I’d finished buying the groceries and was driving home while angrily shoving chocolate into my mouth, which I knew I shouldn’t be doing. The fact that I had a slightly underactive thyroid meant that I was susceptible to weight gain, and the fact that I was a stress eater meant that I really knew how to pile it on. If gaining weight was an Olympic sport, I’d probably take home the gold medal. I just hoped the medal was one of those chocolate ones wrapped in gold tinfoil.
With each mouthful, I tried to push away the image of my mother pouting into the bathroom mirror in her underwear. But I feared that image had been forever burned into my brain. I would be on my deathbed, almost blind, and I would still be able to see my half-naked mother acting sexy in front of the mirror, and what was worse about the whole thing? My forty-five-year-old mother had a better bloody body than me! It was gross and disgusting enough imagining my dad having sex in a hot tub but now I had to imagine my mom on some dating site sending sexy pics to men who would probably send her you know what rhymes with stick pics back!
They were my parents, not some horny teens, and yet they were acting like it, and I really didn’t know what to do with the strange emotions that I felt when I thought about that. You’re not meant to think about your parents like that. I felt traumatized, hurt, and angry, and totally repulsed. There should be a new word for this emotion. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I needed to try to push it away, hence the chocolate.
I had my mother’s credit card on me and, if I was a bad teen, I would probably go and buy something really expensive that I didn’t even need just to get back at her for mentally and emotionally scarring me for the rest of my life.
I stopped at a traffic light and looked to my left, and there it was again. Calling out to me. Telling me that I should come and take a closer look.
You should come to the dance. . . . His words echoed in my head.
I parked my car and walked inside the shop. There was no one in sight. A staircase at the back of the shop caught my attention and I could vaguely hear someone upstairs. I moved straight over to the dress, the gold one, and when I was close enough, I ran my hand over it. The fabric was soft and luxurious. Cool to the touch. I reached for the hanger and pulled it off, and then, without thinking, walked over to the full-length mirror and held it in front of me. It was so beautiful, the way the light caught the material as it fell to the ground like melted, liquid gold being poured. It was so delicate-looking, like something special and fragile and rare. I wanted to buy it and hang it in my cupboard so I had something gold and shimmery to look at in the morning. This dress reminded me of Joburg at sunset, Maggie’s jazz café, and my favorite contemporary artist, Lina Iris Viktor, who used 24-karat gold leaf in her paintings. I tried to imagine what I would look like wearing it. I imagined myself inside one of Lina’s paintings—a goddess draped in real gold, staring back from the canvas with confidence and intensity, like she does. I looked over my shoulder at the staircase; the voice had stopped. I looked around the shop, still empty. On the street, no one was walking past. I bit my lip and looked over at the changing room behind me.
It probably wouldn’t fit me, though. I pulled at the material; it was stretchy. I glanced over my shoulder at the staircase one last time and then quickly made a beeline for the change room. I closed the curtain, pulled my clothes off as quickly as possible, lest I change my mind, and slipped the dress on. And then I turned and gasped.
I stared at myself and my heart started to break, piece by piece by piece. I looked terrible. I looked nothing like the imagined work of art I thought I would be. On me, the dress looked totally transformed. How had I taken something so beautiful and turned it into something so hideous? My throat tightened and I could feel the salty sting of tears creeping up into the back of it. My body had ruined this dress. I had ruined it.
“It’s not the right cut for your body type,” a voice said, and I swung around. There was a large crack in the curtain of the changing room and she was standing right there.
“Thembi!” I looked around to see if the other Ts were there, or worse, Amber.
“You left the curtain slightly open,” she replied in her signature deadpan way. She grabbed the curtain, and to my horror, pulled it aside, revealing more and more of me as I stood there feeling so uncomfortable in my skin. And even though I was wearing a dress, I felt more naked now than I had when Jake had seen my photo.
Thembi seemed totally unfazed, though. She looked me up and down and I wanted to melt into the ground. Vanish. I struggled to fight back the tears as she walked around me, scrutinizing every angle. “Is it for the dance?” she asked.
“No!” I said as quickly as I could. I didn’t want her thinking I was expecting to go to the dance and then wondering who was going to ask me.
“My father’s wedding!” It was the only thing I could think of.
“You’re too short to wear a long dress like this, you definitely need something that hangs just under your knee, it will be more flattering.” Her tone was still deadpan, and it gave nothing away of what she was thinking and feeling.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I finally managed to ask.
“I work here, on the weekend. I’m going to be a designer,” she stated matter of factly.
“Cool,” I said. Even though this wasn’t cool. There was nothing cool about the most gorgeous girl at school seeing me like this.
“I’m trying to get into the Paris School of Fashion Design,” she continued. “They only accept a few people each year. You have to be outstanding, so . . .” She shrugged, and suddenly looked slightly vulnerable. Her voice had taken on a tone I hadn’t heard before. “I want it so badly, you know?”
I nodded at her, but didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My mouth felt like it would no longer work, what with my tongue feeling ten times bigger than it usually was. I feared that if I opened my mouth and tried to form words that they would just come out slurred.
“The color doesn’t suit your complexion either,” she stated, her flat tone back. “You need a much more vibrant color. I would even go as far as saying you should wear red. Bright red, like your lips last night. Or maybe emerald green, complements your red hair.”
“Uh . . .” I took a step backward. I wanted to get out of here so badly. I wanted to run.
“A 1950s cut, maybe. Capped sleeves, cinched waist, very @fullerfigurefullerbust, that kind of thing. You’ve got a similar vibe to her,” she said, putting her hand on her hip.
Who the hell was @fullerfigurefullerbust?
I felt myself flush, and the prickle of self-consciousness made me sweat. I had to get out of this dress.
“Well, cool, I have to . . . uh . . .” I took another step backward, just as a phone delivered a loud ring. Thembi looked at the phone in her hand and then quickly looked back at me.
“I have to take this.” I nodded as she raised the phone to her ear and started talking.
“Yes, hi.” She spoke into the phone and I watched her intently. “Her dress is almost ready. I was just finishing some of the beading upstairs . . .” A pause as she listened. “I’ll go check quickly.” She rushed up the staircase and disappeared again, and the relief that washed over me was palpable. As fast as I could, I pulled the dress off, put my own clothes back on, and ran, tossing the dress on an ottoman as I went. As soon as I was out of the shop, the second my feet touched the ground, the tears came.