“Okay,” I said, “but we’re going right after school.”
“I’ll call my mother. I have her credit card. She’ll say yes, I’m sure. I haven’t bought anything new for a long time.” I didn’t say it, but I knew that was because she was hoping to lose weight.
Mama didn’t mind Chastity coming along with us. She was always hoping that I would have more of a social life at school and encouraged me to have friends.
I saw how she was eyeing the other girls around my age while she waited for us, checking out what they wore. I really didn’t have any stylish jeans or knit tops. The one-piece, drab-colored dresses I wore practically made me invisible. We went directly to the juniors section at Saks, and I began by trying on jeans. When I put on a pair with a tie-dye blue-and-white tunic in the dressing room and stepped out to show her, I saw the pride in Mama’s face.
“I didn’t realize what a beautiful figure you have already, Emmie,” she said. “You have a better figure at your age than your—”
She clamped her lips, her eyes watering with both pride and sorrow now. I realized that for the longest time, I had held back on being an active teenager, not because of any shyness but because I sensed that everything I would do and would want to do would stir up unpleasant memories of my sister for both my mother and my father. I knew that if Papa could keep me his little girl forever and ever, he would. Mama was caught between wanting me to do everything any girl my age could and should do, things she had done, and her sensitivity to Papa’s fears and emotions.
But whether or not it really was a result of my seeing Roxy beautiful and seemingly happy, I was suddenly experiencing a surge of feminine appetite. I, too, wanted to be beautiful, attractive, sexy, and buoyed by the same self-confidence I thought I had seen in Roxy.
Yes, I wanted clothing that would flatter my figure, a figure I had been keeping a secret, even from myself. Yes, I wanted my face to light up, use makeup to highlight my eyes and my lips. Yes, I wanted boys to notice me, really notice me, and not see me as part of the wallpaper or something. I wanted to be invited to parties, to go to friends’ houses to gossip and listen to music. In short, I wanted to be like most of the other girls my age and be more carefree after school and on weekends. I had never gone to a movie with a boy, held hands while we were walking, teased and excited each other with looks, caresses, and stol
en kisses. The truth was, I was ready to explode, and I was afraid that being kept so tightly under lock and key, I would reach too fast, try too hard, and, despite my caution, be more like Roxy than I intended.
“You should get three or four pairs of jeans,” Mama said. “And at least as many tops. We should do something with your shoes now, too, and then we’ll look at some dresses.”
Chastity, who had been fingering and sifting through a variety of garments, decided to try on a pair of jeans, but the saleslady said she had nothing in her size in the juniors section. She told her to go to the women’s section. I thought she would burst into tears, but instead, she chose a knit tank dress. I knew the girls at school would pounce on her and ask her if Omar the Tent Maker had made her new dress.
“That color doesn’t flatter you,” Mama told her, and got up to help her choose something that did more to flatter her figure.
I tried on a boat-neck knit dress with bat-wing sleeves. I knew I looked hot in it, but the hem was too high. Papa wouldn’t let me out of the house. Mama saw the pain of disappointment in my face.
“It will be our secret,” she said. “You look too beautiful in it to deny it.”
“Are you sure, Mama?”
“I’m sure,” she said.
Although Chastity was happy about the choices Mama helped her make, the envy in her face when she saw me modeling different things had an odd effect on me. I was no longer feeling sorry for her. I was angry. Why should I deny myself just to keep her happy? I thought. Let her lose weight.
I asked Mama to help me with some new makeup. Despite the way she dressed and lived now, I knew from old photographs that she had been a typical young French woman who cherished anything haute couture. Her clothing in all of the old photographs was stylish and sexy. She had been and still was a beautiful woman.
She knew just what I needed and promised to spend time showing me how to do my makeup so it wasn’t overpowering.
“As someone in Paris once told me,” she said, smiling at a memory, “your makeup shouldn’t create a new face but highlight the beauty that is in it already. And you have much beauty to highlight, ma chère,” she said.
Chastity listened and watched as Mama chose lipsticks, rouge, and some eye shadow for me. Chastity then bought everything I did. Mama helped her make the right choices, too.
When we were done, Mama said she would make an appointment with her hairdresser for me. “It’s time we had you looking your age,” she said with a firmness I knew she would have when Papa questioned her about anything. Chastity said she would be going to her mother’s hairdresser, too.
We took the taxi home, dropping Chastity off on her corner. I hugged my bags and boxes. For me, the afternoon was ten birthdays and Christmases all wrapped into one. When Papa came home, Mama told him about my jeans and blouses. She didn’t mention the dress or much about the makeup.
“We have to wean him into your maturity,” she whispered. “It will be all right.”
Papa looked at me with both pleased surprise and concern the next morning. I had my hair pinned up and wore a pair of blue crystal earrings Mama had loaned me. They were the first thing Papa questioned.
“Where did you get those?” he demanded. “You didn’t mention you bought her any jewelry yesterday,” he told Mama.
She shook her head. “I’m very disappointed in you, Norton. You bought me those earrings in France seven years ago for my birthday.”
“I did? Oh. Yes,” he said. His failure to remember put him on the defensive. He said nothing about the makeup I had on, nor did he complain about my jeans being too tight. “Well, okay,” he said just before he left for work. “You look very nice, Emmie. Be careful.”
Who else’s father would tell her to be careful because she looked nice? He did give me a kiss and a hug, which was something he didn’t do that often in the morning before he left for work. When I glanced at him, I thought I saw great sadness in his eyes quickly replacing his moment of joy. It nearly brought tears to mine.
After he walked out, I turned to Mama. She had seen his teary eyes, too. She smiled. “He’s losing his little girl,” she said.