I look down at her, struggling to keep my emotions from bubbling up my throat. I fold my lips between my teeth, about to burst.
She doesn’t care what I think. She wants me to lie.
“It’s, um…” I choke on the words, a snort escaping. “It’s so beautiful. I’m speechless.”
And I can’t do it anymore. Laughter pours out of me as I take in the big, fat, hoop-skirt monstrosity in the mirror that makes me look like Scarlett Fucking O’Hara, complete with puffed sleeves and some dumbass ruffle around the waist. I’m tempted to look for the stains of Lavinia’s tears of laughter all over the dress as she sewed this bullshit.
I hunch over, my stomach tight as I try to rein it in.
My mother glares at me.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, fanning myself. “My emotions are running wild. I’ve waited so long for this.” I plant my hand to my heart, recovering. “Lavinia, can you bring me some gloves and a pearl necklace? I need the whole picture. I’m so excited.”
The corners of her eyes crinkle with a tight smile, but she nods, quickly leaving the room to fetch the accessories.
It’s not technically her fault. My mother approved the design.
The two of us alone, my mother steps up on the riser in front of me and twists the bodice, jerking it until it’s straight.
“I thought for sure I’d look like a cupcake,” I tell her, trying to catch her eyes. “Now, I almost wish I could say that I looked like a cupcak
e. You know that white stuff that spills out of a heroin addict’s mouth when they’re overdosing? That’s what I look like.”
She meets my eyes, her blue slightly paler than mine as she continues to yank at the dress. “You chose your homecoming gown,” she points out. “And you’ll choose your prom dress. The debutante ball is mine.”
I knew I should’ve gotten this over with two years ago when she wanted me to.
My body jerks as she situates the dress on me, and I stare over her shoulder and into the mirror. The back of her blonde head can easily be me in twenty years.
“You won’t be able to tell me from the rest,” I say, coming as close as I can to begging her.
Every other debutante will be wearing white, and while the fabric is rather pretty on mine—lacy with pearl accents—the design is embarrassing. All the debutante dresses reek of Stepford.
“That’s kind of the point,” my mom says. “Tradition. Solidarity. Community. Unity. You’re coming out as a member of society, and a society functions on standards.” She smooths her hands down the fabric, pressing out any wrinkles. “You need to learn that rocking the boat puts everyone on board in danger.”
But that’s what boats are built for.
I sigh, not sure why I decided to let her have this one. I get my way, because my mother picks her battles, and any battle with me that lasts more than three minutes is too much effort.
I could fight her on it. Maybe I still will.
“Do you need a Xanax or something?” she asks.
I laugh under my breath and look away. Gigi Collins, everyone. Chairwoman, socialite, and school board president.
She puffs my sleeves, and then presses a hand to my stomach. “Hmm.”
“What?”
She purses her lips and walks around me, inspecting. “I was going to have her take it down to a four, but a six is already a squeeze, isn’t it?”
Heat spreads down my skin, and I clench my jaw.
Her phone rings from her bag on the chair, and she heads for it, waving me off. “We’ll leave it, I guess.”
Picking up her bag, she digs out her phone and answers it, walking past me and leaving the room.
I rub my eyes, listening to her chatter out in the waiting area about whether or not we should have a crêpe station for my school’s Easter brunch in two months.