“Mom, look at this cool sweater! Can I get one?” the little girl exclaimed excitedly.
She impatiently tugged at her mother’s wrist when she didn’t look toward the desired piece of clothing even after several attempts.
The woman was on a long phone call. Eventually, the girl got tired of waiting. While her mother spoke with her secretary, she took a sweater off the rack and brought it into the fitting room.
After putting her phone in her bag, the mother glanced around uneasily. She couldn’t see her daughter anywhere. She wasn’t worried; she knew the girl was old enough not to wander off. She started looking for her. She went to the children’s section first, hoping she might be checking out the crop tops she’d been into recently. Not finding her there, she headed toward the accessories. The thirteen-year-old could easily spend ages among the jewelry and bags.
“She’s probably trying something on,” she thought and headed toward the fitting rooms.
She wasn’t bothered that her daughter had taken the initiative. She had taken her shopping, and she liked letting her choose for herself. Once or twice a year, usually in late spring and fall, she allowed her daughter to refresh her wardrobe. Her mother didn’t tolerate waste or unnecessary accumulation, but she wanted her daughter to feel comfortable in her clothes. As a child, she had been teased a lot for her shabby outfits, and she didn’t want her child to go through the same—especially not as a member of a much more outspoken, uninhibited generation.
“Well, how do I look?” the girl jumped out of one of the fitting rooms.
The sight made her mother’s knees go weak. She raised a hand to her mouth, and tears nearly welled up in her eyes. The sight shocked her, instantly and roughly taking her back to that cool morning in the high school courtyard when she was exactly thirteen years old.
The whole class had already gathered outside, but she lingered in the locker room, stalling for time. She didn’t want to go out. She was terrified. She took off her tracksuit and threw it to the ground. She’d rather go out without it; it wasn’t that cold.
But.
It was very cold, even in the unheated locker room.
The gym teacher wouldn’t allow her to exercise without a tracksuit. In fact, he would probably give her a failing grade. Especially her, since he didn’t like her because she was outspoken.
She picked up the shiny tracksuit made of synthetic fabric. She had never seen something so hideous before. The purple outfit with white spots looked like someone had splashed it with bleach. Holding back tears, she put the awful outfit back on. At least it was warm.
Who cares what kind of tracksuit she has? She just needed to endure forty-five minutes, ten of which she had already managed to delay. Besides, one of the boys had a worn-out, stretched-out tracksuit, and no one made fun of him for it. She calmed herself. Only that small voice in the back of her mind kept urging her to just take the failing grade instead.
“Come on already,” the teacher snapped as the girl timidly opened the locker room door.
She took a deep breath and walked toward the basketball court.
As she joined the class, an unstoppable, raucous, roaring laughter broke out. The boy in the worn-out tracksuit threw his head back, laughing with his mouth wide open.
She stood frozen, facing the line of students, her feet glued to the ground as she waited for the laughter to subside.
She shook her head and looked back at her daughter, who couldn’t understand her mother’s strange reaction.
“Don’t you like it? But it’s in style! Look, they have t-shirts and wide-leg pants with this pattern too! I think it’s so cool!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.
Cool. Oh, yes, indeed.
She paid, and they hurried out of the store. She hoped that by the next time they came around, all those purple-and-white splattered clothes would be gone forever.