“She’s our neighbor, so we have to be nice, and she just has different ideas, that’s all,” Mom said and shrugged.
“Ideas from the 1700s? Yes. I agree. Next, she’ll be wanting to burn witches at the stake.”
“She would not,” Mom scoffed.
“Really?” I countered. “Because she reposted an article on her social media account the other day that said women shouldn’t have the right to vote.”
Mom sighed. “People are entitled to their opinions.”
“Really? Even very bad ones?” I challenged.
“I like the other women in the knitting club,” Mom went on. “They’re sweet. I didn’t invite Tammy in, but she’s there and…” Mom shrugged. “So, we just have to deal with it.”
This “just deal with them” attitude is the very reason bad people got away with bad things.
She eyed my sweaty sports bra and leggings. “I hope you’re not going to wear that on your date.”
“I actually thought I’d change into a teddy bear onesie just in case he’s into furries.”
“Be serious!” Mom exclaimed.
“I was thinking I’d just wear jeans and—”
“No. Absolutely not,” Mom declared.
“I have something you could borrow,” Olivia said and clapped her hands with glee.
“I’d rather avoid pink,” I said dubiously, since Olivia almost exclusively wore pink, specifically the shade that matched her hair.
“You don’t mean that,” Mom said.
An hour later, Mom and Olivia had stuffed me into a low-cut magenta wrap dress that fit the Mom-approved winter color wheel of my adolescent color reading, which I had to admit made my skin glow and my tits look amazing but also exposed half of them to the world. Also, I hated dresses. I’d always hated dresses. They got in the way of my ability to throw a proper roundhouse.
Oliva added the finishing flourishes with heavy makeup somewhere on the scale between Elvira and Chappell Roan.
“You sure I should wear this?” I asked. As I straightened my back, my boobs nearly fell out of the skimpy fabric. If I had to punch a man in the face tonight, he’d get the added bonus of seeing one of the girls, eye-to-eye.
“If you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em,” Olivia said.
“The milkshake brings the boys to the yard,” Mom said as she wiggled her butt in her red jumpsuit.
“Never, ever say those words to me again,” I warned Mom. “Also, I don’t think I can walk in these heels.” I glanced down at the black spike stilettos. On the one hand, I was walking on dagger-like weapons, and on the other hand, I’d never be able to set up properly for a front kick.
I took a step and wobbled like a baby giraffe dropped fresh from the womb.
“Spread your toes, engage your core,” Mom scolded as I tried to balance on two thin chopsticks. “Heel first, roll through your toes.” She clapped her hands like a disappointed drill sergeant. “I once had to walk down a runway in five-inch heels on a block of frozen ice. You know, I was the first Asian model to walk for Prada.”
“We know, Mom,” Olivia said. Mom’s impressive magazine covers from most every women’s magazine in the 1990s hung in frames along the staircase. I wobbled a little as I tried to make it to the front door, and then Mom sighed, exasperated, and tromped upstairs to her third-floor bedroom. She came down the stairs, emerging on the second-floor landing wearing heels higher than mine, and then, despite being sixty, sashayed, like a model during Fashion Week, swinging her arms and walking erect along the second-floor banister, eyes staring a hole into the wall in front of her. Mom stopped, pivoted with ease and then leaned on the railing, peering down at me.
“Did you know what the head designer at Gucci told me? Takeup space, darling. Fight for your place on the runway,” Mom said dramatically as she lifted both arms. “It’s just like our namesake says. We’re warriors.”
Takedameant “warrior,” or something like that.
“Take up space on that battlefield,” Mom said, as she had a million times before.
“I’m afraid I’m going to take up all the space on the ground,” I said doubtfully.
“Pick a spot on the horizon and stare at it,” Mom offered.
