want to.”
She’s getting angrier by the second. This is amazing! My sister doesn’t dislike anyone the way she does STB. Before my dad started dating STB, I don’t think I ever heard Miri tell anyone off.
STB and Miri embark on a stare-down worthy of a Hollywood action movie. Neither blinks.
Meanwhile, Prissy has finally stopped talking to herself and is now doing what she always does when she thinks her mother isn’t looking: carefully picking her nose. It’s kind of cute to watch because she has such small fingers. You’d think STB would be more concerned with that than with Miri’s nails.
Suddenly, I feel the newly familiar rush of cold, and I look back at Miri and notice that her lips are doing that pursed thing. Uh-oh. I twist my head back to STB as her iced coffee slowly rises from the table beside her. Yikes! I leap toward the plastic cup and haul it down to safety before anyone can see.
The stare-down is over, because everyone’s eyes are now on me.
I take a long sip. “This is delicious,” I say while narrowing my eyes at my blushing sister. “My turn to change now, right?” And then, before anyone can respond, I hurry to the dressing room.
Crisis averted. And minus the STB cooties, the coffee was tasty.
I take off my jeans and drape myself in my very own pink life-sized doily. Despite the hideousness of the dress, the truth is I’m finding the whole from-material-to-dress process intriguing. Maybe I’ll learn to sew. How awesome would that be? I’d be able to make anything I want, rip off all the hottest designs. People would think I spent hundreds—no, thousands—on my outfits. I gingerly kick off my shoes so I won’t step all over the material. I could even make my own labels— Rachel —and sew them inside. Or on the outside like all the expensive designers do. Rachel would come to mean chic. Vogue would feature my creations, and I would become internationally famous. Jewel would beg to be included in my televised prime-time biography.
Ouch. It feels as if I just stepped on a pin. Ouch, ouch, ouch. That killed. I hate anything that pricks the skin. How am I supposed to become a world-famous seamstress when I hate pins?
Maybe I’ll get Miri to poof up the designer clothes for me, since magic is practically flying out of her these days. But I suppose she’ll want to share the glory. Fine, we’ll call the label Michel. I step outside, careful to avoid more pin foliage.
Miri gives me a sheepish smile as I pass her.
She’s definitely almost primed for the plan.
“Arms out,” Judy says when I stand in front of her. I comply like a scarecrow. The truth is, I’m relieved to report, my reflection isn’t that scary. The dress makes me resemble Glinda from The Wizard of Oz . I look kind of pretty. Except for a small zit above my eyebrow, my complexion is relatively clear. My nose is small. My eyebrows have a nice arch. I wiggle them in the mirror. My eyes are pretty big. Too bad they’re boringly brown. My teeth are straight and white, so despite my too-thin lips, I have a niceish smile.
“We don’t need boning for you,” Judy comments, interrupting my critical analysis.
“We don’t?” I ask, watching myself purse my lips. That’s how I’ll look when I’m finally kissing someone. Or casting a spell when my powers kick in. “Why don’t we?”
STB sighs. “Because you don’t have breasts.”
Well, I never! “But I might have breasts by the time of the wedding.”
STB snorts. “Rachel, it’s in seven weeks.”
“These things happen fast, you know. One day you’re flat and the next day, boom, you’re bursting out of your double-D bra. Do what you think is best, but don’t get angry at me if we have to scrap the dress and start again at the last minute because of my inevitable blossoming.” These people need to have some faith.
STB throws up her hands. “Give her boning.”
“Can I have some too, Mommy?” Prissy asks. “I want boning!”
“Yes, sweet
She’s getting angrier by the second. This is amazing! My sister doesn’t dislike anyone the way she does STB. Before my dad started dating STB, I don’t think I ever heard Miri tell anyone off.
STB and Miri embark on a stare-down worthy of a Hollywood action movie. Neither blinks.
Meanwhile, Prissy has finally stopped talking to herself and is now doing what she always does when she thinks her mother isn’t looking: carefully picking her nose. It’s kind of cute to watch because she has such small fingers. You’d think STB would be more concerned with that than with Miri’s nails.
Suddenly, I feel the newly familiar rush of cold, and I look back at Miri and notice that her lips are doing that pursed thing. Uh-oh. I twist my head back to STB as her iced coffee slowly rises from the table beside her. Yikes! I leap toward the plastic cup and haul it down to safety before anyone can see.
The stare-down is over, because everyone’s eyes are now on me.
I take a long sip. “This is delicious,” I say while narrowing my eyes at my blushing sister. “My turn to change now, right?” And then, before anyone can respond, I hurry to the dressing room.
Crisis averted. And minus the STB cooties, the coffee was tasty.
I take off my jeans and drape myself in my very own pink life-sized doily. Despite the hideousness of the dress, the truth is I’m finding the whole from-material-to-dress process intriguing. Maybe I’ll learn to sew. How awesome would that be? I’d be able to make anything I want, rip off all the hottest designs. People would think I spent hundreds—no, thousands—on my outfits. I gingerly kick off my shoes so I won’t step all over the material. I could even make my own labels— Rachel —and sew them inside. Or on the outside like all the expensive designers do. Rachel would come to mean chic. Vogue would feature my creations, and I would become internationally famous. Jewel would beg to be included in my televised prime-time biography.
Ouch. It feels as if I just stepped on a pin. Ouch, ouch, ouch. That killed. I hate anything that pricks the skin. How am I supposed to become a world-famous seamstress when I hate pins?
Maybe I’ll get Miri to poof up the designer clothes for me, since magic is practically flying out of her these days. But I suppose she’ll want to share the glory. Fine, we’ll call the label Michel. I step outside, careful to avoid more pin foliage.
Miri gives me a sheepish smile as I pass her.
She’s definitely almost primed for the plan.
“Arms out,” Judy says when I stand in front of her. I comply like a scarecrow. The truth is, I’m relieved to report, my reflection isn’t that scary. The dress makes me resemble Glinda from The Wizard of Oz . I look kind of pretty. Except for a small zit above my eyebrow, my complexion is relatively clear. My nose is small. My eyebrows have a nice arch. I wiggle them in the mirror. My eyes are pretty big. Too bad they’re boringly brown. My teeth are straight and white, so despite my too-thin lips, I have a niceish smile.
“We don’t need boning for you,” Judy comments, interrupting my critical analysis.
“We don’t?” I ask, watching myself purse my lips. That’s how I’ll look when I’m finally kissing someone. Or casting a spell when my powers kick in. “Why don’t we?”
STB sighs. “Because you don’t have breasts.”
Well, I never! “But I might have breasts by the time of the wedding.”
STB snorts. “Rachel, it’s in seven weeks.”
“These things happen fast, you know. One day you’re flat and the next day, boom, you’re bursting out of your double-D bra. Do what you think is best, but don’t get angry at me if we have to scrap the dress and start again at the last minute because of my inevitable blossoming.” These people need to have some faith.
STB throws up her hands. “Give her boning.”
“Can I have some too, Mommy?” Prissy asks. “I want boning!”
“Yes, sweet
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