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was now staring at her with a pronounced frown. “Sanchez?” asked Mrs. Whittle. “You don’t look Mexican. I thought there might be some mistake in the paperwork and wrote it down as ’Sanders.’”
    So here it was again—to be humiliated because she looked like a gringa but had a Mexican name. “I amMexican.” Turquoise stuck her chin out stubbornly. “Does that make a difference?”
    “Uh, well, it’s just that we’ve never had one at our ball before.”
    “Well, now you do,” Uncle Trace snapped and buried his nose in the newspaper.
    Turquoise could almost feel the sudden coldness from the shop owner. She decided to ignore the glare because she was so excited and delighted with the shop. There were racks and racks of fine gowns, all fit for a fancy ball. Perhaps no one wore home-sewn dresses anymore.
    Mrs. Whittle gave her a smile that didn’t seem genuine and her voice dripped like ice water. “Now what did Mademoiselle have in mind?”
    “I—I don’t know,” Turquoise stammered. “I have no idea what the other girls will be wearing.”
    “Umm, understandable.”
    Was she being insulted? She looked over at her guardian, but he was engrossed in the paper. Turquoise abruptly felt like an ignorant peasant, a Mexican girl who had grown up on a ranch in the Texas hill country. She certainly didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She looked toward Trace but he had leaned back in his chair and was reading. He looked ill at ease in this most feminine of places.
    “Now,” said Mrs. Whittle, clasping her hands together, “let me help you pick out some gowns to try on. Does the senorita have a price in mind?”
    “I—I don’t know,” Turquoise stammered.
    “Give her anything she wants.” Trace yawned.
    The owner pulled a very bright, large-flowered dress from the rack. “Just perfect for a fiesta.”
    Turquoise blinked. Was that sarcasm in the lady’s voice? “This isn’t for a fiesta. I’m going to the debutante ball.”
    “The committee needs to be more careful,” Mrs. Whittle murmured.
    “What?”
    “Nothing, my dear.” Again the glib smile. “How about a bright color to go with your dark hair?” She began to pull dresses from the rack. There were many white and pastel ones, but the lady passed those by. “Here’s a purple one, a red one, and a turquoise one in silk.”
    Turquoise looked at them. “They seem a little bright.”
    “You’ll surely be noticed in any one of these gowns.” Mrs. Whittle smiled at her.
    They did seem a bit too much, but who was she to argue with a fashion expert like Mrs. Whittle? She wished she’d brought her friend Fern along, but after all, Fern had never been a debutante and wouldn’t be much help. “I think I’ll try these on. Are you sure this is what the other girls will be wearing?”
    “Of course. My own daughter, Maude, is a debutante and most of the girls got their dresses here.” Mrs. Whittle nodded. “Now I’ll help you into them and you can decide.”
    Trace let out a soft moan. “I presume we’ll be here all afternoon?”
    “Well, after all”—the haughty lady drew herself up to her full height—“this is the social event of the season here in Austin. All the best people will be there.”
    It looked for a moment like Trace would say something again, but Turquoise gave him a pleading look and he sighed and returned to staring at the ceiling.
    Turquoise took the dresses and went behind a screen. “Which one do you think?”
    “What about the bright red one?” Mrs. Whittle suggested and reached for it.
    “All right, if you think so.” She took off her pink dress.
    “Good choice!” The clerk helped bring the red dress up over her head. “You’ll really stand out in this one.”
    Turquoise looked in the mirror while Mrs. Whittle buttoned up the dress. “I don’t know. It seems so bright.”
    “I assure you, you’ll cause a stir in this one.”
    She didn’t want to cause a stir; she only wanted to be accepted by