ball gowns. “I think Ryan is going to invite me to go skiing with his family.”
“What, are you guys on hyperspeed?”
“ No… Do you like this?” Marisol holds up a simple, strapless burgundy gown with an empire waist and sheer overlay. And, I hate to say it, it’s really beautiful. Instinctively, I touch the fabric. It’s silk.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say with one-tenth the excitement I feel.
“I think I’m going to try it on.” She sets the dress aside and continues looking. “Anyway, the reason why I’m telling you about the ski trip is that it’s the same weekend as”—she pauses, awkwardly—“your mother’s memorial service.”
November twenty-sixth. The day my mother died. Every year, my father holds a memorial service to keep her memory alive. And every year, the guest list gets shorter and shorter. It’s expected, I guess. Sometimes people want to forget. But Marisol? Is this just another one of her ways of telling me that she is ready to move on with her life?
“Are you going to go?” I ask. “I mean, are you going with Ryan?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
And I don’t want her to go, but I’m not going to say that because the worst thing in the world is when someone does something out of obligation, not genuine interest. It’s like my dad and the symphony all over again. Why can’t people make their own decisions and let me feel the way I feel about it?
“Do whatever you want.” It’s a struggle, but I keep my voice even, unemotional. I examine a terrible taffeta gown in hopes that it’ll stop my eyes from glassing over.
“I guess,” Marisol says with hesitation, “I’d really like to go.”
“Then go,” I say coldly. Does she expect me to beg her to stay? “I’m going to try this on.” I hurry toward the fitting room. The minute I shut the door, I start to cry.
it takes exactly ten minutes for a sales clerk to knock on the stall door.
I don’t answer her right away. It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult, but the only sound that will leave my mouth is the sound of me gasping. That’s how I sound when I cry hard.
“Hello? Sweetie, are you okay?” Her gentle tap turns into a persistent knock. She’s probably baffled as to why I picked her fitting room to have a nervous breakdown.
“Miss”—her key turns the lock—“if you don’t respond, I’m going to have to come in.” And sure enough, two seconds later, she’s standing in front of me, motherly concern written all across her tan face.
I know to her I probably look a mess. My face is streaked black from my not-so-waterproof waterproof mascara. My hair is stuck to my face in patches of unruly curls. And to add to that, I’m sitting on a tattered stool, wearing the terrible taffeta gown, which is even more terrible because it is too tight for my hips and too big for my boobs.
“Oh, honey.” The fitting room attendant digs into her pocket and hands me a crumpled tissue. “The dress isn’t that bad. I can get one for you in your size.”
“I’m fine, really.” My voice is wobbly. I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I repeat. But I accept the tissue and blow into it something fierce.
“Tell me, it’s the gown. Isn’t it?” The attendant kneels down and pushes the hair away from my face.
I shake my head no and proceed to choke on my own boogers.
“Oh.” The attendant smiles sympathetically. “It’s a boy?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Well…” She seems to ponder her remaining options. “Did you have a fight with a friend?”
I nod yes, blowing my nose in the already soggy tissue. She’s super-perceptive, I think.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks gently.
What was there to talk about? The only thing I know for sure is that inside I feel like a complete mess. And that realization starts a fresh wave of tears.
“Sweetie…” The attendant shuts the door behind her and locks it. “Now wait. I know things are bad for you right now, but
“What, are you guys on hyperspeed?”
“ No… Do you like this?” Marisol holds up a simple, strapless burgundy gown with an empire waist and sheer overlay. And, I hate to say it, it’s really beautiful. Instinctively, I touch the fabric. It’s silk.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say with one-tenth the excitement I feel.
“I think I’m going to try it on.” She sets the dress aside and continues looking. “Anyway, the reason why I’m telling you about the ski trip is that it’s the same weekend as”—she pauses, awkwardly—“your mother’s memorial service.”
November twenty-sixth. The day my mother died. Every year, my father holds a memorial service to keep her memory alive. And every year, the guest list gets shorter and shorter. It’s expected, I guess. Sometimes people want to forget. But Marisol? Is this just another one of her ways of telling me that she is ready to move on with her life?
“Are you going to go?” I ask. “I mean, are you going with Ryan?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
And I don’t want her to go, but I’m not going to say that because the worst thing in the world is when someone does something out of obligation, not genuine interest. It’s like my dad and the symphony all over again. Why can’t people make their own decisions and let me feel the way I feel about it?
“Do whatever you want.” It’s a struggle, but I keep my voice even, unemotional. I examine a terrible taffeta gown in hopes that it’ll stop my eyes from glassing over.
“I guess,” Marisol says with hesitation, “I’d really like to go.”
“Then go,” I say coldly. Does she expect me to beg her to stay? “I’m going to try this on.” I hurry toward the fitting room. The minute I shut the door, I start to cry.
it takes exactly ten minutes for a sales clerk to knock on the stall door.
I don’t answer her right away. It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult, but the only sound that will leave my mouth is the sound of me gasping. That’s how I sound when I cry hard.
“Hello? Sweetie, are you okay?” Her gentle tap turns into a persistent knock. She’s probably baffled as to why I picked her fitting room to have a nervous breakdown.
“Miss”—her key turns the lock—“if you don’t respond, I’m going to have to come in.” And sure enough, two seconds later, she’s standing in front of me, motherly concern written all across her tan face.
I know to her I probably look a mess. My face is streaked black from my not-so-waterproof waterproof mascara. My hair is stuck to my face in patches of unruly curls. And to add to that, I’m sitting on a tattered stool, wearing the terrible taffeta gown, which is even more terrible because it is too tight for my hips and too big for my boobs.
“Oh, honey.” The fitting room attendant digs into her pocket and hands me a crumpled tissue. “The dress isn’t that bad. I can get one for you in your size.”
“I’m fine, really.” My voice is wobbly. I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I repeat. But I accept the tissue and blow into it something fierce.
“Tell me, it’s the gown. Isn’t it?” The attendant kneels down and pushes the hair away from my face.
I shake my head no and proceed to choke on my own boogers.
“Oh.” The attendant smiles sympathetically. “It’s a boy?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Well…” She seems to ponder her remaining options. “Did you have a fight with a friend?”
I nod yes, blowing my nose in the already soggy tissue. She’s super-perceptive, I think.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks gently.
What was there to talk about? The only thing I know for sure is that inside I feel like a complete mess. And that realization starts a fresh wave of tears.
“Sweetie…” The attendant shuts the door behind her and locks it. “Now wait. I know things are bad for you right now, but
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