Page 17 of Bad Habit
“It looks like a dress an old lady would wear to a funeral.” Sister Henry put her hands on her hips—a sure sign she was serious.
I turned toward the mirror and realized she was right. The garment hung nearly to my ankles, and although the neckline covered my chest, the bodice of the dress was so baggy it was possible I’d fit into it twice. Maybe three times.
“Perhaps I can postpone the date. I could take this in a bit.” I gathered a handful of fabric at the back. It revealed my waistline. Shocked at the sight, I dropped the fabric.
“Cancelling would be rude,” Sister Henry said. “Your mystery man has probably made plans, reservations at a restaurant or something.”
I chewed my bottom lip. I did not want to be rude. Especially not to Mac. I liked Mac.
“Listen.” Sister Henry touched my forearm. “The whole point of this date is to experience something ‘normal.’ You can’t go out dressed like you’re Amish.”
“Amish?”
“It’s a Christian denomination. Mennonite?”
I shook my head.
“They came to America from Germany… Never mind.” She rolled her eyes like she always did when something came up I should know. “You can’t go dressed like you’re already a nun.” She pulled a dress from a nearby rack. “How about this?”
She held out a scandalous garment. Dark red, low-cut. And made from a stretchy fabric that would reveal every inch of my shape. Shaking my head, I backed toward the change room.
“Okay, okay.” Holding it out, she tipped her head to the side. “Baby steps. You stay here and I’ll find a few options.”
“Thank you.”
Sister Henry was one of the kindest people I’d ever known, and if I lived to be a hundred and twenty I didn’t know how I’d be able to show her enough gratitude.
Awaiting her return, I stared at my reflection. Mother claimed mirrors promoted vanity—one of the deadly sins—and standing here, looking at the shiny surface, I’d probably seen more of myself today than in my entire life.
I considered my skin—so pale—hair almost white, eyes icy blue. It wouldn’t take a detective to guess my ethnic roots were Norwegian. Mother had been pale, too, but not to such an extreme. Father must have been blond, too.
I turned to the side, then back, scrutinizing my image. Was I pretty?It was vain to even wonder, but today was an experiment in living a normal life, and normal twenty-two-year-olds looked in mirrors and wondered these things, didn’t they?
I’d confess to my vanity before evening Mass.
My stomach fluttered. After our date, would I have other things to confess? What if Mac wanted to kiss me? Would l let him?
Tonight was meant to be a real date, the only date of my life, so I needed to have the full date experience. If the night was destined to end in a kiss, well then, the night would end in a kiss. In fact—I smiled at myself—if Mac didn’t kiss me, I might kiss him.
My cheeks pinked, and I brought my fingers to my lips. How would that feel—a kiss?
As my fingertips circled, desire built between my legs and stirred in my belly. To think I’d gone so many years suppressing any hint of these feelings. The burning and aching felt so sinful, but hadn’t I given myself permission for a day of sin?
“Here.” Sister Henry stepped into the reflection, partially hidden behind a huge pile of dresses in a rainbow of colors, some with bright sparkles that shone under the florescent lighting.
She pushed past me and through the curtain, dropping the clothes on the wooden bench. “There. You’ve got at least a dozen choices. One of them is bound to work.” She straightened, hands on her back. “Now, start trying them on. I’ll be outside, and I expect to see every one.”
By the eighth dress I was finding itslightlyeasier to step past the curtain and risk being seen by someone other than Sister Henry. Even having my friend see me was a challenge for the first few dresses, which skimmed my shape and revealed more skin than I’d let anyone see since the age of four. The age when Mother taught me to bathe and dress by myself.
“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Sister Henry clapped her hands against her cheeks as I stepped from behind the curtain.
I turned to look in the mirror and gasped. It was hard to recognize myself. The fabric of this dress was thick enough that I didn’t feel naked, but was shiny and soft and almost the same color as my eyes. My arms and shoulders were bare, but the straps holding the dress didn’t look fragile—or in danger of breaking like some of the others—and the neckline draped down in a series of semicircles that shimmered and disguised my breasts. Hints of my nipples had shown through some of the other dresses. Unacceptable.
“It’s not too short?” I looked down at my legs, my gray socks and black shoes looking out of place under the hem that barely reached past my knees.
“No, it’s perfect. We just need to find you a pair of shoes and…” She pulled up close to my ear. “Let’s buy you razor and shave those legs.”
I shook my head.
