Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener

I recover my breath and debate whether to text Alex my coordinates, the handle rattles. My butt pops off the stool and I yelp. Bustle Bitch strikes again!
    â€œPiper! Let me in!”
    Alex. I pull the door open and she tosses a few dresses at me—they feel like they weigh about twenty pounds each. After I hang them up, pressing them tight against each other, there’s not much space to maneuver. Wordlessly, she’s de-fanny-packing, stripping off her jeans. My face flushes. I turn away, grabbing the closest dress and unzipping it. My fingers brush the tag.
    â€œSize fourteen?” I eye Alex surreptitiously in the mirror.
    â€œWell, I’m a six, but you have to grab what you can. You can always get the dress altered.”
    â€œAh.” I don’t understand the point of trying on a dress that could fit three Alexes in it, but I help her step into it, flushing again as I notice her fancy underwear. Of course her underwear is pink and lacy and perfectly feminine. The corset makes her look like she’s covered in delicate pink fondant, the kind that makes you want to peel it off. I wince as I remember my underwear has a giant frog on it. They’re probably on inside out, since I dressed in the dark.
    Surprise, surprise: The size 14 “isn’t quite right.” An hour and no perfect dresses later, I’m scouring the shelves and becoming increasingly frustrated. The racks were stripped completely bare after the opening chaos. Now most of the dresses are back on the racks helter-skelter, sassy purple size 20s next to prim white size 2s. I heave a huge sigh.
    â€œHang in there,” says a nearby voice with a slight Southern accent. A tiny blonde smiles at me.
    â€œThanks. It’s my first time.”
    â€œYou’ve got it written all over you, honey. Are you a bride?”
    I catch myself before disclosing I’m the hired help. “Bridesmaid.”
    â€œDo you have a dressing room?”
    Wait, is this subterfuge? Maybe she’s trying to weasel her way into our stall! I give her the most intimidating look I can muster, given that I’m wearing inside-out froggy panties.
    But the blonde’s smile doesn’t falter. This event is drawing me into its madness. Relieved for what seems to be a kindred spirit, I return the smile. “Yes, thank goodness.”
    â€œThen you’re golden.” She nods to a bride a few feet away who’s changing in an aisle while her friends stand in a semicircle around her. “The key is persistence. And don’t forget about the alteration staff—their booth is over by the front door. They worked wonders for my best friend last year.”
    â€œThanks, good to know. Godspeed.” I give her a relieved smile as I turn back to the racks. I spot a scalloped neckline and reach for it, fumbling under the plastic to grope for the tag. An 8—close enough.
    I grab a few more options and return to the dressing room, feeling as if I’m wrestling a baby whale made of fabric and plastic. Alex opens the door in her lingerie and shoos me in. I begin to strip the first dress from its bag, trying not to look at her boobs, which, according to my peripheral vision, are basically perfect and flatteringly large on her tiny frame. My friend’s mom once referred to mine as “mini-muffins.”
    Alex lifts her hands up expectantly as I struggle to hoist the next contender over her head, smoothing it out as it settles around her subtle curves.
    â€œOoh!” she croons, catching her reflection. It’s the 8 with the scalloped neckline. She fluffs it out around her stilettos (which I discovered are the exact height, to the centimeter, of her wedding shoes).
    â€œAlex, that looks great!”
    She turns, admiring it from each angle. And then she bursts into tears.
    â€œWhoa,” I mutter under my breath. Emotional support is not in the contract. I crouch down to where she’s sunken into the dress. I