Leah on the Offbeat(29)

“It’s like a skirt and a top. It’s different. I like it.” She shakes her head. “Stop making that face.”

My hand grazes a dress—intricately beaded bodice, voluminous taffeta skirt. It’s the actual worst. But it’s also weirdly gorgeous. I can’t stop running my hands along the fabric.

Okay, it’s silly, but I’ve always wanted one of those holy shit teen-movie moments. Like when the skinny nerd girl walks downstairs in her red dress. Or Hermione at the Yule Ball. Or even Sandy in her tight pants at the end of Grease.

I want to surprise everyone. I want everyone I’ve ever liked to wish they hadn’t missed their chance.

“That’s cute,” Mom says—carefully, without looking at me, like I’m a deer she’s trying not to spook. It’s extremely annoying.

“Not really,” I say.

“Why don’t you try it on? Nothing to lose, right?”

Except my dignity. And my flawless eighteen-year streak of not wearing hideous trainwreck ball gowns.

So, here’s the thing about me: I’m stubborn. I’ll admit that. But I always underestimate how stubborn Mom is, too. She’s never a bitch about it like I am, but she can be very persistent. Which is how, twenty minutes later, I’m in a dressing room wearing that taffeta shitshow of a gown. Biggest size on the rack, and it doesn’t even zip. My back feels goose-prickled and naked, and when I glance into the mirror, I want to throw up. The skirt balloons around my hips and hangs straight past my ankles. This may be the worst idea Mom’s ever had.

“How’s it going in there?” Mom’s hovering outside the door to my dressing room. “I want to see!”

Yeah, that’s not happening.

“This is the ball gown, right? That color’s going to look amazing with your hair. Trust me.”

“It’s hideous.”

“I’m sure it’s not hideous.”

“No. I mean it’s an actual Dumpster fire.”

“Wow, okay. Tell me how you really feel.” She laughs. “On to the next.”

I’m already rolling my eyes as I wrestle myself into a purple chiffon nightmare. It’s a bigger size, so it actually zips. But it stretches tightly over my hips and almost molds itself around my stomach. I know that sounds awful, but it’s not. It’s sort of wonderfully unapologetic. But the dress itself is a steaming piece of matronly garbage, and I’m not showing up at prom looking like someone’s grandma.

“Any luck?” Mom asks.

I laugh harshly.

Someone gasps in the next dressing room. “Jenna! Oh my God, I love it.”

“You don’t think it makes my arms look fat?”

“What? Shut up. You’re not fat. You look amazing.”

My whole body tenses. The only thing worse than trying on dresses is hearing a bunch of skinny girls trying on dresses next door. Listening to them pick at themselves. It’s like it doesn’t even matter if I like my body, because there’s always someone there to remind me I shouldn’t.

You’re not fat. You look amazing.

Because fat is the opposite of amazing. Got it. Thanks, Jenna’s friend!

“Should I try the size four, or will that just be huge?” Jenna asks. Jesus Christ.

But Mom presses onward, and I snap back to earth. “Did you try on the yellow one?”

I mean, it’s barely yellow—more like pale yellow-gold. And it’s printed with bright multicolored flowers: tiny on the bodice, growing bigger toward the edge of the skirt.

I hate yellow. And florals.

I should hate the crap out of this dress.

But I can’t explain it. It’s just so badass. No one wears a floral prom dress. It’s sort of fitted, with a sweetheart neckline, and I guess the skirt is really an A-line, but there’s a layer of white tulle underneath.

I don’t know. I fucking love it. I’m sure it won’t fit me. I’m sure it was made for a girl like Jenna, from the next dressing room. Whom I’m definitely picturing as Zoey Deutch. No question: this dress would look amazing on Zoey Deutch. But I guess I’ll try it anyway.

I unzip it, stepping carefully into the skirt and tugging it up over my hips. It’s strange wearing a dress like this on a Wednesday afternoon, with my TARDIS socks poking out the bottom.

It’s strange wearing this dress, period.

It zips. That’s a start. Though I’m pretty sure I’m going to look like a douchebag with my bra straps poking out. I stare at my feet. I don’t want to look at the mirror. Better just to imagine the dress looks amazing.

“What do you think?” Mom asks.

Deep breath. I look up.

It takes a moment to adjust to the image of me in the dress. Me in yellow. I press my hands to my thighs and just stare.

It’s not awful.

The bra straps look ridiculous.

But I kind of like the way the skirt hangs, skimming my hips and grazing the floor. I think I could actually wear this. I don’t know if I’ve achieved holy shit levels of boner inspiration, but still. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever felt.

I crack the door open and peek out, and Mom whips her head up. “Do I get to see this one?”

I shrug and step out slowly, feeling like I’m on a stage. Mom doesn’t say a word. Maybe she’s holding back tears. Maybe she’s rocked by the transformation. I think I look different. Maybe older. My hair looks really red. I fidget with the satin of my skirt.