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She’d gotten to each of her classes early, introduced herself to theteacher ( Olivia Larsen, I’m new here; nice to meet you = 9 words x 5 classes = 45 words), said, “Excuse me,” when she’d stepped on somebody’s toe, rushing on her way to AP Calculus (two words), muttered a curt and hurried, “Hey,” when she’d spotted Miles in the courtyard (one word), and smiled tightly when she’d clumsily bumped into the mysterious, green-eyed skater boy in the hall (zero words).
She’d been slowly unpacking since she got off the bus, starting with the boxes full of her favorite books and collection of tattered journals. But the new bookshelves her father was supposedly building were still in pieces in his shop in the basement, and she hadn’t felt much like writing in her journal lately. She’d moved on to the unopened boxes of clothing, stuffing sweaters into the bottom drawers of the clean, white armoire her mother had picked out at Pottery Barn. The last thing she wanted to think about was finding a dress for the stupid cocktail event tomorrow night, mostly because she didn’t want to go, but also because her collection of formal wear, recently unfolded and draped on a few sad wire hangers in the closet, was officially pathetic.
There was the thick, strapless gown she’d worn to the sophomore semiformal, which had made her feel glamorous at the time, but weighed about two hundred pounds and was way too fancy for the office. There were a few flowery cotton sundresses, sleeveless and not at all appropriate for any place other than the beach. And of course the mauve taffeta number she’d worn as a junior bridesmaid in her cousin Lorelei’s wedding, with puffy sleeves and a high, cinched waist that had made her feel like an Oompa-Loompa on the one occasion she was forced to wear it.
Olivia groaned and fell back onto her bed, covering her face with a pillow.
Shopping had been Violet’s number one extracurricular. When Olivia and her mother had gone through Violet’s things, even they had been astonished to discover the amount of clothing she’d managed to amass over the years. She hadn’t been a spree-shopper, coming home weighted down with bags from Saks or Nordstrom. It was all done piecemeal—a soft cotton tunic from that little boutique in Wellesley Center; a pair of enormous sunglasses from a flea market in Harvard Square; the vintage Pucci dress she’d found in a Somerville consignment shop and was planning on wearing to the junior prom…
It was smooth satin, almost liquid to the touch, and swirled with bright concentric circles. It had originally been astronomically expensive, but had been marked down to just within her budget because of an enormous, side-baring tear at the zipper.
Violet didn’t care. She’d had to have it, claiming that a seamstress would be able to fix it, no problem. But she’d never gotten the chance to find one.
Olivia sat up on her bed, her feet landing heavily on the carpet.
The dress.
Slowly, she stood and walked across the room to the door in the corner. Before she had time to change her mind, she took the knob in her hand and turned it, pulling the creaky door open and stepping inside.
The room was flooded with hazy sunlight and stale, trapped air. There was no furniture, only the windows, the built-inlove seat, and a sad row of boxes against the far wall. Olivia held her breath and walked purposefully toward the boxes. She knelt beside them, running her hands along the masking tape.
Carefully, afraid of making a sound, Olivia pulled back the cardboard flaps. Her nostrils immediately tingled at the familiar scent, a mix of sea salt and strawberry-kiwi shampoo.
She plunged her hands into the first box, digging around pairs of cowboy boots and metallic ballet flats. The second box was accessories, mostly chunky charm necklaces and printed scarves. It was in the third box that she found the dress, folded neatly near the top.
She let her fingers graze the soft,
She’d been slowly unpacking since she got off the bus, starting with the boxes full of her favorite books and collection of tattered journals. But the new bookshelves her father was supposedly building were still in pieces in his shop in the basement, and she hadn’t felt much like writing in her journal lately. She’d moved on to the unopened boxes of clothing, stuffing sweaters into the bottom drawers of the clean, white armoire her mother had picked out at Pottery Barn. The last thing she wanted to think about was finding a dress for the stupid cocktail event tomorrow night, mostly because she didn’t want to go, but also because her collection of formal wear, recently unfolded and draped on a few sad wire hangers in the closet, was officially pathetic.
There was the thick, strapless gown she’d worn to the sophomore semiformal, which had made her feel glamorous at the time, but weighed about two hundred pounds and was way too fancy for the office. There were a few flowery cotton sundresses, sleeveless and not at all appropriate for any place other than the beach. And of course the mauve taffeta number she’d worn as a junior bridesmaid in her cousin Lorelei’s wedding, with puffy sleeves and a high, cinched waist that had made her feel like an Oompa-Loompa on the one occasion she was forced to wear it.
Olivia groaned and fell back onto her bed, covering her face with a pillow.
Shopping had been Violet’s number one extracurricular. When Olivia and her mother had gone through Violet’s things, even they had been astonished to discover the amount of clothing she’d managed to amass over the years. She hadn’t been a spree-shopper, coming home weighted down with bags from Saks or Nordstrom. It was all done piecemeal—a soft cotton tunic from that little boutique in Wellesley Center; a pair of enormous sunglasses from a flea market in Harvard Square; the vintage Pucci dress she’d found in a Somerville consignment shop and was planning on wearing to the junior prom…
It was smooth satin, almost liquid to the touch, and swirled with bright concentric circles. It had originally been astronomically expensive, but had been marked down to just within her budget because of an enormous, side-baring tear at the zipper.
Violet didn’t care. She’d had to have it, claiming that a seamstress would be able to fix it, no problem. But she’d never gotten the chance to find one.
Olivia sat up on her bed, her feet landing heavily on the carpet.
The dress.
Slowly, she stood and walked across the room to the door in the corner. Before she had time to change her mind, she took the knob in her hand and turned it, pulling the creaky door open and stepping inside.
The room was flooded with hazy sunlight and stale, trapped air. There was no furniture, only the windows, the built-inlove seat, and a sad row of boxes against the far wall. Olivia held her breath and walked purposefully toward the boxes. She knelt beside them, running her hands along the masking tape.
Carefully, afraid of making a sound, Olivia pulled back the cardboard flaps. Her nostrils immediately tingled at the familiar scent, a mix of sea salt and strawberry-kiwi shampoo.
She plunged her hands into the first box, digging around pairs of cowboy boots and metallic ballet flats. The second box was accessories, mostly chunky charm necklaces and printed scarves. It was in the third box that she found the dress, folded neatly near the top.
She let her fingers graze the soft,
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