the mirror, she was happy with what she saw—she just hoped the jeans had a little more stretch left in the legs or she would be walking around like a robot all night.

Ci Ci’s mother, a large forty-ish woman who, despite her girth, was still beautiful, passed by the bedroom on her way downstairs.

“Oh, my Lord! Who opened up the door and let a ho in my house!”

“What are you talking about, Momma?” Ci Ci had been ready for this but was resolute that she would not change her clothes. She wanted to look good for Thomas—Bone—tonight.

“I know you’re not leaving this house looking like that! Turn around here! Let me see those jeans!” Ci Ci’s mother, Wanda, grabbed Ci Ci by the arm and spun her around. “No. Uh uh. You will put on some clothes before you leave this house, young lady.”

Ci Ci felt the rush of emotion come upon her, but it wasn’t the right kind of emotion. Despite her resolve, she was giving up already.

“Momma, this is what everybody’s wearing. It’s the style.”

“It’s the style for ho’s! Is you a ho? Besides that, it’s 27 degrees outside, and you are going out with your belly hanging out like that?” Wanda looked Ci Ci over again, noticing things. “What’s this? What in the hell is this?

Wanda began poking at the small of Ci Ci’s back with one outstretched finger.

“Ow, momma, that hurts!”

“When did you get a tattoo? When did you get a tattoo?” Wanda was livid.

“About a month ago. I think it looks cool.”

“Oh yeah, baby, it looks cool now, but when you're 70, it’s gonna look like some drunk drew a map on your ass. Lord have mercy.” Wanda turned Ci Ci again, looking her over.

“You going out with Thomas?”

“Yes, momma.”

“Well, then you put on a sweater and some jeans and look nice for that boy instead of like some piece of ghetto trash. He don’t come in my house dressed like a gangsta, and you ain’t leaving it looking like a ho.”

“Momma…,” Ci Ci started weakly.

Wanda gasped again.

“No, you didn’t. No, you didn’t!” Without warning, Wand slapped Ci Ci on the back of the head. “Did you shave your cha cha?”

The jeans had no waistband, and they were low enough on the Ci Ci’s hips that it was obvious some grooming had taken place.

“No, momma.”

“I’m not trying to hear that! Did you shave. Your. Cha Cha?” Wanda was wide-eyed, pointing one finger first at Ci Ci, then at Ci Ci’s waist.

Ci Ci looked away from her mother, ashamed, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

“Yes. I couldn’t wear these jeans without shaving a little, momma.” Ci Ci hoped her mother would see the logic involved.

“Oh, Lord, help me. Ci Ci, you get some clothes on you or you ain’t going anywhere with Thomas or anybody else!”

Ci Ci began changing clothes as Wanda waved her hand dismissively and disappeared down the stairs. She put on a blue sweater and some Levis. The Levis were far more comfortable than the hip huggers had been. Anyway, she guessed Thomas wouldn’t mind one way or the other.

© 2025 Brian G Parker