As soon as we set foot in the entry, what sounded like a mini trumpet announced our presence. A pleasantly plump guy, no older than twenty, with orange-red hair that stuck straight up like a treasure troll, slid out from behind the counter with a wide grin splayed across his broad, potato-like face.
“Mickey! How ye be?” he asked with a thick Irish accent. “Oh, oh, and don’t be telling me.” He looked me from bottom to top, his smile deepening to the point where his eyes all but disappeared in his cheeks. “This one must be your foster sister.” The way he said it so carefully and deliberately reminded me of someone testing out a new word that they were particularly proud of.
I couldn’t help but grin at him. I immediately liked him, and my gut was never wrong. I glanced at Mickey—well, it was rarely wrong. I was still a little sore about him handing out my number to Patrick-with-awesome-reflexes.
Mickey rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger before he looked up, a bemused expression on his face. “Stuart.” He smiled at me. “Stuart is a friend from a long way back. Family friend, so to speak.”
“Nice to meet you.” I smiled.
“’Tis an honor.” Stuart put his hand to his heart and gave a small bow. Mickey shoved him a bit playfully.
“Stuart can be a bit over the top sometimes,” Mickey said.
Stuart’s face looked pained, and I glared at Mickey. I looked back at Stuart and beamed.
He beamed right back at me. “What can I get for ye?”
“Well…” I paused. Maeve never said anything about not finding a job before homecoming. “Are you hiring?”
Stuart’s jaw went slack, and I shifted uncomfortably under his stare.
“Ye-ye want to work?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
“Why? I mean—no disrespect—I am honored, but—“ Stuart bumbled around his words, tripping over them.
“How about we look for jobs after Homecoming, okay?” Mickey said. “You already need to catch up on schoolwork and get ready for Homecoming. It’s not really the best time to start looking for a job.”
I glared. We could be in the middle of a catastrophic disaster for all I cared. Nothing trumped me getting a job and getting out of foster care as soon as I possibly could.
“And anyway, you’re not old enough to work at the mall,” Mickey said.
“Well, in that case…” I turned back to Stu. “I’m looking for, you know, the basics. Maybe a couple pants, a few shirts…” I trailed off.
Stuart nodded gravely. “Then we must start at the beginning. Lingerie.”
I heard what sounded like a snort-gag behind me. Normally, I would have been completely freaked out with a guy jumping to the word “lingerie” within a couple seconds of having met me, but there was something so matter-of-fact about Stuart’s tone. It was like he didn’t even see me as female, but more as a doll that needed to be dressed. Lingerie was simply the first step to the finished product.
And besides, my bra—the only one I had—was gray and limp from overuse.
Stuart held out an arm toward me and I gingerly took it. This was odd, but I was learning to go with the flow here. And besides, I preferred walking next to him than walking next to Mickey at the moment.
He escorted me to the dressing rooms where he snagged a measuring tape—and just held it, his expression thoughtful. Mickey rubbed his eyes again. Maybe he had allergies.
“Alright, then.” Stuart straightened up and led me to the lingerie section. I noticed with amusement that Mickey stayed in the periphery of that particular section, which was fine by me. “Awkward” was what came to mind when looking for bras with “little brother” in tow.
“Ye be a 32C, I be thinking.” For someone making an educated guess, he was rather sure of himself as he started plucking my estimated size from racks. There were lacy ones, black ones, purple ones, ones with flowers, sheer…wait. It was starting to get a little hot in here. I glanced up at Stuart’s face, but it was completely neutral, as if he was picking out socks for me to try on. His fingers hesitated over a plain white demi bra.
“Ye be wanting a bit of umph or no?”
My eyes widened. I heard Mickey choke. I’m pretty sure I looked like a girl whose tampons just fell out of her purse.
“Um.”
He tapped his mouth. “No harm trying them.” He grabbed a few more and added it to the growing pile draping his arm.
At some point, he acquired a basket—it just kind of appeared—and led me over to the dressing room. I stared at the full basket in awe.
“How…hardly anyone carries my size. At least not like this.” I bit my lip. I only knew that because I was going to buy a new bra four months ago. But I got me and Caleb matching band shirts instead—not because Caleb liked the band, more because he should like the band and maybe wearing their shirt would rub in some good taste in music.
Stuart shrugged his massive shoulders. “Me store specializes in alterations.” There was a cough. “What I means is, we always make sure we has on hand a broad spectrum o’ sizes.” It sounded rehearsed, almost robotic.
I nodded absently, still thinking of Caleb, and spent the next twenty minutes trying on bras in a dressing stall outfitted with a plush velvet lounge chair and a gold-gilded mirror.
“Make sure to jump a wee bit so as to see if it has the right support,” Stuart called out, trying to be helpful, as he and Mickey waited.
Mickey snort-laughed as heat flooded my cheeks.
After that, everything was much more tame. Well, after Stuart insisted on getting me matching panties for the two bras I selected. That was awkward, since Mickey had stopped hanging back, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Huh. Never would have pegged you for a floral chick.”
“Shut up, Mickey.”
“And black. Very daring. You aren’t one of those girls who wears white tees
