Page 14 of Better Than Gelato
She stops and folds her arms across her chest. “Prove it.”
We step off the sidewalk into the grass, so we don’t hold up traffic, and I teach her the handshake I learned at gymnastics camp when I was thirteen. It has hand slapping, elbow bumps, toe taps and finger links. It’s legitimately awesome, and we practice it all the way home. By the time we take the elevator up, she’s actually smiling.
“Why do you keep tapping your hands like that?” she asks.
I look down and see my fingers beating against my thighs. I clasp them together to make them stop. “Sorry. I’ve got a date tonight, and I’m nervous. What do people wear to the theater?”
“Evening gowns.”
“Hmm,” I start tapping again. “I don’t have an evening gown.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you find the perfect outfit,” Isa promises.
Once inside she heads straight to my closet, dropping her backpack on my unmade bed.
“Show me your dresses,” she demands.
On the one hand, Isa recently learned to tie her shoes, and it feels ridiculous to take fashion advice from her, no matter who her father is. On the other hand, I’ve never been great with clothes, and Isa does seem like she knows a lot.
I pull out a yellow sundress with navy polka dots.
“Nope. What else do you have?” she asks with an imperious tilt of her chin.
I shake my head. “I have one other dress that I wore to my Aunt Marla’s funeral, but it’s terrible. My mom made me bring it in case I went somewhere fancy.”
Isa giggles, apparently delighted that I have a mom who bosses me around. Her smiling stops when I pull out a plum dress with a high neckline and a pleated skirt.
We both stare at it for a moment of tragic silence.
“Do you have a fancy skirt?” Isa asks hopefully. “That you could wear with a fancy top?”
I shake my head. “I have neither of those things. I have a denim mini skirt.”
“Is that the only skirt you have?” Isa asks.
“Yes,” I mumble.
Isa starts rummaging through my closet muttering something about “looking like a farmer at the theater.”
A farmer? Really?
I hear a muffled “Hey!” and then she comes out waving something on a hanger.
It’s a full-length romper made from silky black material.
“What about this?” she demands, like I’ve been holding out on her.
“You asked about dresses!” I say. “And also, I forgot about it.”
“It still has the tags on.”
“Yeah, my friend Maggie bought it for my birthday last year, but I never had anywhere to wear it. I threw it in just in case. I haven’t even tried it on. ”
It takes me and Isa a minute to figure out how to actually get into this thing. Isa spots a tiny zipper up one side, and I wiggle in and zip it up. The length is perfect, just skimming my feet, and it’s snug but not too tight in the bum and thighs.
“I think everything fits okay except the straps,” I say to Isa who is leaping from foot to foot with excitement.
“It looks really nice on you!” She doesn’t try to hide the shock in her voice, and I choose not to be offended by it.
