"Uh-huh," I said, amazed that she would even ask.
"What a wonderful idea," she declared, "to be virginal until you win your first big pageant. I love it. You must promise me you'll not give yourself to just any old boy, Brooke. Sex is your treasure," she advised. "You must guard it like a dragon who guards the pots of gold in its cave, okay? We'll talk a lot more about this. That's what mothers are for. I'm a mother," she declared, gazing at herself in the mirror. "Who in his right mind would look at me and think, even for a moment, that I was old enough?" She laughed, and then her gaze went to my clothes again.
"We've got to get rid of those. I'm sorry you brought them in here," she said.
"What?" I asked.
She picked up my T-shirt and jeans as if they were diseased.
"Ugh. They still reek of that horrible place. I hate jeans on a girl, anyway."
She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Before I could utter a protest, she jabbed the scissors into the seat of my jeans and tore a gash through them Then she pulled, them apart and threw them and my T-shirt on the floor.
"Just leave it there for Joline to put in the garbage," she said.
She washed her hands as if she had been handling contaminated clothing and then smiled at my shocked face.
"Time to pick out something to wear to dinner," she said. "We want to look beautiful together when we enter and Peter looks up from the table. We want to take his breath away. From now on, every time we walk into a room together, we want to captivate our audience. That," she declared with a sharp nod, "is what we were placed on earth to do."
Before I followed her out to the bedroom, I went to my jeans and took out my hair ribbon, thankful to see that it hadn't been cut in two. I clutched it tightly in my hand, and as she sifted through all my new clothes, I shoved it into a dresser drawer. I was afraid she might want to throw that out, too.
"No, no, no, maybe, yes," she declared, and plucked the blue dress off its hanger. "Try this," she said, handing it to me, and stood back.
Why did she have to see it on me again? I wondered. She had seen it on me in the store. She knew what it looked like.
"Don't you think you should put on a pair of panties first?" she asked with a smile when I dropped the towel and reached for the dress.
I nodded and went to the dresser drawer. After I put the panties on, I slipped the dress over my head and pulled it down. It fit a little snugly and had wide straps and a U-shaped collar. I turned to face her, and she grimaced.
"I don't know why I didn't notice it before, but your shoulders and arms are so . .
"What?" I asked.
"Manly," she repeated. "I'll have to speak to my doctor about you. There must be a way to get you to look softer," she decided. "Now you see why clothes are like living things."
I shook my head.
"They take on different personalities in different environments. Back at the department store, under those harsh lights, colors were washed out, and the garments appeared one way, but here, in a warmer setting, in a bedroom or in a dining room, they're different. I wouldn't have bought this one," she concluded. "From now on, I'm going to have them bring your clothing here to try on."
"Bring them here? You mean to my room?"
"Of course," she said. "We were all just in too big a rush. But"--she recovered with a smile--"no harm done. We'll buy some more. That's all. I have a blue dress to wear, too. How experienced are you with makeup?" she asked.
"I put on lipstick sometimes," I said.
"Lipstick?" She laughed. "Sit at your table. Go on. Quickly. I have my own hair to style and my own makeup to do yet."
Why were we getting so dressed up for dinner? I wondered. Were there more people coming? Was it going to be like a party?
I sat, and she came up behind me. She turned on the magnifying mirror, and the light washed away any shadows on my face. Then she pressed her palms against my cheeks and turned my head from side to side, studying me.
She nodded. "Now that I have you under the light, I see where we have to make your nose look smaller. I want to highlight your eyes and thicken your lip line just a little?'
She began to work on me as if I were being made up for a ball. The surprise in my face was easy to see. I was never very good at disguising my feelings. Whenever I thought something was stupid, the corners of my mouth turned up in a smirk that gave my feelings away. One of my grade-school teachers, Mrs. Carden, once told me that my forehead was as good as a blackboard on which my thoughts appeared in bright, white, chalky letters.
"Every time you go out of this room, and especially every time you leave this house," Pamela lectured, "you have to remember you are onstage. A woman, a real woman, is always performing, Brooke. Every man who looks at you is your audience. Whether we like it or not, we're attractive, and that means men's eyes are like little spotlights always turned on our faces and bodies.
"And even if you're married for ages or going with some beau for months, you still have to surprise him with your elegance and beauty every time he sets eyes on you, understand?"