I tell Odelia that what she’s seen is it, and this makes her shudder like she’s caught a random chill. We sit on the bed and find some normal-looking clothes in the teen magazines. We cut out pictures of tees, shirts, shorts, skirts, boots, and shoes. Odelia puts in her two cents about outfits in specific colors that are supposedly perfect for my body type and coloring. With my blonde hair, I should be wearing warm colors like orange, yellow, and peach, she tells me. No gray. No black. She’s got to be kidding! A skateboarder minus the black is like Santa minus his red. Odelia does have a good eye, though. She shows me clothes that aren’t exactly girly, but girly with an edge.
“Style should reflect your personality,” she says. “You have the heart of an adventurer.”
“I don’t do adventure. That’s your dream.”
“Bernice, the next time you are at the skate park, take note of how many girls are there. I have seen none. You are fearless and strong, and when not skateboarding, you can portray your adventuresome spirit with the right clothes.”
Maybe a fashion makeover is a good idea. Middle school kids rock a certain style, and it’s not skater grunge, that’s for sure. I scoop up the magazine clips and stuff them in my pocket. “I’ll ask my mom if she can take us to the store.”
“You don’t have a seamstress?”
Imitating Odelia at her stuffiest, I say, “No. Today, we shall have to make do with what’s available at the Porchtown clothing suppliers.” Inside I cannot control myself because I’m thinking: Wait until Odelia sees the mall!!
***
The Princess’s New Clothes
Mom beeps the horn, and we climb into her favorite ride—an antique Volkswagen bus with a humongous peace sign on the side. Mom understands how I feel about that VW. She knows why I slouch in the middle seat. She knows why I beg to be dropped off a quarter-mile away from school or any other place. She knows I cannot be seen in this totally uncool excuse for transportation.
The Porchtown Mall is not a huge mall by any standard. It has two department stores with a main floor and a second floor. That’s it. Mom says I can spend sixty bucks. She’s probably sold more crafts than usual this week. When she scores extra cash, she’s generous with it.
Odelia and I take off for the first store. Mom soon gets lost in her own world, chatting to the mannequins about burlap sacks and love beads. We stay far enough ahead of her so no one can tell she’s with us.
Weaving our way through the crowd, Odelia is quiet and reserved. She walks like a scared kitty beside me and is skittish when another person comes within a foot of her. The sheer number of clothes, purses, accessories, and snacks sends her into shock. I’ve lost count of how many times she asked me if we lived in the wealthiest city in the land. Give it up already, Odelia. I can’t believe there are no places like this where she is from.
We duck in and out of stores, studying designer, vintage, and retro fashions. We settle on a store with a huge 50% OFF sign and go in.
“What about this?” I ask Odelia as I step out of the dressing room. I’m in a black razorback tank with I HAVE ENOUGH FRIENDS splashed across the chest. I’ve paired it with destroyed, black wash, super skinny jeans and a gray belt with silver studs.
“It’s horrid,” Odelia replies. “Someone needs to repair those pants. How’s this?” She’s in a Hawaiian-print sundress that screams tourist. A flower scrunchie is perched on her hair like a tiara.
“Time to weed the garden,” I say, shooting the scrunchie across the store like an elastic band.
Next, we pick out outfits for each other, hoping we’ll be forced out of our comfort zones. Odelia chooses green camouflage cargos for me and a tan fake-leather jacket. She makes me try on a tank top with polka dots on it, and I like that they clash with everything else. No one needs to be too matchy-matchy.
I pick out a black tiered mini and a white shirt with an asymmetrical neckline for Odelia. Add to that a chunky chain necklace, two thick black bangles, and a purse painted with skulls, and all telltale signs of princess-ness melt away.
We haul our bags to the bus. I’m beat, but Odelia’s got enough energy left to scribble furiously in her ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES notebook. She better not whip out a lesson while we’re stuck in traffic.
Mom asks Odelia, “Would you like to stay for dinner, dear? We’re having oyster stew.”
“I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Baransky. I would love to.”
“You have charming manners, Odelia. Maybe your polite behavior will rub off on our Bernice.” Mom parks her sunglasses on her perm and shoots me a look in the rearview mirror.
Wait a sec. I’m not polite?
“My godmother is a firm believer in proper social graces,” Odelia tells my mom. “In fact, I’ve been teaching Bern—”
“Hey, Mom! Watch out for the geese!” I yell. There’s not a goose in sight. But I don’t want Odelia filling Mom in on what we’re up to. I don’t want anyone to learn about these lessons. So far, the results have been less than newsworthy anyway. After what happened at the park, my chances with Wyatt probably equal my ability to make a clean half-pipe run. Meaning, zero.
“Mrs. Baransky, thank you for the invitation. I must first ask my godmother.” Then Odelia turns to me. “May I please borrow your telephone, Bernice?”
I watch Odelia struggle with my phone, and then I help her get connected to Serena. Their conversation is short.
