It was a rare moment of calm in the early morning of our household and I relished it, standing in my parent's bedroom, poised, and feeling very adult. I took a long gaze at myself in the full-length mirror. Wishing that I were taller was a minor discontentment--and I often stood in this position on my toes stretching my neck upwards to give myself the illusion that I was--but in all other regards I was happy with the black-haired girl I saw looking back at me. Hair, check. Eyes and lips, check. Nose, well, maybe a little big, but noses always look weird if you stare at them too long.
My gaze wandered downwards to the rest of me. Slender waist, ample curves at the bustline. It'll do. The red lace cami I had thrown on after the house emptied out was my favorite; I really had no excuse to wear it at that time of day except for pure vanity. It was more of a bustier, technically, with a built-in bra and higher to expose my tummy, and admiring it brought my attention to my chest and my hands naturally went to cover myself over the frilly lace fabric.
Jesus Christ, what was I doing? Was I so shy that I couldn't even look at my own boobs in the privacy of my home without being embarrassed? How was I ever going to go through with it if that's the way I was? Come on, Natasha, I thought. Let's not be a wallflower. You gotta toughen up.
So with a yank, down came the cami and out popped the boobies. I had to will my hands to lay quiet at my sides and not cover myself; I faked confidence as I looked at this topless girl. But come on. Yeah, I looked good. I was hot, even, I told myself. Right?
I let my hands wander up my sides and across the smooth skin of my breasts, embracing their fullness, then I flicked the soft, darker pink flesh of my nipple back and forth with a finger. A little thrill ran down my spine, both from the physical sensation and the suspense of it all. Would I really do it? Was there any way I could get up the nerve?
A sharp wrap at the door startled me, followed by an insistent voice. "Tasha! Let me in there!"
It was my sister Roza, late for school. The house wasn't empty after all. And she wasn't the only one in the family that enjoyed a clandestine sneak into her parents' bedroom. We lived in a modest flat in the working section of Minsk, built in the communist days. There were still those butt ugly concrete apartment buildings on each side of us, huge square bland things with an infinite row of metal railings and too-small windows, but our home was in an unusual two-story building that had charm, especially on the inside. Eight families were huddled together around a little oasis that featured green trees and there was even a patch of natural grass in the courtyard.
Where I was having my moment of vanity that morning--my parents' master bedroom--featured the same squeaky floors and cracks in the wall plaster as in my own cramped room, and was only slightly larger, but somehow it was a different place for us; magical, even. Our mother placed fresh flowers on her dresser whenever she could, and the room smelled nice and was a place of good cheer to me. I always went there when I wanted to dream. About the future. Or flying. Someday I was going to be a pilot, you see. Maybe in the United States, or Canada. Or in Switzerland, soaring above the alps like an eagle. I remember lying on the enormous bed as a child and kicking my feet and rolling across what seemed to be the endless mattress, giggling with Roza.
But my thoughts on that morning weren't so much about Roza and our family and giggling on the parents' bed, but only of Stas. I was a young woman--still a girl in some ways although I wouldn't have admitted it then--and I was absolutely head over heels in love. I was positively giddy about this particular boy and on most days he was all I could think about, especially now that high school was over and the distraction of tests and graduation parties and relatives wishing me farewell had faded.
It was the heat of summer and when I wasn't working the meager hours I begged for at the salon, I spent my time either with Stas walking hand-in-hand down the streets of Minsk, or dreaming about him in the cool of my parents' bedroom. Kind of like the teenage love song, right, always dreaming of my boy in my room? I was a little pathetic then, I have to admit now looking back. But I was innocent and full of romantic ideas.
But our situation--about Stas and me, I mean--wasn't to be endless; there was a reckoning coming. We had just two more short weeks together before he shipped off to the job his uncle with the Gazprom connection had landed for him. It was a choice assignment; the only problem being that it was way the fuck up near Finland or something, working in a far off oil rig in the middle of the ocean. So he was going to be gone months at a time, removed from my life for all intents and purposes, and even though we were young we still had the sense to know this meant a huge challenge for the relationship, and maybe even the end of it. Neither of us wanted to think about it or talk about it.
But before we ended our days as a committed couple, and maybe even in denial of this end, Stas was pushing me hard towards something that I was struggling to embrace. You see, he had turned 18 almost a year ago and with the newfound freedom from his parents' control he went out and got multiple piercings: three in one ear, twice in the other, once in his tongue, and he was considering a septum piercing, which is the one in the nose. It was becoming popular with boys then. He was flirting with adding to his tattoos also. He was insistent that as a show of our love for each other--of me for him, he meant more specifically, I can see now--that I get something done to my body as well.
It was silly, looking back on it, but I allowed myself to become swept up in the wave of his passion for body art, and even though I still had reservations I had agreed just two days ago to face my fears, overcome my caution, and just fucking bone up the courage and do it.
What was "it" you might ask?
I decided I would get my nipples pierced! It was something I had thought about in the abstract for years, and having just turned 18 in June I was also free of my parents' control. I had the money saved up from working my part time job at the salon and there was nothing stopping me from this act of independence; and love and devotion to my boy, I told myself.
I even told Valery, my best friend one year older than me, and once she had wind of the idea there was nothing stopping the wheels from being set into motion. That girl will make the earth turn when she gets loose in it, I swear. And she's fiercely loyal; that's why I love her dearly for all her faults.
But after promising that I would do it, on this morning--the morning of the supposed act itself--I was having second thoughts. I didn't know if I could bear the pain of the procedure. And being a shy girl, the idea of taking off my clothes in some shady tattoo parlor and having a strange woman grabbing and pulling on my breasts and sticking me with a needle was terrifying.
The banging resumed at the door. "Tash, come on! I don't wanna be late."
As was typical in those summer months, my mother and father had both gotten up and out early that morning for work and Roza needed to get off to her extra school. She was making up classes that she had skipped too many times this past year. I should have been grateful for those spare moments of free time that summer after I had graduated and had no school duties myself--and I should have been more gracious to her--but for some reason I turned my emotions into a nasty snipe as I sighed and pulled my cami up to cover. I yanked open the door.
"Why don't you use the kids' bathroom? You're still a kid."
