the automated conductor announced in its soul-less
voice. Audra thanked her new friend and rose to
leave the train, freeing up a considerable amount of
seating space in the process.
“Fancy and hip, fancy and hip,” Audra sang aloud,
moving through the pedestrian traffic on Sixth Av-
enue, pushing herself through the doors of Macy’s
and heading determinedly for the women’s section,
pushing aside her dread of the fitting room and
50
Karyn Langhorne
wishing for the thousandth time she’d stuck to her
New Year’s Resolution diet.
Only there was nothing that said “fancy and hip”
in the way Audra defined them. Sure, there were
hip, casual clothes galore in the larger sizes (boot-
cut jeans and bohemian tops, big, fringed poncho
shawls, rhinestone-studded denim jackets) and a se-
lection of fancy ones (dresses as wide as muumuus,
mostly in dark colors, of a cut and style guaranteed
to make any woman look like the mother of the
bride) but nothing that spoke of youthful fanciness.
Nothing in the entire store . . . and Audra traipsed
across it repeatedly, searching rack after rack with
uncharacteristic diligence.
She abandoned Macy’s for Bloomingdale’s and
then Lord & Taylor, and then gave up the depart-
ment stores for the large-sized boutiques, meeting
with disappointment after disappointment. About
the only thing that came close was a partly sheer,
yellow chiffon shawl of a top that, with its fringe
and assymetrical cut, had a light, party feel . . . but it
showed a hefty chunk of chubby shoulder, too.
“Pork loin in a yellow blanket.” Audra grimaced
at herself, shrugging it off and vowing to search on.
As the sun sank into afternoon, Audra headed
across town to where the fancy boutiques were
clustered in row after row on Madison Avenue, still
hoping to find the outfit that would capture Art
Bradshaw’s imagination, the look that would kick
fat, black and ugly to the curb, if not forever, at least
for a night.
And sure enough, in the window of Marciella’s
Audra found it: the perfect top, draped over the
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
51
shoulders of a mannequin. It was a sleeveless, sil-
very, glittering thing with a deep V-neckline that
scooped just enough to show a little cleavage, but
not enough to scare anybody. Like the yellow shawl,
it graced the mannequin’s hips in a diagonal line.
Audra imagined it thrown almost casually over a
nice pair of black pants and coupled with a pair of
strappy sandals.
“Hello, hip and trendy,” she murmured, her nose
nearly pressed against the window. Only . . .
Audra could tell just by looking at it that it was
expensive—probably as much as she made in a
month. She hesitated, intimidated by the top, the
store, and the idea of spending thousands of dol-
lars on a single garment—but then she thought of
the divas of old with their gorgeous costumes and
changed her mind. Hell, even fickle old Scarlett
O’Hara had known that sometimes a woman had to
have a new dress to send the right signal.
“Thank God for MasterCard,” she muttered, fold-
ing her lips determinedly and yanking the handle
on the boutique’s heavy glass door.
A series of chimes sounded as she stepped inside,
her feet landing soundlessly on a spotless white car-
pet. The air smelled of some gentle perfume, and
soft romantic music played at a volume just above
noticeable. And the place was completely empty.
“May I help you?”
A skinny white girl not much older than twenty
or twenty-one appeared at Audra’s side like a man-
nequin coming to life. She wore a tiny pair of black
pants and a little top with a pair of slim spaghetti
straps not quite appropriate for the cool of the
52
Karyn Langhorne
March day, balancing herself atop a pair of ridicu-
lously high heels. She looked cool and chic and com-
pletely sophisticated.
A deep feeling of inadequacy and an awareness of
her own imperfection swept over Audra as she
stared at the girl. The sudden irrational urge to run
out the door seized her heart and she had to remind
herself that any woman tough enough to stare down
a bunch of convicts day after day could probably
handle buying a top from a high-end Manhattan
boutique.
Probably.
“May I help you?” the girl repeated, since Audra
hadn’t said a word yet, just stood there staring at her
with her mouth open like some oki hick come to the
Big City. “Do you need directions—”
“I’m looking for something for a party,” Audra
said, donning a crisp, arch, cosmopolitan voice that
sounded suspiciously like Bette Davis in her ears.
“And that top”—she jerked her head toward the
display behind them—“looks perfect. Very trendy.
Very hip.”
“Yes . . . yes it is . . .” the girl murmured, eyeing
Audra from head to toe. “Uh . . .” She licked her lips a
couple of times, then stuttered, “We—we might be
able to help you, b—but . . .” she looked around ner-
vously and lowered her voice, even though they were
the only two people in the store. “Well, if you don’t
mind my asking, what size are you?” Watching Au-
dra’s face change, she added quickly, “I ask because
we only carry up to size twelve. The designer is
launching a plus-size line in the fall, but right now—”
“Are you calling me fat?” Audra snapped at the
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
53
girl, her good mood quickly slipping away. Audra
thought back: the woman on the subway hadn’t
been small . . . but now that she thought about it,
she’d been a heck of a lot smaller than Audra. A sud-
den embarrassment swept through Audra like a rag-
ing forest fire. Of course this was a smaller-size
store. What on earth had she been thinking—
But then again, the top in the window looked like
it might be cut a little on the roomy side . . .
“No ma’am,” the young woman was stammering
in front of her. “ It—it’s just . . .” she hesitated, and
then spoke quickly, as though the speed of her de-
livery would make the words somehow less upset-
ting. “I don’t mean to offend you . . . but I really
don’t think it’s going to fit and these are very expen-
sive garments. If you rip it—”
“It won’t rip. And if it does, I’ll buy it,” Audra
snapped at her with a force she hadn’t fully in-
tended. The girl’s eyes widened and she
