education, they agreed.
French American required their students to wear a uniform of white blouse paired with a navy skirt or slacks. Since I had nothing like this in my wardrobe Dad drove us out to the Stonestown Galleria, the only mall we’d visit together. We wandered the circular racks of clothing in the children’s department as if in a maze. I click-clacked the hangers, observing the colors and textures with my fingers, while Dad occasionally examined the price tags with round eyes. We continued aimlessly until we were rescued by a saleslady with red hair and shiny teeth, who quickly sized us up as the clueless pair we were. Chatting up Dad, she learned everything about French American and their uniform. And of course, she made friends with me. “Entering first grade? That is exciting!”
She led us to the rear of the floor and into a dressing room with large mirrors and a heavy green drape you could pull back and forth across the ceiling. “I’ll be right back,” she said. Elevator music played as I jumped around looking at my reflection and Dad fidgeted with a pack of Carlton Regulars.
Our saleslady soon reappeared, arms stacked high with white and navy clothing. She pulled the drape closed, and with Dad’s help, I tried on everything. He zipped me in and out of polyester pants. He buttoned and tied ballooning blouses. He pulled vests and dresses over my head, and then yanked them off, my tangled hair getting caught in the buttons. Every few minutes the lady would return, always bringing more, then cheerfully removing what didn’t fit.
Then our saleslady returned, announcing she had something “ very special.” A manicured hand jutted through the dressing room curtain holding a sleeveless quilted blue jumper with a matching white blouse. “We just got this in last week!”
I stepped into the dress and my father fastened me up, struggling with each button in the back.
“How’re we doing there?” she asked.
“Almost,” my father answered. “There’s a lot of buttons.”
Dad stood behind me as I considered my reflection, then he pulled open the drapes so I could walk out. But my shoes were rooted to the dressing room floor. My eyes were focused on the girl in the mirror. On the front of my dress I could see a Holly Hobby look-alike wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet and a long dress similar in shape and style to my own. Except that this other girl was standing in profile and she was standing upside down.
Outside the dressing room I faced the red-haired lady uncertainly. A wide smile gripped her face. She turned to Dad for a reaction and then she turned to me. My apprehension must have been evident because without my saying anything, she said: “The girl’s upside down to everyone else, but when you look down”—she motioned me to look down—“she looks just right!”
I was still too young to doubt the lady openly, but I could tell that there was something off. The girl on the dress is upside down. This is the truth. There is no way to right her.
Looking at the saleslady’s shiny teeth and gums, I got a tight feeling in my stomach and turned to Dad. Surely he’ll point out the absurdity of the upside-down girl. He’ll take me out of here and return us to the Haight and maybe we’ll go to the Panhandle or to Mommy Fortuna’s for dinner. But Dad just smiled and nodded at me in that stupid dress. I felt sick. I realized I was alone and yet, even alone, I knew that I was right.
“What do you think?” the saleslady asked again.
“Well, I think it’s very pretty,” said Dad. “You look like a real big girl .”
“I don’t like it,” I mumbled.
“Is it too tight in the back?” the saleslady asked. “Because we can get a bigger size.”
“I . . . don’t . . . like it !”
Dad woke up from his haze. He looked confused and embarrassed. The saleslady’s smile was replaced by a tight-lipped smirk. Dad avoided her eyes and walked me behind the curtain with a firm hand. He pulled
French American required their students to wear a uniform of white blouse paired with a navy skirt or slacks. Since I had nothing like this in my wardrobe Dad drove us out to the Stonestown Galleria, the only mall we’d visit together. We wandered the circular racks of clothing in the children’s department as if in a maze. I click-clacked the hangers, observing the colors and textures with my fingers, while Dad occasionally examined the price tags with round eyes. We continued aimlessly until we were rescued by a saleslady with red hair and shiny teeth, who quickly sized us up as the clueless pair we were. Chatting up Dad, she learned everything about French American and their uniform. And of course, she made friends with me. “Entering first grade? That is exciting!”
She led us to the rear of the floor and into a dressing room with large mirrors and a heavy green drape you could pull back and forth across the ceiling. “I’ll be right back,” she said. Elevator music played as I jumped around looking at my reflection and Dad fidgeted with a pack of Carlton Regulars.
Our saleslady soon reappeared, arms stacked high with white and navy clothing. She pulled the drape closed, and with Dad’s help, I tried on everything. He zipped me in and out of polyester pants. He buttoned and tied ballooning blouses. He pulled vests and dresses over my head, and then yanked them off, my tangled hair getting caught in the buttons. Every few minutes the lady would return, always bringing more, then cheerfully removing what didn’t fit.
Then our saleslady returned, announcing she had something “ very special.” A manicured hand jutted through the dressing room curtain holding a sleeveless quilted blue jumper with a matching white blouse. “We just got this in last week!”
I stepped into the dress and my father fastened me up, struggling with each button in the back.
“How’re we doing there?” she asked.
“Almost,” my father answered. “There’s a lot of buttons.”
Dad stood behind me as I considered my reflection, then he pulled open the drapes so I could walk out. But my shoes were rooted to the dressing room floor. My eyes were focused on the girl in the mirror. On the front of my dress I could see a Holly Hobby look-alike wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet and a long dress similar in shape and style to my own. Except that this other girl was standing in profile and she was standing upside down.
Outside the dressing room I faced the red-haired lady uncertainly. A wide smile gripped her face. She turned to Dad for a reaction and then she turned to me. My apprehension must have been evident because without my saying anything, she said: “The girl’s upside down to everyone else, but when you look down”—she motioned me to look down—“she looks just right!”
I was still too young to doubt the lady openly, but I could tell that there was something off. The girl on the dress is upside down. This is the truth. There is no way to right her.
Looking at the saleslady’s shiny teeth and gums, I got a tight feeling in my stomach and turned to Dad. Surely he’ll point out the absurdity of the upside-down girl. He’ll take me out of here and return us to the Haight and maybe we’ll go to the Panhandle or to Mommy Fortuna’s for dinner. But Dad just smiled and nodded at me in that stupid dress. I felt sick. I realized I was alone and yet, even alone, I knew that I was right.
“What do you think?” the saleslady asked again.
“Well, I think it’s very pretty,” said Dad. “You look like a real big girl .”
“I don’t like it,” I mumbled.
“Is it too tight in the back?” the saleslady asked. “Because we can get a bigger size.”
“I . . . don’t . . . like it !”
Dad woke up from his haze. He looked confused and embarrassed. The saleslady’s smile was replaced by a tight-lipped smirk. Dad avoided her eyes and walked me behind the curtain with a firm hand. He pulled
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