“Perhaps.”
“You liked it,” Regan went on.
“That’s true.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you let me do it?” Regan cried.
“Do what?”
“Be popular!”
“Because it’s not my place to decide who you’ll be. You’ve gotta figure that out on your own.”
“God, you’re one of those parents,” Regan muttered.
“And proud of it,” Mrs. Walters replied.
Regan hopped into her walk-in closet and closed the door.
“Just stay right there, okay?” she called.
“Not going anywhere.”
Mrs. Walters waited patiently for her daughter to emerge. She suspected the fishnets would make an appearance, and Regan didn’t disappoint.
“Don’t say anything. Just take it in first, okay?” Regan asked, palms pressed against the door jamb.
Mrs. Walters nodded and narrowed her eyes. She scanned Regan from top to bottom, trying hard to suppress a sudden urge to cry. It seemed silly, but she saw a glimpse of her “loud” daughter—the one from long ago who was expressive, bright, and fun. Confident.
“I like the purple hair extension,” she said finally.
“Thanks.”
“In fifth grade, that outfit was radical,” Mrs. Walters went on.
“I know, right? Not so radical now,” Regan replied.
“Well, maybe not in other circles. But I suspect if you show up today in that, you’ll turn some heads. Have your friends asking what happened to you overnight,” Mrs. Walters said.
Regan nodded. “They’re, like, Ivy League.”
“That’s not Ivy League,” Mrs. Walters said, running her forefinger from the top of Regan’s head to her feet.
Regan chuckled and shook her head.
“And is that why you stopped dressing however you wanted?” Regan’s mom asked.
“You don’t get to make many choices for yourself when you’re running with the popular crowd.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Walters said. “Makes you wonder if it’s worth it.”
Regan was quiet.
“What’s that thing in your ear?” Mrs. Walters asked.
Regan turned to give her mom a better look.
“Isn’t it awesome? It’s an ear crawler.” She strolled over to her mom, kneeled in front of her, and pulled her ear forward. “See? Goes in like a regular earring and attaches at the top.”
Mrs. Walters fingered the spikey rhinestones that climbed the outer edge of her daughter’s ear.
“Interesting. And you just wear it in the one ear?”
“Yep.”
“Very punk.”
“Yep.”
“You think I could rock that?”
“Nope.”
Mrs. Walters laughed. “Stand back. Let me see something.”
Regan obeyed, moving her hands to her waist wrapped in a thin silver belt. Yeah, she belted her Jem T, and it did nothing but accentuate her already ample chest. It remained a mystery to Mrs. Walters how her twiggy daughter developed size DD breasts.
“Honey,” Mrs. Walters said tentatively. “Jem’s looking . . . oh, I don’t know. A little bloated, maybe?”
Regan looked down. “Huh?”
“Like maybe thirty pounds overweight.”
“What? Because of my boobs?”
Mrs. Walters nodded.
Regan immediately went on the defensive. “Mom! What do you want me to do about them? It’s not my fault!”
“Baby, I know it’s not your fault. I’m just saying that maybe you don’t need a belt. The belt just emphasizes them.”
“Are you for real right now?” Regan asked. “I totally have to have a belt!”
“But the boys, Regan . . .”
Regan waved her hand dismissively. “The boys don’t even look at me.”
“Yeah, right.”
Regan changed tactics. “Mom,” she pleaded sweetly, “it’s nothing without a belt. You know that. It’ll be a half outfit without the belt. You can’t let me go to school in a half outfit. That’s just asking for a bad day.”
Mrs. Walters sighed and nodded reluctantly. She continued her assessment, noting Regan’s completely unacceptable-for-school mini jean skirt. The purple fishnets helped, though. At least there were no bare legs to accentuate her hemline.
“Shoes?” her mother asked.
“I’ve got two options,” Regan said. “I could go casual with flip flops or make a bold statement with pumps.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Walters replied, aware that pumps would only make the skirt look shorter.
“Honey, isn’t there a dress code at school?”
“How do you mean?”
“Length of things,” Mrs. Walters said, eyebrows raised.
“My skirt?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s short?”
“Uh, you could measure it in millimeters.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re not gonna let me wear it?”
“Just a second ago you wanted me to make every decision for your life,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.
Regan huffed.
“How about skinnies and pumps?” her mom offered.
“Bleh.”
“Do you have a longer skirt?”
Regan stared, confused.
“You realize the position you’re putting me in?”
Regan’s full lips curled into a grin. Oh, she knew all right. And she didn’t feel a tad bit guilty for placing her mother there.
“Regan,” Mrs. Walters said, the exasperation evident in her voice.
“I’m short. And I’ll wear flip flops,” Regan said. “See? Instantly makes anything I wear look longer.”
“Oh, it does, huh?” her mother asked, unconvinced.
Regan nodded.
“And I’ll still get a call from the office,” Mrs. Walters pointed out.
“Maybe. But, Mom, I mean, isn’t it worth it?”
Regan’s phone buzzed—the five minute warning she set every school day. Five minutes to brush her teeth. Five minutes to find her books. Five minutes to make a quick change if needed.
Don’t make me change, Mom, she thought, eyes wide and pleading.
Mrs. Walters sighed. “Yeah. It’s worth it.”
Regan squealed and planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek. Mrs. Walters watched her rush out of the bedroom and listened as the front door slammed behind her.
She grinned. “Completely worth it.”