The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “What do you think?”

  “Fabulous!” gushed the young assistant. Clearly, she was on commission.

  I knew the style would make her legs look shorter, and the burnt-orange color would make her already fair skin look paler than the pink inside of an abalone shell.

  “No.” I tugged the bikini out of Chloe’s grasp, replaced it on the rail, flicked through the hangers, and handed her a baby-blue two-piece with a high-leg cut, and another in a flattering soft coral. “These will work better with your body and your coloring.”

  “Yes, of course. I see it now,” said the assistant.

  Chloe tried on first one and then the other, declared herself gorgeous in both, and instructed me to choose for her.

  “The blue one, no question.”

  I snagged a large, floppy sunhat in natural straw off a nearby hat stand, tied a long, floaty scarf of palest turquoise around its brim, and popped the hat on top of her blond hair, leaving a flirty tail to hang down between her shoulders.

  “Hot or what?” I asked, stepping aside so she could admire herself in the mirror.

  “Tssss!” She burned a fingertip on the imaginary heat of her sexy shoulder.

  “Perfect!” The shop assistant clapped her hands in an ecstasy of anticipated commissions. “I’ll just ring those up for you.”

  It had taken us all of ten minutes. For normal-sized girls, clothes-shopping was a piece of cake.

  “Aren’t you going to look at the bikinis?” Chloe asked, slipping back into her shorts.

  “No.”

  “Why not? That one you’re wearing is looking a little worn. Just saying.”

  “Sure, but it has the advantage of fitting.”

  “There’ll be plenty of new ones here that fit you.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  ~ 5 ~

  “So, my shoulders and ribcage are wide,” I told Chloe, leading her to a rail at the back of the store. “Which means I always need tops in a bigger size. These swimsuits over here would fit my top, but I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.”

  “No, I see what you mean,” said Chloe, crinkling her nose at the few items on the rail — ugly one-pieces in muted colors, fitted with tummy- and thigh-disguising frills, and obviously intended for weighty women. “They’re grannytastic.”

  “With my long torso, they’d give me a serious camel-toe. And with these” — I pointed to a more fully stocked rail of smaller-sized bikinis — “the ones which would fit my butt, won’t fit my top.”

  “Now, I’m sure that’s not true,” the assistant said.

  She freed a bikini top from a hanger and hung the halter strap around my neck, then frowned at the cups which rested just south of my collar bones, nowhere near my boobs.

  I directed an I-told-you-so look at Chloe.

  “How about a boob-tube style top?” The assistant offered me the top half of a gorgeous bikini in a shimmering cobalt blue. “That way we wouldn’t have to worry about the …” She gestured vaguely to the distance between my neck and my nipples.

  “True, but we would have to worry about the …” I gestured to the circumference of my ribcage.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” The assistant gave it her best shot, but no amount of pulling or stretching could get the two ends of the back strap to meet.

  “Perhaps you should just go topless?” Chloe suggested.

  “Can we go now?”

  The assistant didn’t try to stop me leaving.

  “On the subject of clothing,” said Chloe, admiring the effect of her new hat in a store window as we strolled down the street, “for someone with such obvious good taste and fashion fundiship, you wear kinda boring stuff.”

  “Thank you, Chloe, that makes me feel fabulous.”

  “It’s true! You always wear the same old jeans and T-shirts. You could dress a whole lot better.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Several excellent reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, firstly, real style costs plenty. And as you know, my mother and I aren’t exactly swimming in dollars.”

  “Fair point,” she conceded.

  “Secondly, I keep my look kind of neutral because —”

  “Is ‘neutral’ another word for bland and boring?”

  “Because” — I elbowed her — “more dramatic clothes would only draw more attention to my height, and I get enough of that already, thank you very much.”

  “That’s a big, steaming pile of nonsense. You’ve got to own your height, stand tall and proud.”

  “Easy for you to say, Frodo.”

  “Ru-ude!” This time it was her turn to elbow me.

  “And fourthly —”

  “Thirdly,” she corrected.

  “Whatever. The main reason is that even if I wanted to wear something more stylish, it’s sure as pigs are made of bacon that I wouldn’t be able to find it in my size.”

  “More BS.”

  “That last store didn’t convince you?”

  “Swimsuits are hard for everyone,” she said. “But I reckon we could totally find something to fit your hot bod.”

  Although Chloe had been my friend forever, I only ever went clothes shopping alone so as to minimize the embarrassment. Maybe it was time to let her see for herself.

  “Come on, let’s start here.” She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me inside the largest fashion store in town.

  “They won’t have anything that fits,” I said in a singsong voice.

  “I don’t buy that.”

  “Oh yeah? Where did you shop when you were tall?”

  Chloe led me to a rack of extra-long tops in a variety of bold patterns.

  “These are great. You can wear it as a shirt over leggings, or” — she pointed to a nearby mannequin rocking the garment worn with only a pair of kick-ass boots — “you can wear it as a dress.”

  “You could. I can’t.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more no’s from you, Peyton. Your negativity is starting to give me irritable scowl syndrome.”

  “Fine, I’ll prove it.” I took one of the long tops and went into the fitting room.

  “So,” Chloe said from the other side of the stall door while I stripped. “How is your mom doing?”

  “Next question.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yes,” I said, and changed the subject. “Have you decided on your college major yet?”

  “I’m still leaning toward Economics. You?” Chloe said.

  “All I know is that I want to get away from home.”

  What I didn’t know was whether I’d ever be able to.

  I tried to wrestle myself into the shirt-dress, but couldn’t get it over my head. I searched for a zip at the neck, but found nothing.

  I flung it over the top of the fitting room door. “It’s too small.”

  “Are you sure? It’s an extra-large.”

  “I can’t even get it over my head.”

  “Here, try the extra-extra-large.” An orange garment patterned with yellow cubes came sailing over the door. “That’s the only color they have it in.”

  I yanked the top over my head to the sound of ripping stitches.

  “Ta-da!” I opened the door so she could see how the waist hung out way too wide from my sides.

  Chloe blinked at the enormous block of sunshine colors that was me.

  “Told you so,” I couldn’t resist saying. “When you get them extra-large, they always fit like a potato sack.”

  A pimply shop assistant, who’d come over to check the fit, said, “You’re too slim, that’s the problem.”

  “No, the problem is it’s too wide – the proportions are all wrong. You can’t just upsize a garment and expect it to fit tall people. And this one is still not long enough.”

  Chloe eyed the hem, which came to just below my lady parts, with wide eyes. “Oh. With tights, then.” She scurried off and returned with a pair.

  Not botheri
ng to return to the fitting room, I wriggled into the tights in front of her, grunting as I squirmed and tugged them up as far as they would go.

  “Oh,” she said again, this time more faintly, staring at the crotch which reached only midway up my thighs. “I see.”

  “Seeing is believing.”

  “I’m not giving up. You get back in there. I’ll bring you more to try on.”

  Under her direction, I tried on shirts, jeans and dresses. Hems were too short; tops were either so tight that I battled to breathe in them, or large as circus tents; waists were at my boobs, hips were at my waists, long sleeves weren’t, and one-size-fits-all didn’t. They never did.

  “For goodness’ sake,” said Chloe, sweating with the effort of running around the crowded store in an increasingly desperate attempt to find something — anything — that would fit, “let’s just take a hat!”

  I knew how this would end, too, but said nothing. Chloe pushed me down onto a stool and perched a succession of hats and caps on my head. The only one that came even close to fitting was a purple cloche hat in knitted cotton, and then only because she pulled and tugged it down with all her might.

  “There!” she said triumphantly.

  “It’s so tight, it’s going to squeeze my brains out of my ears,” I complained, tugging the hat off.

  “Don’t you have any hats in larger sizes?” Chloe asked the assistant.

  “Sure,” said the girl, smirking and pointing to the opposite side of the store. “In the men’s department.”

  Story of my life.

  “She’s not going to wear a man’s hat!” said Chloe hotly.

  Wearing men’s clothes was nothing new. The T-shirt I was wearing that very day hadn’t been purchased from the ladies’ section of Walmart.

  Hands on hips, Chloe rotated on the spot, searching for some type of garment we had not yet tried. Her eyes lighted on the display racks of shoes.

  “Huh?” she said, smiling in anticipation. “Huh?”

  “Stop right there.” I held up a hand to stem her enthusiasm. No type of shopping was more disappointing and frustrating, more freaking impossible for me than shoe-shopping. I needed to nip this in the bud. “Excuse me, miss?” I called across to the assistant. “What’s the biggest size you have in women’s shoes?”

  “The biggest?”

  “Yes, the biggest.”

  “A ten.”

  I turned back to Chloe. “There you go — at least three sizes too small.”

  “You don’t have any size thirteens then?” Chloe asked.

  “Size thirteen?”

  Was there an echo in here?

  “You want ladies’ shoes in a size thirteen?” the assistant exclaimed loudly.

  Several heads turned to see the giant female with the clown feet. I groaned.

  “No, I don’t think they even make women’s shoes that big. You might want to try in the men’s department.”

  “Believe me now?” I asked Chloe, marching her out the store.

  “I’ll admit I am feeling a little of your pain. Everybody wants to be tall and slim — you’d think it would be easier to find clothes that fit.”

  “The struggle is real.”

  “But surely there are places where you can shop online? Or go to a big-and-tall outfitters? And I’m sure I’ve seen tall clothing sections in some of the department stores back home.”

  “Those in-store tall ranges are made for women who’re five-ten, not six foot plus. The super-size outfitters are for big and tall, not big or tall. Their stuff is made for wider people. And online? It’s extra expensive, and that’s before shipping costs.”

  “Well, you’re not the only ones who have it hard. It’s got to be the same for super-short girls, right?”

  “Chloe, they can just take up a hem — I can’t grow extra fabric on the ends of my clothes. Besides, there’s a much wider range for petites. Extra-sized clothing is almost always old-fashioned and fugly, it’s never stylish or cute or trendy.” I frowned, made a circle with my hand, and said, “One does not merely walk into Topshop and demand a thirty-seven-inch inseam.”

  Chloe burst out laughing at my Boromir impersonation. “Okay, I believe you. Let’s check out this street. No clothing and no curio stores.”

  Antique Alley was a quiet side street lined with stores selling vintage and secondhand goods. Fearing another freak-out, I refused to go into any of the stores crammed with junk, but we enjoyed window-shopping and checking out the wares set out on tables on the sidewalk.

  Chloe bought herself an art nouveau teapot, and when she saw me admiring a pair of delicate silver earrings, she insisted on buying them for me.

  “They’re an apology gift, for dragging you into stupid souvenir stores and not believing you about the clothes,” she said. “I mean, you’ve complained before about getting jeans and shoes to fit, but I never realized it was that bad. Is it always like that?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is always like that. Frustrating and futile and embarrassing. Every. Single. Time.” I put the earrings on and tossed my head happily. Finally — something that fit me. “One day, when I’m queen of the world, I’ll assemble a royal fashion team of designers and dressmakers and the shoe-people. What do you call them?”

  “Cobblers?”

  “Yeah, cobblers! I reckon the only way I’ll ever get great-looking stuff that actually fits me properly is if someone makes it especially for me.”

  “Or if you make it yourself.”

  Chloe was laughing, but I wasn’t. I was staring at an object on a trestle table outside Forget Me Not Collectibles. If she’d said the exact same words while I’d been looking at the table of brooches and beaded handbags, or if I’d seen the shiny old object while she’d been talking about souvenirs or careers or lifeguards, I wouldn’t have made the connection. But those words coming at the exact moment when my eyes fell on this object made neurons fire wildly in my brain.

  Unless I make it myself.

  I tugged at the object, pulling it to the front of the table.

  “What is that?” Chloe asked.

  It was heavy and black, with the word Singer lettered in gold along the side, and an electric cord, complete with an old-fashioned plug, coming out of the back. At one end was a metal wheel, and at the other was a complicated arrangement of steel clamps, notched wheels, and a needle. Threaded through the needle was a strand of white cotton which led to a spool perched on an upright pin at the very top of the whole contraption.

  My mind was filling with so many possibilities that my head must surely be swelling beyond the fit of any hat on the planet.

  “This” — I stroked the curved lines of the beautiful old object — “is a sewing machine.”

  ~ 6 ~

  The school bus on the first day of the new semester was always crazy — yelled greetings and insults, flipped birds, paper missiles, spilled coffee, a cacophony of music played on cellphones, and a scramble for territorial dominance over the best seats.

  The bus driver eyed us all as though we were a bully-bomb ready to explode, and directed so many nervous glances back at the tumult via her rearview mirror, that I wanted to remind her to keep her eyes on the road.

  Chloe and I would’ve bypassed the first-day bus blues by walking to school as we often did, but it was raining, and the wind had a chilly edge. Fall was on the way.

  As usual, Chloe took the window seat while I sat on the aisle so I could stretch my legs out. She rummaged in her bag and brought out a packet of wrapped candies.

  “Want some?” she offered.

  “Thanks, but it’s a little early in the morning for me to start mainlining sugar.”

  She shrugged, unwrapped one of the treats, popped it in her mouth and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

  “Hey, so I’ve set up the sewing machine on the desk in my bedroom. I even fitted a new plug on it.”

  “How’d you know how to do that?”

  “Professor Google.”

  “Better keep an eye o
n it so you don’t burn down the house,” said Chloe. “I’m with your father when it comes to the safety of that ancient artifact.”

  My father had grumbled about transporting the heavy machine on the drive back to Baltimore, and repeatedly warned me against actually trying to use it, insisting, “The thing’s a damn fire hazard.”

  “Are you going to keep the mannequin?” Chloe asked.

  The antiques store had thrown in a dressmaker’s dummy for free. I’d hesitated before accepting, because not only would Chloe and I have to make the journey home with the heavy thing resting across our laps, but also because I didn’t like too many things messing up the streamlined neatness of my bedroom.

  “Yeah, I reckon I’ll need it if I’m going to give the sewing a serious go.”

  Chloe nodded, then half-turned in her bus seat to direct a withering glance at the boy behind us.

  “Hey, keep your fingers out of my hair, okay?” she said.

  “Sorry.” The boy had all the hallmarks of a freshman: too-neat clothes, a nervously bobbing Adam’s apple, a hand clenched tight on the back of our seat, and an overstuffed backpack — he’d brought all the books.

  “Don’t worry,” I tried to reassure him. “It’s not a bad school — you’ll be okay.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking pathetically grateful.

  “I’m Peyton, by the way. Senior.”

  “I’m Will, freshman.”

  “No kidding,” said Chloe.

  “And this friendly person is Chloe.”

  “Hi,” he said to the back of Chloe’s head.

  She was facing front again, working her way through the bag of candies.

  “Well, good luck,” I told Steve.

  “You’re very tall,” was his reply.

  “Really? She had no idea,” Chloe muttered beside me.

  “Do you play basketball? Or volleyball?”

  “No,” I snapped, turning my back on him, and slumping down in the seat.

  “And does it work?” Chloe asked me. “The antique sewing machine?”

  “Yeah! I tried it out on an old dishcloth, and it only got jammed twice. And that might have been my fault because I’m still learning how to use it. The instruction booklet that came with it is missing a few pages.”