Sixteen the Hard Way -16.2- Skort

I didn’t expect to have to fight to keep them out of the changing room, but they both insisted on going in with me! “No!” I told them.

“But we want to see you in the clothes and make sure you actually try them on. And you might need help!” said Donna.

“If I need help, I’ll holler,” I told her. “But you guys have to back off a little, or I will just melt into a puddle of hysterics.”

“Uh,” said Mom. “I think she means that.” She was looking me right in the eye. “Sorry, hon. C’mon Donna, give Joni some breathing room.” Then to me again. “We’ll wait out here.”

“But you have to come out and show us how each thing looks! Promise?”

“Okay, okay. But just because you guys think something looks good, don’t expect me to wear it outside the store!” I sort of won that one and closed the door to the changing stall behind them. There was a little knob to lock the door from the inside, but the outer knob had a slot so anything stiff could work as a key. Still, it was something.

I decided to tackle the thing they called a jumper skort first. Who comes up with the names for these things? It was supposed to be some sort of pants, but it did look like a skirt with a sort of overall upper part attached. How did you even put it on? I decided to undo the zipper down the front of the upper part and got started.

I lay the unzipped jumper on the bench, took off the capris I had been wearing and folded them over a hangar, then tried to step into the jumper thing, pulling it up to where I could slip my arms into the sleeves, then zip it up. No go; this was not going to fit over the prominent parts of my new shape. The lower half fit fine, but when I tried to zip it up, it stopped underneath my...shelf. “Crap,” I muttered. Also, I had it on over my polo which had bunched up around the sleeves. Did I need some other sort of undershirt?

I pulled the jumper back off and looked for a size tag and found it: size 2, Extra-small. Was Donna trying to be funny?

“This won’t fit!” I call out, knowing Mom and Donna are just outside the door.

“Which one?” Mom asked.

“The jumper thing, it won’t zip up. It’s too small!” I called back. “And do I need, I dunno, an undershirt with this stuff?”

“Just your bra,” Mom answered. “You do still have your bra on, don’t you?”

“Yes!” I answered. I threw the jumper over the door, which didn’t go all the way to the top or bottom of the doorway. “I think I need, uh, maybe two sizes bigger?”

“Two sizes bigger!” Donna commented while pulling the skort over out of sight. “How did it fit in the waist and hips?”

“I dunno,” I said, maybe grumpily. “All right, I guess, kinda loose?”

I heard Donna move away, muttering, “I can’t imagine she’s going to need a Large!”

“Have you tried on the dress I picked out yet, honey?” Mom asked through the door.

“Do I have to?” I whined.

“Yes,” Mom sounded firm. “You will need something for church tomorrow, and I think it’ll look lovely on you.”

Urk. Lovely? I looked at the garment again. It was blue, a lighter shade on the green end, and it was trimmed with lace or something at the neck, sleeves and along the bottom. The lace was sort of ruffled, so it stood out.

It was the damnedest, girliest, from-frou thing! I’d never seen Mom or Donna in anything half as silly! “Mom!” I protested! How had I not looked at this before taking it into the changing room?

“It won’t kill you to try it on for me, honey,” Mom insisted.

“How can you be so sure?” I said, hearing my voice squeak and hating that, too. It suddenly occurred to me that my voice was never going to deepen so that I sounded like my dad, like a man. I realized that I no longer believed that the doctors would find a solution to my problem.

It felt like I was going to be trapped wearing dresses like this the rest of my life.