Useless Dresses

It’s cold here.

Snow started falling an hour after we arrived in Manhattan from Baltimore, and has continued to mound up in piles in our yard since. It fell relentlessly from the gray sky, freezing windows and caging us inside—like some horrible housewarming gift.

We arrived at the oversized and overstuffed house two days ago; just in time to prevent the electrical fire that our malfunctioning heater tried to stir up. The mechanic won’t be here until tomorrow. My family resorted to watching TV huddled around a crackling fire, heating up soup and chili in the microwave for meals. I spent most of my time unpacking.

I’d tried to join them yesterday, after it became too cold for unpacking anything more. But I stopped myself—the three sat so cozily without me. They looked like a normal, happy family—the same ocean eyes, the same thick dark hair, the same tanned skin. I looked like an outsider without Mom. I was too skinny, too tall, too pale, with too many freckles covering my face and arms. My head burst with frizzy curls, colored like a too-ripe tomato. Brown eyes—just brown. Not hazelnut, or coffee, or chocolate or russet. Just brown.

So I couldn’t bring myself to join them. I didn’t want to smudge that perfect portrait. It made me miss Mom.

Today, I kept completely to my new room, snuggled up in my heaviest comforters, reading some ancient book I forgot to return to the library in Baltimore. I still don’t know what it’s about. The English was too old, the topic out of fashion. It made me distracted. Denny stopped by my room once or twice, inviting me to watch a movie downstairs with them. I felt too caught up in my own thoughts to accept the invitation, and I still didn’t want to break their perfect image.

I leaned against my mattress—the mahogany bed hadn’t been put back together yet—and ran my fingers through the new plush carpet. I unpacked most of my possessions yesterday, and the only box still closed sat by my side. I couldn’t bring myself to pack it away again, and unpacking it was out of the question. Just the thought made my insides jump.

“Whatchya doing?” Bobby peeked through my open door, melting snow dripping from his clothes and hair. “Wanna come outside and get more wood to burn? Daddy said we’re almost out.”

“Looks like you’ve already been out collecting,” I wrinkled my nose at the growing puddle forming around my little brother’s feet.

“But Dad said I had to stay in the backyard. There’s a lot more sticks in the front yard. You have to come, or the whole family will freeze to death!” Bobby swung up his arms, watering the fake plant that sat down the hall.

“Emmy won’t go with you?” I asked, a little desperate. The prospect of going outside did not sound anything like exciting. I liked snow, I really did—at least when I could watch it from inside. Bobby, being 10 years old, liked snow to dig in and build with and throw at passing cars.

I hated to see Bobby playing alone in that cold. We didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood yet, and Bobby had so many friends back in Baltimore. He was friendless here. I saw the loneliness in my social brother’s eyes.

“Emily threw a spoon at me,” Bobby said, his body language losing some of its enthusiasm. The past months made Emily hostile, though she wasn’t the biggest ball of sunshine before then. She began high school this year—she started school early, and wouldn’t turn 14 until summer vacation. Her self-consciousness made her the perfect picture for teenage angst.

“Ah,” I sighed, placing down my book. “And Dad?” I knew I was just stalling.

“He says his back’s sore from unpacking.”

“Of course it is.” I massaged my temples for a few seconds, contemplating the consequences of leaving the perfect cocoon I made for myself. Then I flung all the blankets off me at once—like ripping off a Band-Aid—and met the chilled air like a soldier.

“Why are you making that face?” Bobby giggled beside me.

“Let’s go,” I muttered without answering him. I grabbed my boots and coat from the closet, searched for my gloves for a whole of five seconds, gave up, and trudged downstairs and into the snow with Bobby at my ankles.

“School’s tomorrow,” Bobby sat heavily on the remnants of our snowman. He’d tackled Mr. Snowcone immediately after I put the finishing touches on him. Boys. “Do you think the kids are mean here?”

I laughed at my little brother, patting some snow off his hat. “Why would you think that?” Bobby shrugged under my hands. “Kids are just kids, Bobby. You’ll make friends the minute you step into that school, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know,” the boy squirmed, covering his face slightly as the falling snow picked up.

“Hey, you’re Bobby Beaumont. If they don’t fall for your mad charm—” I pinched his freezing cheeks. “Just show them how smooth you are with a soccer ball. That’ll get ‘em.”

He grinned up at me finally, after spending several moments with a worried look plastered on his young face. “I am pretty good, aren’t I?”

While Bobby tumbled inside to dry off, I stood on the porch alone for an extra moment. The snow barreled down in heaps now, and I wondered if this was normal for Manhattan, or if our presence created a beast in the sky.

I exhaled deeply, watching as my breath fogged and floated up towards the heavens. It never quite made it there, disappearing right above my head instead.

Tomorrow.

The word whispered through the air around my head, silent but foreboding. Tomorrow was the day I started loving myself, the day I started giving everyone a reason to love me. The word felt heavy on my shoulders, yet light around my head and in my chest. It represented everything I’d been preparing for. It was the scariest word I hoped to ever hear. So I decided to leave it outside in the frosty air, returning to my book and my unfinished room.