A Little Change of Face by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

again, handing me those clip-on sunglasses made for the visually impaired who can’t handle contacts. “Tomorrow, when the sun is shining, you can put these on.”
    I glanced in the tiny mirror: I looked like an idiot.
    Not that there’s anything wrong with people who wear clip-ons. It’s just that on me, they looked idiotic.
    Then Pam put on my Wayfarers: she looked, if not great, almost cool in them.
    All in all, it really was worse than shopping with Mom.
    Since Pam was now on a diet, and I had lost my appetite, rather than having a snack, we headed back to the carousel. At the top of the ramp leading from the mall to the parking garage, I saw the young guy we’d seen earlier when having pizza and salad, the one who’d been checking me out. He was still hanging out with his friends, sharing a cigarette. As we walked by them, his eyes briefly met mine, but there was no spark of recognition as he moved his gaze onward.
    It was as though I wasn’t even there.
    The tide, apparently, was already starting to turn.
    It was as though a fairy godmother had come to visit, only she’d been an evil fairy godmother; instead of waving her wand and giving me a ball gown and a royal coach, she’d left me in rags and bare feet.
    Best Girlfriend wasn’t going to like any of this.
    Just then, I heard a voice yell out of the relative darkness of the parking lot, “Yo, mama!”
    Pam and I both turned reflexively, being the only two mamas around. Pam actually preened a bit.
    â€œYo, mama! You in the big dress! I’m talking to you.” It wasn’t the guy who had looked at me before, but it was one of his friends.
    If preening could be said to dim, I saw Pam’s preening dim.
    â€œI like a woman in a big dress,” he said.
    â€œOh, shit, ” Pam muttered. “It doesn’t matter what I do to you, does it? Someone still finds you attractive.”

15
    B est Girlfriend did not like any of it, had said as much during a long phone conversation recently, and she certainly wouldn’t like what Pam was telling me now.
    â€œIt’s your breasts.”
    â€œIt is soooooooo not my breasts.”
    â€œIt’s your breasts.”
    â€œAnd if it were, what do you propose I do…bind them?”
    I couldn’t believe we were back on this subject again. Pam had dropped by, unannounced, and we were sitting in my living room, drinking the wine coolers she’d brought. People might not think anyone still drank wine coolers, but Pam did.
    â€œHey…” Her eyes gleamed.
    â€œOh, no. What in the world are you thinking about? Did I ever mention how I hate it whenever you get that particular look in your eye? I positively hate it whenever you get that look in your eye.”
    â€œListen, Scarlett, believe it or not, there are days I don’t completely love you, either. But this isn’t about that.”
    â€œYou’re talking about talking me into binding my breasts, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that there are times you don’t completely love me?”
    â€œWho said anything about binding your breasts?”
    â€œUh, you did,” I said. “You said it that last time we were at the pool with T.B. and Delta and you said it again when we were shopping at Filene’s.”
    â€œYou must be mistaking me for someone else. I never said anything about binding your breasts. I mean, how gross. How geisha-y. How Asia. ”
    â€œNow, there’s a whole continent you don’t completely love?”
    â€œPut it like this—are you going to ever go there?”
    I thought about my bank account; did some quick mental calculations. My bank account was actually in good shape, given my father had left me nearly as well off as he’d left my mom, but still: “Probably not.”
    â€œMe, neither. See what I mean? Why bother?”
    The sad thing was, I did kind of see what she meant, which made me feel