Chapter 19

"One last place," Heather announced, heading further out of town after yet another rack choked with chiffon and packed with petticoats. "This'll be the one. I feel it in my bones."

She had to have the most optimistic bones in the universe.

I gave my new cell another workout, calling Mom yet again with another status report and, ignoring Heather's protests, asking her to set another place at the table.

"Thank you," Heather said reluctantly to the dinner invite. She had yet to call home, but maybe her folks gave her a longer leash than Mom gave me. Well, she was older.

I sighed. "I suppose I could go to the dance naked."

"Not naked. The whole 'naked to the dance' thing has been done to death since Beth Finch. There've been program participants and exhibitionist volunteers in the buff, the near buff, the decorated and over-decorated buff, at every school dance for the last two years. I bet there'll be at least two naked couples at this one. Bor-ring.

"And while it may seem contrary to the NiS philosophy for me to say so, it is not necessarily the best look for some people! Wouldn't you like to make a new fashion statement?"

"I just want to look good for Greg and have fun at the dance. Anyway, I s'pose everyone's getting kinda tired of seeing my skinny butt around the halls," I admitted dolefully. "No point in inflicting that on the crowd."

She threw me a smile. "Not everyone's fed up. Mongo -- I mean Matt -- still enjoys the view."

"Matt does?"

She nodded. "Oh yeah. And a few others I could name. And I wouldn't say your butt is skinny. Well muscled is more like it."

"Thanks, I guess," I responded, worried by what she'd said about Matt and the unnamed others, presumably the perpetually horny jocks. What with Miss School Spirit coming up in a couple of weeks I suddenly felt like I was in fate's cross-hairs again.

"But tell me the truth. You kinda like it, don't you," she asked, "the attention and going around naked, I mean?"

I shrugged. "I hardly notice the attention anymore. As for going around naked, it's comfortable. I'm comfortable. Isn't that what The Program is all about? Learning to be comfortable in our own skins?"

She nodded as she steered around a corner. "If you say so."

I thought that was a rather cryptic response and wondered briefly what was behind it, wondering if this whole trip was a mistake. The afternoon had not gotten off to a good start. We'd knocked off "Sal's Boutique," more formally known as Salvation Army, and the Good Will store in about five minutes, total. I hadn't held out much hope for them anyway.

The consignment stores and charity thrift shops had seemed more promising, and taken more time with no results. The market was glutted with bridesmaid dresses in colors for which there were no names. I was so sick of taffeta and tulle that I was ready to vomit lace. Fortunately Heather and I agreed that petticoats on me made as much sense as a tutu on a giraffe, while a strapless would require suspenders.

I was getting discouraged. I'd never liked shopping for fancy clothes. My casual wardrobe allowed lightning strikes -- in, grab, pay, and out. Good stuff meant changing rooms, where I always felt trapped and vulnerable, afraid someone would yank the door or curtain open exposing me in my tacky underpants. Then I had to drag stuff on that who knew how many others had tried on before me -- talk about cootie-phobia!

Then, when I got the frock on I had to display myself to the whole shop floor while people gawked and store clerks tsked about me being too tall or too skinny or both and then I had to retreat to the changing room in shame to repeat the whole ugly process.

Mercifully I hadn't had to do that so far. There hadn't been one thing worth trying on.

Her "last place" turned out to be a shop run by the SPCA in a small building on the town's outskirts, sharing parking with the animal shelter. I felt bad, hearing the plaintive mews of the cats inside and "pick me!" barks from desperate dogs in the runs. In outside pens there were enough ponies, sheep, and goats for a petting zoo, even a single lonely llama -- I've read they're herd animals and don't do well alone -- sharing a space with two pot-bellied pigs. No chance of bonding there, I'd say. I hoped the baying of the hounds that greeted the bang of our car doors wasn't an evil omen.

Inside the shop there was a guard dog by the door, a stuffed Snoopy about three feet tall. His head was drooping, so I paused to scratch his ears in an effort to perk him up. The shop itself was small and cramped, jammed with shelves of knick-knacks, toys and kitchen appliances, open bins of purses, neckties, hats, shoes and CDs, mostly pretty good quality stuff. By the looks of their inventory this shop drew donations from a more upscale crowd than Sal's. The clothes racks held aristocrats' seasonal fashion turnovers instead of working-class retirement or mortality remainders.

And speaking of livestock, there were boots and jodhpurs, even some bridles and bits, reins, leashes and collars that might appeal to Mom and Elaine's kinky tastes. I fingered an interesting set of spurs, imagining Mom down on all fours, Elaine on her back wearing the spurs, waving a riding crop. Maybe I should tell 'em about this place -- or would that make me an enabler?

Some of the collars were pretty fancy. Overall, I guess the horsy set had the money to spare on their AKC-registered pets. Too bad there's no AKC for snots, I reflected. It might improve the breed.

Naughty, naughty, The Stick scolded me. Don't judge a book, and yada yada yada. I felt guilty. I'd started out thinking of Heather in that category. I was getting to know her as a person and liking her when she wasn't with her sycophants. She was bright and interesting to talk with, at least on a superficial level -- I still knew nothing about her family -- and I really appreciated all she was doing for me.

She was already flipping through a tall rack of what looked to be very expensive and stylish long gowns, some with glittery tops and semi-bouffant skirts, totally unsuitable for me, of course. As I fingered a long sheath that weighed a ton and seemed to be nothing but sequins she gave a victory cry and pounced. After holding it up a moment, she handed me what looked to be a long length of a sort of velvety fabric. There were no fancy spangles, buttons or bows, not a single sequin, and not enough material to it to fill a bucket.

This was a dress? At least the color was nice, a deep, rich red. Sending me into a changing room she continued looking.

After figuring out which was top and bottom and back and front I shed my shirt and shorts, leaving me in my skin and ratty sneaks. Slipping it over my head I settled it around my waist. The top was like suspenders, only wider. What there was of it draped softly over my shoulders and molded itself to my bashful boobs. The vee of the neckline, if you could call it that, stopped just short of my navel.

I did love the feel of the material, the way it molded itself to my body. The soft, stretchy fabric flowed over my flesh like water. I zipped up what little there was to zip in the back, drawing the lower part closer to my hips. In back my shoulder blades caught the breeze, and it felt like I was bare all the way down to my tail bone.

Once I got it on I looked down at myself, trying to decide if I liked it. With all the upper exposure there wasn't a bra in the world that would work with it, but on me that wasn't an issue. The lines were simple, no fancy ruffles or flourishes or pleats, and the shoulders actually worked well with my swimmers' muscles. From the waist down it was a little loose around my hips, then draped smoothly almost to my ankles. There was a slit up one side so if I took one of my usual long strides it would show my leg to above the knee.

I finally ventured out to get a look at myself in the show-me-from-all-sides mirrors -- you know, those three paneled things angled to display all sides of the victim. Heather took a long, critical look, and broke into a smile, nodding as I self-consciously smoothed the cool material over my butt.

"Wow! It's even better than I expected. You are magnificent!"

The overworked ladies who ran the shop took notice, and smiled and nodded as well.

That made me feel good as I studied myself in the mirrors.

The interesting thing about the dress was that while it hid all the important bits, it exposed parts of me that weren't usually seen -- when I was dressed, that is. I don't have cleavage, only a shallow valley between hills which were exposed almost all the way to my Julie Andrews. The open back ended tantalizingly close to the great divide of my ass, while the slit on the side of the skirt opened as high as my mid-thigh. I felt more exposed than if I were naked.

"No underwear," Heather observed.

"Uh, I don't have any with me," I confessed.

She shook her head. "No, I meant you can't wear any underwear with it, none at all, not even a thong. It fits your bust and your bottom like a second skin, or it will once I get through with it. You don't need underwear anyway. You've proved that at school. It's a bit short, though."

"Oh my." I looked down. My nipples were obviously eager to put in an appearance, trying to drill right through the material. Maybe they'd be more bashful at the dance, at least until Greg took me in his arms.

"It will go well with these, if they'll fit," one of the women who seemed to run the shop suggested, hurrying over with a pair of sandals. They were simple, like the gown, plain but dressy. She knelt in front of me, helped me out of my worn sneakers, and I felt like Cinderella as I balanced, letting her slip them on my feet. The modest heels added only an inch or so to my height.

While she was down there the lady flipped up the hem of the skirt. "There's more than enough here to let it down," she reported.

"Piece of cake," Heather assured me, pinching it in a bit at my butt. "We can let it out down there, take it in about an inch here so it fits a little closer. We don't want wrinkles, after all."

What did she mean "we?" I didn't know the first thing about sewing! Household ecology was an elective on my list for next year.

"And we'll extend the slit up to about here." Heather poked my hip -- very, very high on my hip. "It is a crime to hide legs like yours."

"Here's something simple yet elegant to draw the eye to your décolletage," the shop manager suggested loftily, draping my neck with a silver necklace, the simple pendant nestling between my breasts, cool against my skin. The tear-drop "ruby" it sported glowed like fire against my flesh.

"And there are these matching, dangling earrings, perfect with your lovely long neck." She held one up beside my ear, looking in the mirrors with me. "You'll need to get your ears pierced."

I was probably the only thirteen-year old in the county that hadn't bothered to have two extra holes poked in my head. Even Missy wore discrete little gold studs.

Stand tall! The Stick whispered, so I did, one foot slightly forward like I was posing on the runway at the Oscars, showing my leg half-way up my thigh.

And Heather wanted to extend the slit how high?

Oh my!

It was all so simple, no fancy frills and stuff, no satin and lace. Even the jewelry was subdued. Elegant was the word for it. I assumed the "rubies" were glass. Surely they couldn't be real.

But was this me? This couldn't be me, could it? I was shorts and tees and gangly arms and legs, or sweats and a hoody, scabs on my knees, bare skin, sunburn and freckles.

I was looking at a goddess!

Except for the hair. That brought me down to earth with a thud. That was definitely me, a silly dust mop of blond, streaked by chlorine and sunshine, sticking out wildly in all directions. My hands and feet stuck out, too. My morale sagged even as The Stick insisted I maintain my posture.

I was an over-dressed truffula tree.

"We'll have to do something about your hair," Heather concluded as if she'd read my mind, thoughtfully nibbling on her thumb. "And you'll need a manicure and pedicure."

"But is it me?" I asked. "I mean, I'm just a kid."

"Not any more you aren't," Heather answered. "You are -- what? -- fourteen?"

"Thirteen, for another week or so," I confessed.

"You're a woman, going on six feet, healthy and athletic," she argued. "And gorgeous," she added.

"That dress is you!" the manager bubbled, and somehow the way she said it -- almost worshipfully -- it wasn't like she was trying to make a sale. "As tall and graceful as you are you are a woman, and probably the only woman in two counties who could carry this look off. And I say that knowing who the donor is, who shouldn't have even tried. And don't you dare repeat that to anyone or it might get back to her! It's a small town."

Unfortunately the word was probably already out. Once again I'd drawn a crowd. The shoppers nodded their agreement.

I was still swiveling nervously this way and that. I took a step, my leg flashing through the slit. I turned, loving the feel of the fabric, the way that it moved with me, the way the jewelry and sandals worked to complete the ensemble.

"It's beautiful! But, I can't possibly afford this," I whispered wistfully, turning back to the mirrors, fingering the price tag on the necklace. That alone ate up most of my budget.

"Let me worry about that. They call it a thrift shop for a reason," Heather pointed out dryly.

"You must have that dress! If it's not within your means I'm sure we can make some adjustments," the woman who'd brought the sandals over said.

"Within reason, that is," the other woman, the manager, cautioned, checking the price tag on the dress.

"We'll take it," Heather said before I could open my mouth to protest.

The manager plucked the tags off everything and headed for the cash register, Heather bending her ear while waving me back toward the dressing room. Picking up my sneakers I reluctantly went retreated. I swore I heard the whole shop sigh in disappointment, which was ridiculous, of course.

The dress came off easily. Greg would appreciate that! Not that it would be necessary, considering how accessible I'd be, given what I would not be wearing under it.

On the other hand, it would be a shame to get stains on that material.

I came back out an ugly duckling with the dress draped over my arm, the jewelry and sandals in my hands, and nobody even glanced my way. The woman at the register took everything from me and carefully refolded the dress and bagged it. The jewelry went into a nice velvet box which joined the shoes in a second bag. I was feeling a little dazed, looking down at the receipt as I walked out the door. Snoopy's tongue was hanging out. I'd done some mental arithmetic in the dressing room and the amount on the receipt was only half the total I'd come up with.

"But I ... you haggled them down! You shouldn't have done that!" I whispered to Heather.

"That's all part of the game at that shop. The stock is all donations, the staff is all volunteer, there's almost no overhead, no cost to them. It's almost pure profit. They deliberately set the prices high, expecting to be bargained down. The very rich are even more frugal than us peons and love to think they're getting a bargain as much as we do."

I'd never thought of her as a peon! She was always fashionable. Her family had to be well-off.

"That's why I love thrift shops, especially that one! We should have gone here first," Heather went on, tweeting her car open. "I should have known they'd have just what we needed. It is almost perfect! All we need to do is let out the hem, take a tuck in at the hips and extend the slit. And the sandals and the jewelry! Oh, those are only synthetic rubies, by the way, not all that expensive, and the setting is sterling, not platinum or white gold. I checked. We'll have to pierce your ears. Hardly hurts at all."

As I clicked my seatbelt into place she settled behind the wheel and started the car. "With your carriage, well, Mrs. Van Cleef -- she's the manager -- she's right. No one else could possibly carry it off. You'll show those silly snots. But don't you dare tell anyone I helped you!" She snapped her own safety belt on.

"But I..."

"Not a word! If they think I had anything to do with it I'd never hear the end of it," she explained, carefully backing out.

I wondered what "they" she was referring to, suspecting she meant her entourage. "But you deserve the credit!"

She shook her head. "Don't want it, don't need it, don't deserve it. It's you that makes the dress. We just happened to strike it rich."

"You don't think it's a bit too much?" I asked. "I mean, it seems kinda -- sophisticated -- for me. Maybe something younger..."

She shook her head again. "Like what? A pinafore would look ridiculous on you. You're not a little girl anymore. The fit is perfect, the lines are simple. That's a sign of real quality, by the way. We're just revealing a new, wonderful facet of you. The other girls will be dolled up like Barbies. Some will show more skin, some will have more bling..."

"Bling?"

"Jewelry, most of it cheap, garish costume stuff. Baubles, bangles and beads. They'll have glitter on their cleavage, rhinestones in their hair, paint on their faces, and totter around on heels like they're on stilts," she went on. "You'll blow them out of the water with your class. This is all you, no distracting buttons and bows and ruffles and frills. The red is dark and muted, not garish, lush looking and we'll easily get your hair tamed and give your hands and feet a bit of polish."

I was mulling this all over as we drove home, the sun edging toward the horizon. What would Mom think of it? Would Greg like it? Did I like it?

I thought of not having it and it gave me a pang. Oh yes, I liked it.

"So, you're dressed and accessorized -- oh, I think I have a clutch purse that'll do -- and all in one afternoon," she mused as she turned down my street. "We can pin you up when we get to your house. I'll take it home and by Friday I'll have the alterations finished and then we gild the lily -- hair, short, simple and feminine -- manicure, pedicure, the works. Then on Saturday, minimal makeup."

It sounded like she was outfitting me for a military campaign. Knowing her, maybe she was, but who was the enemy?

All afternoon something had been nibbling at the back of my mind, but we'd been so busy chattering I hadn't had the time to analyze it. We pulled up in front of my house. Mom's car was already in the garage and Elaine's filled the driveway.

I turned to Heather. "You're coming in for dinner, aren't you?"

"Are you sure it's alright?"

"Mom's expecting you. But -- uhm -- do you have to go home tonight?" I asked impulsively.

I rushed on. "I just thought, why don't you stay here tonight, if you could, that is, if you'd like to. I'd love to have you. It's getting dark, and you don't want to drive home in the dark."

After I said that I realized I was really grasping at straws. I wasn't even really thinking. It was one of my crazy impulses, or maybe it was The Stick prodding me. Heather and I had been together all afternoon, talking about this and that, but it felt like she'd been keeping me at arm's length the whole time, talking inconsequentials, verbally deflecting me whenever I tried to get closer to her, when what I wanted most was to draw her into a warm embrace.

And I know what you're thinking, but not that kind of an embrace -- conversationally.

Oh sure, I wouldn't mind jumping her bones, but I just wanted to draw her in and get to know her, and somehow tell her that it would get better.

"Please?" I ventured softly. "We could do our homework together, and just -- talk. Please? You could call your mom."

"She's -- out of town," Heather admitted reluctantly. "So's Daddy."

"You don't want to go home to an empty house, do you? Please stay."

She seemed to think for a long time before she relaxed and nodded, a little warily. "If it's alright with your mom, yeah, I think I'd like that."

"Mom won't have any problem with it. Elaine won't either."

"Elaine?"

"My mom's -- uh -- significant other," I explained grabbing my backpack and the bags as we got out of the car. I hadn't hidden Mom's relationship with Elaine, just never flaunted it around school. "Don't worry, Elaine's cool. She's a doctor -- gynecologist. She took the swabs, after, uh..."

"Oh."

"But there are two house rules," I warned as we headed up the walk.

She paused, looking worried, so I turned back to her, smiling reassuringly. "Rule number one is -- and really applies only to Mom and me and Elaine -- no lying, ever. What we say, we mean, and if we would have to lie, even to be polite, we don't. It is 'I'd rather not say, ' or something like that. But that's for us, we don't hold visitors to it. It's just, well, I want you to know that you can believe what we say."

She thought this over. "I like that. My house could use a rule like that. What's the second rule?"

"This one does apply to everyone." I pointed toward the front door. "Anything that happens in that house, stays in that house."

"Sort of like, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?"

I nodded. "Exactly. Oh, and one other rule, I guess. That makes three. They're all unwritten, of course. The third rule is to have fun. Okay?"

"Oooookay," she drawled, resuming the march to the door. "Really?"

"Really. Now, come on in and meet my moms. Please?"

Being the classy woman she is, Mom welcomed Heather warmly, even though she'd had to listen sympathetically to me grumble about how the nasty "Queen Bee" had greeted me with "truffula tree" in the lunchroom that first day, and the stinging of the rest of the hive. Elaine was just as welcoming, but I noticed how closely she studied Heather, measuring her.

As for Heather, well, she fitted in like she'd been born into the family. I tried to study how she did it, thinking of how self-conscious and tense I was with new people. Heather's attitude was smooth and easy. She was so confident! How did she do it? I wished I could bottle it and then take it out when I needed it.

Mom had dipped into the freezer and produced a good spread. As we sat around the dining table Heather talked easily with my two moms like it was the most normal thing in the world. It was the first time she'd met either of them, but it was as if they were old friends. The conversation was light and superficial, how's school, what are you studying, where are you going to be next year, why'd you become a doctor, how's the real estate business -- that sort of stuff.

The only odd thing was the looks that Mom and Elaine shared from time to time. There was some special secret being shared there. I got the feeling that they'd been planning on telling me something important, maybe something momentous, but that Heather's presence interfered. I was desperate to know what it was, and they wanted me to know, but we'd have to wait.

After supper I had to model the dress and everything, of course, enduring their oo-ing and ah-ing. Mom actually had tears in her eyes. With Elaine it was lust.

Heather borrowed Mom's sewing scissors and some pins. As I stood on a footstool she let the hem out before pinning it to the length she wanted, then pinned the waist in. Her last act was to set a safety pin at my right hip where she wanted the slit to stop. It was -- ahem -- very, very high. I won't say waist high but, well, it was high. Then she lifted the dress off over my head, leaving me nude, and bundled the whole thing away so she could make the changes.

Later, after we had plowed our way through our homework, which was fairly light for a change, we were lounging around in my bedroom. I was still naked, of course. Lying on my back on my bed, one knee up, the other ankle resting on it, I was tossing a rolled up sock in the air, trying to just brush the ceiling with it, catching it in front of my face at the last instant, while she leaned back in my desk chair, idly swinging it back and forth.

"You like your dress?" she asked.

"I love it! It is so beautiful, and it feels so sexy. I can't thank you enough. But what about you? What're you wearing to the dance?" I caught the sock.

It seemed an innocent enough question, but there was a silence. I flipped the sock up again.

"I'm not going."

The sock bounced off my nose as I turned toward her. "What?"

"I'm not going." Her matter-of-fact tone hid volumes.

"Oh!" I didn't know what to say to that. "I'm sorry."

"It's complicated," she explained unhelpfully.

There it was again, the verbal parry deflecting me. Lying on my side now, watching her, I didn't say anything, letting the silence rest there between us, hoping maybe she'd break it. When she finally did it wasn't any help.

"So. Where do I sleep tonight?" She was back behind that veneer of sophistication and false cheer. I had to say this for her -- she wasn't lying, but she sure was good at evasion.

Where would she sleep? What should I say? She could have Carl's room, but that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't like thinking of her all alone in a strange house, but I didn't want to scare her away. I wanted her company. Not necessarily her love, just her company, and to comfort her if she needed it, if she'd accept that.

"Your choice. There's Carl's room, or you can sleep here with me. Just sleep, if that's what you want, I promise!" I finished with a nervous rush, before I realized that was a total tip-off, of course.

Unless... , I thought hopefully, wondering what was tugging at me. It was easy to tell myself that I was sensing a need in her, but was that just an excuse for what I really wanted?

"So, your mom is gay," Heather observed, studying her manicured nails.

Was that a warning flag? She'd never struck me as homophobic. She had to know my reputation, so it couldn't be that or this whole afternoon wouldn't have happened.

"Well, it's not that simple." Somehow I managed to keep volleying back the off-speed questions Heather was lobbing at me. "I mean, well, there's me and my brother Carl, so obviously she's -- uh -- done it with a man. Dad split when I was little, I don't even remember him, but I don't think he left 'cause she was, or is, gay. The only thing I really know about him is that he was tall. Mom says I look like him.

"The only complaint Mom ever had was when there was a problem with child support. But she understood that was 'cause he'd lost his job after he moved away. She never, ever said anything bad about him. It hurts to admit it, but I guess he didn't want anything to do with us, 'cause there's no visitation or anything.

"We've never really talked about the split, or Mom's relationship with Elaine. I was just so happy she'd found someone nothing else mattered. And personally don't think sexuality has to be gay or straight, an either-or kinda thing. Not long ago I was in love with a girl, and we made love, a little. I still am in love with her, actually, but it's not the way it was. She decided she doesn't swing that way.

"Now I'm in love with Greg. I think Mom was in love with my father. I hope so, and then something changed. Then she fell in love with Elaine, at first sight. It was kinda romantic. Maybe it's more a matter of who you fall in love with," I concluded.

"What about sex?" she asked.

She was asking me? She's seventeen and I'm not even fourteen and she's asking me? How is it I feel so much older? But then I realized, in matters of culture and couture she was my senior, but in matters erotic I had the advantage of a lot of experience. What a team we could be!

"What about it? I like it, if that's what you mean, with a boy or a girl, if it's the right boy or girl, the right time, the right place,. But I have to care about who I'm with. Not necessary be deeply in love, but really care," I explained, thinking of John, who I did really care about, and Mike, who I didn't as much. In some ways I still regretted that afternoon with him and Missy. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah."

That's all she said, leaving me hanging yet again.

"So. Where would you like to sleep?" I asked her.

"Can I take a bath?"

Another curve ball, but one I could read hope into.

"Sure. Let me get you towels and a washcloth." I tried not to seem too eager as I rolled off the bed.

After I gave them to her she went off to the bathroom, leaving me in a quandary. The bath was a hopeful sign, but she's also one of those very clean people. She'd showered after cheerleading practice. Maybe she takes a bath every night before bed, regardless.

Unsure what to do I dug into my stock of tee shirts and found the biggest one I had. On her it would do as a nightshirt, and then some. After I folded the covers back on my bed, so it was open and welcoming, I spread the tee shirt out for her. From there I went and opened the door to Carl's room, folded down the covers, and turned on the bedside light.