Sixteen the Hard Way -17.1- Blue Dress

I took the blue dress down from the hanger and looked it over more closely. “How do I even put this on?” I asked.

“Undo the snap at the neck in the back and unzip it,” Mom suggested. “Then just pull it over your head like a t-shirt. Get it settled around your waist and come out here. We’ll zip you up.”

“Yeah!” Donna agreed.

I puffed out a sigh. An enthusiastic Donna was not less annoying than a sarcastic one. But I followed instructions. The dress was less frou-frou than I had feared, but it was still a bit creepy to see myself in the mirror as I pulled it down. I wiggled a bit, testing the fit.

My bra—yes, I was still wearing a bra—managed to keep my unwanted accessories from wobbling too much. They did move around a bit, but the cut of the dress kind of helped keep them where they should be, except that they shouldn’t be on my chest at all.

I tugged and pulled the fabric to try to get comfortable, but the main problem was that in the mirror, I saw a busty, redhead girl wearing a dress. I seemed to have disappeared. Maybe it was true. No one would recognize me. Not even me.

The lace at the neck kept me from showing a lot of skin, which seemed like a good idea for a church dress, despite Mom and Donna’s implications that I was supposed to—I dunno?—show off to score points?

I opened the door of the changing stall and stepped out. “Ooo!” Donna squealed.

Mom smiled and motioned me to turn around so she could do up the zipper and the snap. “You look very nice, dear,” she murmured.

“I feel like a goon,” I protested.

“You look sweet,” Donna contributed, smiling in a non-ironic way.

I made a face, and they laughed. The lace at the bottom of the dress fell just below my knees and that felt extremely weird. The sleeves didn’t reach my wrists but didn’t leave my forearms bare, either. It was all strange. The red-headed girl in the mirror looked bemused, perhaps a bit puzzled by Mom and Donna’s enthusiasm for the clothing.

“You look lovely,” Mom told me, and Donna nodded.

“Okay, I guess,” I murmured, not convinced.

“Do you like it?” Donna asked.

I shrugged, (and immediately reminded myself not to do that). “At least it’s blue, not peach or ‘fuchya,’ or whatever.” I was trying to joke.

“Okay,” Mom responded. “We’ve seen how it looks on you, you can take it off, and find out which of the skorts will fit. That’s a medium, so try the larger of the two.”

“Uh?” I tried to stall, but Mom turned me around, undid the snap and zipper and pushed me back into the stall. She also took two dresses off a rack in the hall and pushed them into my arms. “Then you can try these two on.”

“What?” I squeaked. “I’m not—it isn’t? Why?”

“Well, you can’t just buy the first thing that fits and looks good, you know,” she offered as explanation, and Donna was agreeing—with her arms full of another pair of more casual-looking dresses!

“For gosh sakes! Why not?” I protested.