I felt hushed. I felt smothered. I felt suppressed and . . . ignored. Not just by my parents and their expectations, but also by me. I’d been ignoring myself. I’d been ignoring my own wishes and hopes.
So instead, I decided to feel motivated, determined, ready, and . . . excited.
I was excited, ready to find my spirit.
***
Burgundy nail polish on day one and they didn’t bat an eye.
No makeup on day two and my father did a double take, but said nothing.
Wearing my hair in a bun on day three earned me several disapproving looks from my mother, but no reprimand.
However, the black dress I wore on day four for my fake date with Billy—
“What do you think you’re wearing?” my mother asked from the doorway to my room, her hands on her hips, her brow pulled together in a severe frown.
I glanced at myself in the mirror. I still liked the black dress with the scoop neck, capped sleeves, and lace band around the hem. I especially liked it with my hair pulled back, like it was now, and the black pointy heels I’d bought for the occasion yesterday after work.
“It’s a dress,” I said with a shrug, sitting on the edge of my bed and pulling on my new shoes.
I didn’t know how it was possible, but her frown intensified. “First that awful nail polish and now this? It’s indecent.”
I wrinkled my nose at her; the spike of irritation I felt at her words meant I had to force calm into my voice. “Because it’s black?”
She huffed. “I do not need to explain myself. You will not wear that. You will wear the dress I laid out for you. Scotia called me yesterday, said she saw you at the mall. I guess now I know why you were there.”
I glanced at the yellow dress she’d placed on my bed. The three-quarter length sleeves, the high collar, the wide skirt that fell to my calf.
I wasn’t going to wear it. And if she didn’t like it then, well, that was just too damn bad.
I lifted my eyes to my mother, met her frown with one of my own. I wasn’t immune to her disappointment. The look she was giving me smarted, made my heart twinge with guilt, made my hands a little sweaty. But, as I realized yesterday, these looks were a daily occurrence, no matter what I did. I could never satisfy her and I was no longer satisfied with always doing as she liked. It was just a dress. But it was my dress, and it wasn’t indecent. It was pretty and I liked it and there was no reason—no reason at all—for me to change.
I shook my head and balled my hands into fists on my lap. “No, Momma. I’m not going to wear a yellow dress.”
She huffed again. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester, you are trying my patience. I do not like being spoken to—”
“Now, Diane, leave her alone.” My father’s voice sounded from down the hall and I heard his footsteps approach. Soon he was also in the doorway. He gave me a quick once-over and nodded. “She looks really good. Hopefully he’ll be concentrating on the way she looks so she doesn’t have to talk so much.”
I swallowed the rising bitterness at my father’s implied insult, determined to ignore it rather than pretending it was a compliment.
My mother’s mouth opened and her eyes bugged out. But she didn’t get a chance to speak because the doorbell rang, announcing Billy’s arrival.
I felt a little flutter of excitement, but it wasn’t because of Billy or the date. I didn’t fancy Billy that way, but I did hope we could be friends. The flutter was entirely because of the dress. I was going to walk out of the house wearing this black dress, these black shoes, and go to the jam session. I might’ve been a tad overdressed for the jam session and community center, but not for a dinner date with the town’s most eligible bachelor. It felt as though it was my first time in public as myself.
And, yeah, I was damn excited.
Before my mother recovered, I grabbed my shawl, slipped past my parents, and strolled down the hall to the front door. I heard their hushed voices behind me; my mother’s was furious, my father’s was exasperated.
I ignored them and opened the door.
Billy Winston—in all his tall, dark, and handsome glory—turned; a polite smile affixed to his features, and then he promptly gaped.
“Jenn?” he asked, like he didn’t recognize me.
I grinned, feeling a little self-conscious, but still excited. “Hi.”
His eyes moved down, then up, then down again. “You look—”
“Billy Winston, such a pleasure.” My momma appeared next to me, a brittle smile on her face. “Why don’t you come in for a bit?”
My father appeared a moment later, reaching forward to shake Billy’s hand. In the next moment he pushed me out the door.
“No, no. We don’t want to keep you. You kids should get going.”
“But—” My mother moved to reach for my hand; my father blocked the attempt by placing his arm over her shoulders and holding her in place.
“Go on. Have fun. See you later.” He waved, then shut the door.
Billy stared at the door for a moment, then focused his eyes on me. I shrugged. He appeared to be either bewildered, or amused, or both. But he recovered quickly.