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“Do you have anything tighter, at least? We’re not going to a square dance, you know.”
“Do I have anything tighter?” I repeat. Actually, I sort of don't. I'm just small, like my mom and my grandma. A gymnast body, my mom always pointed out: compact and strong. And maybe not as far along developmentally because I spent so much time training when I was younger. But I’m stronger than I look, or so grandma always told me. That always made me feel proud.
I stopped taking gymnastics when I was fourteen after my sixth sprained ankle in one season. The doctor said one more and we would be looking at surgery. My career was over anyway, so we just had to let it go. And that is a lot like my life in general: a list of things that I have to let go that’s way longer than the list of things I get to hang onto.
There's a ghost of me somewhere in an alternate universe who’s just a springy little gymnast, flipping diagonally across a rectangular patch of floor. A little sprite being the best she can be. But somehow I ended up in this weird universe, far away from my home, pledging for this snobby sorority, letting this fashion tyrant tell me what to wear, and feeling slightly less than evenly matched.
“Well?” she asks me again. She scowls pointedly at my lack of cleavage.
“I guess I really don't have anything tighter than this,” I shrug. I don't tell her that finding a top I could tie over my midriff like this, per her demands, was actually kind of a challenge. I don't really have any other options for her at all.
With a sigh, she flings open one of her dresser drawers, yanking out a cloud of see-through and glittery underthings that spill over the side and land on the cluttered, shag carpet. After a moment of rummaging around, she pulls out a slip of fabric that looks like a sock or something.
“Okay, wear this.”
It dangles off her finger like a beanie for an American Girl doll or something. Obediently, I reach out and take it from her, but I'm really not sure what she expects me to do with it. Slowly I raise it toward my forehead and peel the double-layer apart. Is it a headband? I try to smile winningly at her, but she just rolls her eyes.
“I hope you know: you're not funny.” She shakes her head at me.
“So, it's not a headband?” I venture.
What the heck is this thing?
“Geez, Kita!” she bawls. She turns away from me in frustration and stalks to her desk, pushing a dozen lipgloss tubes around from the new Urban Decay collection until she finds the one she wants. I know she wishes I would leave, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I exit this room without solid instruction. Other Chi Rho Pi pledges have been dismissed for less than a headband infraction, after all. And it's not like Lizzie is my biggest fan, if you know what I mean.
“Um…”
She whips around, lip gloss halfway to her parted lips, her eyes blazing with disdain. But after another moment, she seems to collect herself and rearranges her expression into something so sweet it's a little unnerving. She scrunches up her nose and gives me a pained little smile.
“Kita, sweetie, we’re going to be late. I still have to do my smoky eye and everything. Do you think that maybe you could take your fashion emergency over to Claudia for a little look-see?”
“You bet,” I nod, smiling like a cheerleader. At least Claudia is nice, most of the time. I leave Lizzie to her eye makeup and pick my way along the cluttered hallway to Claudia’s room, just two doors down, and almost run right into her as she’s rushing out.
“Oh, hey—what? Why aren’t you dressed?” she asks me urgently, her ebony-black eyes open wide. She reverses course and drags me back into her room with her, holding her hands out in front like a traffic cop.
I actually thought I was dressed an hour ago, I think, but don’t say.
“Okay, stop,” she pants. She takes a couple breaths like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out right away. I hold out the headband thingy that Lizzie gave me as though it's some sort of clue.
“Oh, okay! Did Lizzie give you this halter? We can work with this!”
She whips around to yank a string of pink and black beads off the bedpost and I stare at the flimsy scrap of fabric in my hand. This is a halter? When Claudia turns back to me she seems amazed that I'm not wearing it yet.
“Just go ahead and put it on. We've got, like, minutes. I’ll turn around if you want me to?”
I shrug, pretending I’m not embarrassed. But as soon as her back is turned again I whip off the black top and my bralette and stretch the pink fabric over my head. It loops behind my neck, forming a crisscross over my chest and leaving me feeling almost completely naked. My nipples poke right out through the fabric, small and hard. It’s just so obvious, and it doesn’t feel very sturdy. I'm not even sure I have enough volume to keep this thing from riding up into my armpits if I lift my arms.
Claudia whips back around again, her gaze seesawing back and forth over me as she nods urgently. “See? You have the perfect body for this thing! You look amazing!”
I stare in the mirror on the back of her closet door. Amazing? Standing next to Claudia, whose dancer-muscular body ripples under her pink and black striped bodycon dress, I don't see it. I look like the little sister she's being forced to take to the grown-up sister party.
“Wow, I wish I had your flat stomach,” she groans.
“Are you sure?” I hear myself say, my voice smaller and less serious than I usually strive to make it. Over the last two months I've done everything I can do to really seem like I fit in here, but sometimes it's just too much. I'm not a homecoming queen, lead cheerleader, or marketing executive in training like all of them seem to be. Sometimes I think I'd rather just go home, and then I remember I don't really have a home to go to.
As though Claudia can sense what I'm feeling, she takes a couple steps to the door and then stops, pivoting on her tall wedge sandals so she can face me again. She claps her hands lightly in front of her a couple of times and lowers her chin, looking me dead on.
“Kita? You know you're almost at the end of this, right?”
