Born Confused Read Online Free Page B

with a techno soundtrack pumping I felt several sizes smaller than I really was. I began scooping up tiny tees,body-hugger boot-cut jeans, and bustiers with reckless abandon, acting like I was Gwyn. When my mom and I were finally standing with the maximum-allowed five items each (really twelve; I’d sneaked a skimpy crochet halter in my pile and a faux fur tube top in hers) she glanced at the goods.
    —Have you checked the sizes, beta? she asked, lifting and dangling the halter off her finger as if it were a steeped tea bag.
    —What are you implying? I said, already upset. The music wasn’t so loud in here, and a herd of multiply pierced salesgirls was staring at me menacingly, as if they knew there were six items in my hands and none would fit.
    —I am not implying anything, beta, but if you insist on trying on these naggudy-faggudy things you might as well get the right size rather than try to be…I don’t know… Gwyn.
    —I’m not trying to be Gwyn! I picked these because I like them! All by myself! Come on, give me a little credit. I’m almost seventeen already, hello.
    —But they’re not your size.
    —But I refuse to fit in a bigger size than that, I said with end-ofdiscussion authority.
    By this point we were in the dressing room. At the entrance to our changing stall, the salesgirl, a frizzy-haired, twiggy creature with Taffy on her nametag, hung all the clothes on the hook after asking if we’d be going in together. She had a low-tying halter on and the bones of her back stuck out and rippled as she moved. When she was finished, she turned and gave me the once-over, then the clothes, then me again.
    —These are for you? she asked. I nodded warily.—Looks like you need a bigger size.
    —In what?
    —In everything.
    —How do you know? I said, trying to remain calm. Hadn’t she read the salesgirl handbook? Never tell a potential customer bigger. In fact, delete word from vocabulary entirely.
    —I can tell just looking at you. The ones you have are way wrong. Want me to switch ’em?
    —This is the size I want, I said slowly.—I’ll fit in it.
    —Whatever, she said, snapping her gum and strutting off. She called back over her shoulder.—Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
    The room was inhospitably adorned with a massive three-way mirror. Before I even embarked on my Olympian quest to lose weight in the next two minutes, I scanned the glass to see if it was a skinny mirror. I still looked sufficiently harpoonable, so I figured (and prayed) it was not. My mom sat on the bench, exhausted. And I set to work.
    The jeans didn’t make it past the knees. I could see my butt poking lavishly out of my underwear in the three-way. Frock, I could make granny panties look like a G-string!
    —It’s just a number, no one can see it, said my mother.—It doesn’t mean anything.
    —Yeah, said Taffy, popping her head over the stall.—The numbers really don’t mean a thing.
    That was a relief!
    —They all read lower anyway, she added.
    — Lower? I cried in horror. In the mirror I could see my mother waving frantically at her to shut the frock up. But it was too late.
    —Yeah, we’ve done some studies and, you know, they sell way better that way. So we’ve knocked everything down a couple sizes. Like, you know, normally I’m a zero, but in Style Child sizes, that would be a negative four. It’s really boosted sales.
    —I need to fit into these, I whispered desperately. Didn’t anyone get that I was going to be hanging with an NYU filmmaker in a few short hours?
    —Well, in any case, those hot pink militia pants look really great. You should definitely get them.
    —How do you know? They’re not even on.
    —Well, I can see them, can’t I? And I’ve got a pair and they’re jammin’. Anyways, your top is way fab. You should totally get it.
    —Uh, this is my bra, I said.
    —See? said my mother.—Even she does not know the difference.
    Taffy’s head was perched perfectly on top of our dressing room