Janelle King

There’s a very attractive girl in my aerobics class who fascinates me. No matter how long we work out, no matter how strenuous the execise nor how heavy the weights…she never sweats. She arrives with her hair free-flowing almost to her waist, complete with mascara and blush, and ninety minutes of sheer torture later, she glides out looking the same way. I have wanted to ask if she’s related to someone I used to know.

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Janelle King was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was three years older than me and my next door neighbor on Claremont Avenue. She was beautiful, worldly and confident. In the eyes of a skinny 10 year old, she was a goddess. Blond, natural curly hair, a little pug nose, small waist and long beautifully shaved legs…all nicely topped off with breasts. I felt like a slug beside her and yet that was just where I wanted to be – anytime I possibly could.

I learned many things from Janelle. The first was that you never, under any circumstances, call a boy. You waited for him to call you and if he didn’t, well, he wasn’t worth talking to anyway. She taught me about cream rinse – the kind you mixed with water and poured over your hair after shampooing. We used vinegar in our house ‘to make sure you got all the soap out’, as Mother used to say. She taught me to put cotton between my toes when painting my toenails and delicately pointed out that my feet would become calloused and stained if I continued going barefoot. I could go on, but suffice it to say she taught me many important things which would serve me well during my teen years.

The best thing of all though was when she taught me to dance. Janelle’s house had a basement with a room designated for she and her brother. I remember a ping-pong table, dart board, and a variety of books and games – but most importantly, there was a record player. See you Later Alligator, Hearts Made of Stone, and Rock Around The Clock each took their turn blaring loud and tinny during those hot Georgia afternoons. As one 45 after another dropped to the turntable, I would be grinning and dripping with sweat while trying my best to copy Janelle’s body moves. The neighborhood kids would crowd in to watch and you can bet those boys weren’t looking at MY skinny legs. My lifelong love of dancing was born in that room and I love it still.

On occasion Janelle would invite me along when she went to the city swimming pool. She looked great in a bathing suit and I thought her quite bold when she took the straps down to sun. My suit had a ruffle around the bottom and one strap that went across my back and around my neck like a harness. No way that thing was gonna slide down in the water…as if I had anything to hide.

Oh, and Janelle never got her hair wet. She would slowly descend the steps into the pool like a blond goddess, undulate her way through the water just until it came to the top of her legs and then slowly retreat back to her beach towel. As the world stood still to watch, she would slowly coat herself with Coppertone and lie back on her towel looking like a vision.

She always allowed me to use her suntan oil and I would slop it all over me and lie down beside her, hoping everyone would think we were sisters. Soon, the oil would begin to mix with the sweat and roll into my eyes and I’d feel sticky all over and next thing you knew, I was in the pool with the other skinny, loud kids, running, jumping and diving – femme fatale aspirations forgotten.

I never saw Janelle sweat.