The last kid on the fourth-lunch sandwich line has been served. I lay down my knife, exhale, and look over at my mentor, wrap master Lynetta. She is eerily quiet, scanning a wide swath of the cafeteria without moving her head.
Zoro had his sword–Phft! Phft! Phft! Lynetta has her laserlike vision–Phhfft! Phhfft! The mark of the L is emblazoned on the wall in front of us, a hundred feet away. Something’s coming.
“Have you noticed,” she says to me, still not moving her head, just those eyes and not even in my direction, “how so many of the girls have such big boobs?”
Being well endowed myself, I tend to ignore that sort of thing, so I had to think about it for a second. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, incredulous as I realized the accuracy of Lynetta’s observation.
“You know what my theory is?” she asked without giving me a chance to amplify my response.
I shook my head and raised a curious eye. “No. What?”
“I think their bodies are stimulated by what they see and hear on TV and the radio and the kind of example their parents set, what they see and hear their parents do.”
I. Am. Speechless.
I blink, I Dream of Jeannie–style but without the crossed arms, and open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“That’s brilliant,” I say, smiling back at her. I don’t know what impresses me more, that the mother of seven kids would even hint at blaming the parents or the theory itself. Visual stimulation. Auditory stimulation. And on bodies in the midst of the maturation process, and affecting the brains of teenagers, which scientists have already deemed to be sui generis.
Lynetta gets down to the business of prepping for the last lunch. She has a satisfied look on her face. It is sincere and unsmug.
“Damn…,” I say once and then again, tugging discreetly at my bra clasp. Is it getting tighter, or is it me?