The Deep End—S7¶
— Robyn —¶
✈️ 🕊️ 🌫️ 🌿 🌷 🪜 ☕ 🧠 💻 ꧁ 🪷 🌷 🌸 🌺 🦩 ꧂ 🧺 🔐 💼 💻 💎 🩱 🥻🫣 📒 🩸 ▶ 🔴 💞 —
😄 🧵 💛 👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 💧 🚺 ❤ 💖 —
Scene 7¶
1st Go¶
🌷 🌸 🌺 Visible 🌷 🌸 🌺
[ Charli ]
There was a knock at the door just as I pegged up the last towel. I turned, squinting into the light.
Brittany stood there in shorts and a fresh t-shirt, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She still looked washed out.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve decided you’re cheering me up.”
“Right-o,” I said. “What are we doing?”
Her mouth twitched.
“We’re going to a party. You and me.”
My shoulders began to rise. I winced.
"Pool party."
She nodded.
"Please no, Brit," I said.
"Oh, yes. Look, I'll be there, but this is important for you! You never learn to swim if you don't—"
"—get in the pool. Oh, I get it!"
She grinned and wiggled her brows
“Also,” she said, pointing at me as though she’d just remembered something important, “I’m not Brit.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I'm Brittany,” she said. “Only my parents call me Brit. I hate it, but they're my folks. So—”
“Right-o. Brittany.”
She nodded, satisfied. Then her eyes narrowed at me thoughtfully.
“And I’m not calling you 'Charli' anymore, either.”
I stared at her. “You aren’t? Why not?”
“Too blokey. It's not you.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “Charlotte.”
Heat touched my face. “Oh.”
“Much better,” she said. “Proper girl’s name. No confusion. Done.” She pursed her lips. "Go get your bag."
I knew better than to argue.
A couple of crows had started a shouting match when we reached her car. The door shut with a thunk, muting the crows to a distant squabble. We sat in silence for a moment, then I was startled by the car starting to move. I had been waiting for her to turn a key.
"You know," she said softly, "I sort of knew."
I didn't have to ask. I gave her a sidelong look.
"Charlotte, it was actually pretty obvious," she went on. "You did things… differently. Reacted… differently."
"For example?"
The trees gave way to houses. I looked out, then frowned at her.
"Going shopping, girlfriend," she replied. "Can't go to a pool party dressed like that."
"I thought you said it was casual."
"It's casual, not daggy. Can't wear work clothes every day."
My mouth twisted. Annoyingly, she had a point.
"We won't get you anything flash, just… nice."
"So, how did I react differently? React to what?"
She chortled.
"Well, when Natalie brought up 'pool party' you went all terrified. Not 'not in a party mood', not 'don't feel like swimming'. More like you were facing the gallows."
"I didn't!"
"That's right… you didn't. You didn't see your face."
I grimaced. "That obvious?"
"Tiny things. But there were enough of them that ‘tomboy’ stopped making sense."
"What do you mean?"
"Charlotte, there's a lot a girl lives in, crucial stuff, that you weren't exposed to. It shows." We turned onto a major four-lane road. “I reckon some of the others probably clocked bits of it too—”
I curled into myself. "No."
"Oi! Chill, girlfriend," Brittany said. Her tone was brisk. "Not the end of the world."
My head went into my hands.
"And if they ask why I didn't get a pair of togs when we went shopping—"
"Ever hear of 'Martha Monthly'?"
"Martha Mon—" I began and stopped—mouth open, eye wide. "Brittany, I can't!"
"Why the heck not?"
"Well, because—"
Did I really have to explain this?
"Charlotte, there isn't a girl alive that hasn't used that excuse, whether it was true or not. Just go with it."
—
She indicated and we turned into the car park. A large mall
—¶
Scene 7¶
rules for everything¶
👗 Rules for Everything 👗
[ Charli ]
There was a knock at the door just as I pegged up the last towel. I turned, squinting into the light.
Brittany stood there in floral print shorts and a black T-shirt, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She still looked a bit washed out.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve decided you’re cheering me up.”
“Right-o,” I said. “What are we doing?”
Her mouth twitched.
“We’re going to a party. You and me.”
My shoulders started to rise. I winced.
“Pool party.”
She nodded.
“Please no, Brit,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Look, I’ll be there, but this is important for you. You never learn to swim if you don’t—”
“—get in the pool. Yeah-yeah, I get it.”
She grinned and wiggled her brows.
“Also,” she said, pointing at me as though she’d just remembered something important, “I’m not Brit.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m Brittany,” she said. “Only my parents call me Brit. I hate it, but they’re my folks, so—”
“Right-o. Brittany.”
She nodded, satisfied. Then her eyes narrowed at me thoughtfully.
“And I’m not calling you Charli anymore, either.”
I stared at her. “You aren’t? Why not?”
“Too blokey. It’s not you, it's the Prince of Wales.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “Charlotte.”
Heat touched my face. “Oh.”
“Much better,” she said. “A proper girl’s name. No confusion. Done.” She pursed her lips. “Go get your bag.”
I knew better than to argue.
A couple of crows had started a shouting match by the time we reached her car. The door shut with a thunk, muting them to a distant squabble. We sat in silence for a moment, and then the car moved off so smoothly it startled me. I’d been waiting for her to start the ignition.
“Actually,” she said softly, “I sort of knew.”
I didn’t have to ask. I gave her a sidelong look.
"How?"
“Charlotte, it was really pretty obvious,” she went on. “You just did things differently. Reacted differently.”
“For example?”
The trees gave way to houses. I looked out, then frowned at her.
“Going shopping, girlfriend,” she said. “Can’t go to a pool party dressed like that.”
“I thought you said it was casual.”
“It’s casual, not daggy. You can’t wear what you'd wear to work, to a party.”
I pulled a face. She wasn’t wrong.
“We won’t get you anything flash. Or expensive. Just… nice.”
I frowned.
“So, how did I react differently? React to what?”
She chortled.
“Well, when Natalie brought up the pool party, you went all terrified. You weren't like: ‘not in a party mood’, or: ‘really don’t feel like swimming’. It was more like you were facing the gallows.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s right, you didn't,” she said. “You didn’t see your face.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “That obvious?”
“Yep. And, other things too. Tiny things. But there were enough of them that ‘tomboy’ stopped making sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Charlotte, there’s a lot a girl lives in—crucial stuff—that you weren’t exposed to. It shows.” We turned onto a major four-lane road. “I’m sure the others picked it up too—”
I curled into myself. “No.”
“Oi. Chill, girlfriend.” Brittany’s tone sharpened. “Not the end of the world.”
My head went into my hands. Pursed my lips.
“What if if they ask why I didn’t pick up a pair of togs when it's obvious we went shopping—”
She glanced at me sharply. “Ever hear of ‘Martha Monthly’?”
“Martha Mon—” I began, then stopped, mouth open, eyes wide. “Brittany, I can’t!”
“Why the heck not?”
“Well, because—” Did I really have to explain this?
“Charlotte, there isn’t a girl alive who hasn’t used that excuse, whether it was true or not. Just go with it.”
A familiar strain slid into my shoulders as we walked into the air-conditioned mall. I glanced at Brittany: she looked as though she'd already made several key decisions. We passed familiar department stores without so much as a glance at the sale racks out front. Brittany’s mouth had that firm set to it.
The shop we finally entered smelled faintly of timber fittings, a light expensive citrus, and that new clothes freshness.
Brittany moved to a rack with cotton tops.
"No." Flick.
"Nope." Flick.
"Not even."
She stopped at one top, rubbed the material between finger and thumb, looked at me and… flick.
She moved to a rack with dresses.
Glanced at me, then wordlessly flicked through dress after dress. Pulled a blue one out.
"Hold that."
Flick. Flick.
Pulled a rust-coloured one towards me. Held the skirt next to my face, and shook her head.
"Not your colour. I think you're either a summer, or maybe a spring."
My mouth went sideways.
"That matters, I guess?"
"Huge."
She pulled out a yellow dress with a flounced skirt, gave a small snort and stuffed it back.
Then: "Oh, this is lovely!"
She took a turquoise dress with cap sleeves and a square neckline off the rack, and draped it over my arm.
"How do you feel about salmon?" she asked.
"I prefer sardines."
I startled as she burst into peals of laughter.
"'Sardines' isn't a colour, you goose!"
"And 'salmon' is?"
She held up a pinkish dress, brows reaching for her bangs.
"Salmon."
With a tiny snort of my own, I took it. She pointed to the back of the store.
"Let's see how they look."
When I stepped out of the changing stall pulling down on the skirt of the turquoise dress, she shook her head.
"That's a no, right there."
"What?"
"You're pulling at the skirt. Which means that’d be your entire arvo — tugging at it. Solid no. Besides, I can see your bra through it.” Her mouth curved as my face heated at once. "Know what I mean?"
She greeted the salmon dress with a slight grimace.
"You look like you're about to ask whether anyone would care for a cup of tea."
"The colour?"
"No, the style. It’s the frock equivalent of Mom jeans. You look like a Boomer."
A bit later I stepped out in the blue dress, biting my lower lip.
"How do you do up a back zipper?"
"Here, let me."
She spun me around—lips pursed, eyes sharp.
"Yep. That's the one, Charlotte. That's you."
"But How am I going to get into it on my own?"
"There's a trick to it. But yes—that really works."
I pinched the material. It felt like the good repair jobs Mum used to give me: proper fabric, not rubbish. Then I looked at the price and felt my stomach sag.
"'Buy once, wear a lot' costs way less than 'buy cheap, only wear once'," she said. "You get what you pay for.
I changed back into my top and leggings. When I emerged, Brittany was examining the label. She handed me the dress.
"Try it on again."
I stared at her.
"It's not a costume."
"You don't buy a dress just because it's nice material and looks good in front of a changing-room mirror."
"Great. Now I get to struggle with a back zipper again."
"Want to know the trick?"
"There's a trick."
Brittany gave me a look.
“Of course there’s a trick. There’s always a trick. Half of womanhood is systems nobody bothers to write down.” She stepped over to the check-in counter and returned with a ribbon. Taking the dress from me, she threaded it through the hole in the zipper tab.
"Right. First, get the thing sitting properly, or the zip’ll fight you. Then pinch the fabric together a bit if it’s pulling. Smooth."
She finished threading the ribbon and handed the dress to me.
"Don’t yank it. You're not starting a lawnmower. If it sticks, stop and reset the fabric. Take your time."
She sounded like Mara in Wardrobe. Except, those were costumes with lacing and ties, not zippers.
Clearly, a dress was not just a dress.
When I stepped out again, Brittany pointed at a chair.
"Sit."
I sat. She shook her head, her lips crooked.
"You sat like you're about to ask for a beer."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, Charlotte. Stand up." I sighed, cheeks hot and stood.
"Watch."
She sat down herself in one smooth movement, one hand flattening the skirt behind her before she lowered herself onto the bench.
“See?”
I frowned. “You made that look, like, totally… rehearsed.”
“It is rehearsed. I’ve been a girl for twenty years.”
That made me snort despite myself.
“Right. Again,” she said.
This time I paid attention. I felt behind me for the skirt, lowered myself more carefully, knees together from instinct more than thought, then looked up at her.
She gave a slow nod.
“Better.”
Physics. I was back in Wardrobe. Looking down, I saw a skirt that had settle neatly. And then, became aware of how the fabric sat over my thighs. I shifted forward.
So did the neckline.
My mouth fell open.
The dress expected me to move in one line.
And avoid any careless ones.
Frowning, I stood and took a breath. Tried a few steps. Turned.
Sat again, this time as close as I could to the way Brittany had. Reached for an imaginary bag.
And felt the pulls, the resistance. The seams.
I stared at Brittany, wide-eyed.
She had folded her arms, her lips in a little pout, not unlike Mara.
"This is what I did in Wardrobe, Brittany."
"What's that?"
"Movement tests." I stood again, aware of how the dress moved. Sat down slowly, hands smoothing the back of the skirt slowly. "They're important. It's not just whether a costume fits, but whether a person can live in it. The actresses had to be able to lift, reach, fight off grabby hands, bend without falling out or splitting seams."
She nodded.
"Makes sense. So, you had to wear them for hours at a time?"
"Literally days." I stared at the skirt. "Kind of weird, really. In those costumes, they came with rules built in. You could feel them. A bodice told you how far you could twist. A full skirt with petticoats let you know how much room you were taking up. Especially if you start knocking milk-jugs over." I took in a breath and huffed. "And stays? They told you where your shoulder have gone. Kept you from hunching."
Brittany's lips twitched.
"Like: bossy."
"Yes, bossy," I agreed and then frowned again. "But this—"
I stood and turned, studying the line of the dress in the mirror.
"Different rules," Brittany said.
"It's actually harder, way harder," I said. "This is bossy because—" My lips went thin.
"Because it expects more of you."
I nodded slowly.
"Those costumes you tested told you the rules. Modern stuff expects you already know."
I puffed a sigh.
"Yes," I said. "That's exactly it."
I took in a deep breath: it failed to settle me.
This dress comes with designed-in expectations.
I swallowed.
It was comfortable enough, just standing there. Didn't pinch or drag or hold me in the way a set of stays would. But it seemed to presume a girl who already knew certain things.
How to sit.
How to lean.
How not to yank at a hem every five seconds.
How to move as though none of it needed thinking about.
I could feel the shape of the realisation settling.
I glanced over at Brittany. She was biting a nail.
"You're not in Wardrobe anymore, are you?"
I shook my head. "There, the costume teaches the body."
Brittany nodded once.
“And here?”
I let out a breath through my nose.
“Here, the garment expects the body to know.”
For a moment she looked at me with that sharp, measuring steadiness of hers.
“Welcome to literally every shop aimed at women under thirty.”
I snorted and smoothed the skirt again, more thoughtfully this time.
“There's something really wrong with that.”
“Maybe. But it’s also true.”
"That came out wrong," I said quickly. "It’s like women’s clothing assumes someone already briefed you. Can't just chuck on a dress like jeans and a t-shirt. It's completely different. A dress has rules."
"Exactly. Rules. Which is exactly why girls help each other in change rooms, bathrooms, cars, formal nights, everywhere. Because half this rubbish has to get passed along girl to girl, while fashion expect those rules to come preinstalled.”
I took a few more steps in the dress, then sat one last time, more naturally now.
Brittany watched, then gave a single nod.
“You got it. Much better.”
I looked up at her.
“You know,” I said, “I honestly thought modern girls’ clothes would be simpler.”
She laughed through her nose.
“No, Charlotte. Just less honest.”
Brittany took the dress off its hanger and marched it to the counter before I could start objecting on financial grounds.
“Brittany—”
“Don’t start.”
“I only said your name.”
“Yes, and I heard the budget speech lining itself up behind it.”
I followed her to the register, still hyper-aware of the ghost of the dress on my body—where the skirt sat, how the neckline shifted, the strange new fact that a modern frock could require more thought than a period costume and still pretend otherwise.
The sales assistant smiled. “Did we find the one?”
Brittany answered without hesitation.
“We did.”
I looked at the counter. “Apparently.”
The assistant folded the dress with unnerving neatness.
Brittany leaned one elbow on the counter and looked at me.
“You all right?”
I let out a breath.
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
I gave her a look.
She grinned.
The girl behind the counter told us the dress looked lovely on me. My face heated at once.
Brittany, of course, didn’t miss a beat.
“That’s because I picked it,” she said.
The girl laughed. So did Brittany.
I only smiled, but as she handed me the bag, I took it carefully. Not because it was expensive, though it was. Because it no longer felt like just a purchase.
“Congratulations,” she said as we turned towards the mall. “You now own one socially competent dress.”
Outside the shop, Brittany nudged my arm.
“Next lesson,” she said, “is how to get in and out of a car without flashing half of Queensland.”
I stopped dead.
“There are rules for that too?”
Her smile was tinged with serene pity.
“Charlotte. There are rules for everything.”
— …
Published¶
👗 Rules for Everything 👗
[ Charli ]
Just as I pegged up the last towel, there was a knock at the door. I turned, squinting into the light.
Brittany stood there in floral print shorts and a black T-shirt, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She still looked a bit washed out.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve decided you’re cheering me up.”
“Right-o,” I said. “What are we doing?”
Her mouth twitched.
“We’re going to a party. You and me.”
My shoulders started to rise. I winced.
“Pool party.”
She nodded.
“Please no, Brit,” I said.
“Oh, yes. You never learn to swim if you don’t—”
“—get in the pool. Yeah-yeah, I get it.”
She grinned and wiggled her brows.
“Also,” she said, pointing at me as though she’d just remembered something important, “I’m not Brit.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m Brittany,” she said. “Only my parents call me Brit. I hate it, but they’re my folks, so—”
“Right-o. Brittany.”
She nodded, satisfied. Then her eyes narrowed at me thoughtfully.
“And I’m not calling you Charli anymore, either.”
I stared at her. “You aren’t? Why not?”
“Too blokey. It’s not you, it's the Prince of Wales.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “Charlotte.”
Heat touched my face. “Oh.”
“Much better,” she said. “A proper girl’s name. No confusion. Done.” She pursed her lips. “Go get your bag.”
I knew better than to argue.
A couple of crows had started a shouting match by the time we reached her car. The door shut with a thunk, muting them to a distant squabble. We sat in silence for a moment, and then the car moved off so smoothly it startled me. I’d been waiting for her to start the ignition.
“Actually,” she said softly, “I sort of knew.”
I didn’t have to ask. I gave her a sidelong look.
"How?"
“Charlotte, it was really pretty obvious,” she went on. “You just did things differently. Reacted differently.”
“For example?”
The trees gave way to houses. I looked out, then frowned at her.
“Going shopping, girlfriend,” she explained. “Can’t go to a pool party dressed like that.”
“I thought you said it was casual.”
“It’s casual, not daggy. You can’t wear what you'd wear to work to a party.”
I pulled a face. She wasn’t wrong.
“We won’t get you anything flash. Or expensive. Just… nice.”
I frowned.
“So, how did I react differently? React to what?”
She chortled.
“Well, when Natalie brought up the pool party, you went all terrified. You weren't like: ‘not in a party mood’, or: ‘really don’t feel like swimming’. It was more like you were facing the gallows.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s right, you didn't,” she said. “You didn’t see your face!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “That obvious?”
“Yep. And, other things too. Tiny things. But there were enough of them that ‘tomboy’ stopped making sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Charlotte, there’s a lot a girl lives in—crucial stuff—that you weren’t exposed to. It shows.” We turned onto a major four-lane road. “I’m sure the others picked it up too—”
I curled into myself. “No.”
“Oi! Chill, girlfriend.” Brittany’s tone sharpened. “Not the end of the world.”
My head went into my hands.
"Don't worry, Charlotte. They all love you. And they will all love the new dress you'll be in."
My head snapped to her.
“Wait. What if if they ask why I didn’t pick up a pair of togs when we picked up the dress—”
She glanced at me sharply. “Ever hear of ‘Martha Monthly’?”
“Martha Mon—” I began, then stopped, mouth open, eyes wide. “Brittany, I can’t!”
“Why the heck not?”
“Well, because—”
Did I really have to explain this?
“Charlotte, there isn’t a girl alive who hasn’t used that excuse, whether it was true or not. Just go with it.”
A familiar strain slid into my shoulders as we walked into the air-conditioned mall. I glanced at Brittany: she looked as though she'd already made several key decisions. Brittany’s mouth had that firm set to it.
We passed familiar department stores without so much as a glance at the sale racks out front. The shop we finally entered smelled faintly of timber fittings, a light expensive citrus, and that new clothes freshness.
Brittany moved to a rack with cotton tops.
"No." Flick.
"Nope." Flick.
"Not even."
She stopped at one top, rubbed the material between finger and thumb, looked at me and… flick.
She moved to a rack with dresses.
Glanced at me, then wordlessly flicked through dress after dress. Pulled a blue one out.
"Hold that."
Flick. Flick.
Pulled a rust-coloured one towards me. Held the skirt next to my face, and shook her head.
"Not your colour. I think you're either a summer, or maybe a spring."
My mouth went sideways.
"That matters, I guess?"
"Huge."
She pulled out a yellow dress with a flounced skirt, gave a small snort and stuffed it back.
Then: "Oh, this is lovely!"
She took a turquoise dress with cap sleeves and a square neckline off the rack, and draped it over my arm.
Flick.
Flick.
Finally, she stopped at another dress.
"How do you feel about salmon?" she asked.
"I prefer sardines."
I startled as she burst into peals of laughter.
"'Sardines' isn't a colour, you goose!"
"And 'salmon' is?"
She held out a pinkish dress, brows reaching for her bangs.
"Salmon."
With a tiny snort of my own, I took the pinkish—salmon—dress. She pointed to the back of the store.
"Let's see how they look."
When I stepped out of the changing stall pulling down on the skirt of the turquoise dress, she shook her head.
"That's a no."
"Why?"
"You're pulling at the skirt. Which means that’d be your entire arvo—tugging at it. Solid no. Besides, I can see your bra through it.” Her mouth curved as my face heated at once. "Know what I mean?"
She greeted the salmon dress with a slight grimace.
"You look like you're about to ask whether anyone would care for a cup of tea."
"The colour?"
"No, the style. It’s the frock equivalent of Mom jeans. You look like a Boomer."
A bit later I stepped out in the blue dress, biting my lower lip.
"How do you do up a back zipper?"
"Here, let me."
She spun me around—lips pursed, eyes sharp.
"Yep. That's the one, Charlotte. That's you."
"But how am I going to get into it on my own?"
"There's a trick to it. But yes—that really works."
I pinched the material. It felt like the good repair jobs Mum used to give me: proper fabric, not rubbish. Then I looked at the price and felt my stomach sag.
"'Buy once, wear a lot' costs way less than 'buy cheap, only wear once'," she said. "You get what you pay for."
I changed back into my top and leggings. When I emerged, Brittany was examining the label. She handed me the dress.
"Try it on again."
I stared at her.
"It's not a costume," I said.
"You don't buy a dress just because it's nice material and looks good in front of a changing-room mirror."
"Excellent. Now I get to struggle with that back zipper again."
"Want to know the trick?"
"There's a trick."
Brittany gave me a look.
“Of course there’s a trick. There’s always a trick. Half of womanhood is systems nobody bothers to write down.” She stepped over to the check-in counter and returned with a ribbon. Taking the dress from me, she threaded it through the hole in the zipper tab.
"Right. First, get the thing sitting properly, or the zip’ll fight you. Then pinch the fabric together a bit if it’s pulling. Smooth."
She finished threading the ribbon and handed the dress to me.
"Don’t yank it. You're not starting a lawnmower. If it sticks, stop and reset the fabric. Take your time."
She sounded like Mara in Wardrobe. Except, those were costumes with lacing and ties, not a dress with a zipper.
Clearly, a dress was not just a dress.
When I stepped out again, Brittany pointed at a chair.
"Sit."
I sat. She shook her head, her lips crooked.
"You sat like you're about to ask for a beer."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, Charlotte. Stand up." I sighed, cheeks hot and stood.
"Watch."
She sat down herself in one smooth movement, one hand flattening the skirt behind her before she lowered herself onto the bench.
“See?”
I frowned. “You made that look… like, totally rehearsed.”
“It is rehearsed. I’ve been a girl for twenty years.”
That made me snort despite myself.
“Right. Again,” she said.
This time I paid attention. I felt behind me for the skirt, lowered myself more carefully, knees together from instinct more than thought, then looked up at her.
She gave a slow nod.
“Better.”
Physics. I was back in Wardrobe. Looking down, I saw a skirt that had settle neatly. And then, became aware of how the fabric sat over my thighs. I shifted forward.
So did the neckline.
My mouth fell open.
The dress expected me to move in one line. And avoid any careless ones.
Frowning, I stood and took a breath. Tried a few steps. Turned. Sat again, this time as close as I could to the way Brittany had. Reached for an imaginary bag. And felt the pulls, the resistance. The seams.
I stared at Brittany, wide-eyed. She had folded her arms, her lips in a little pout, not unlike Mara.
"This is what I did in Wardrobe, Brittany."
"What's that?"
"Movement tests." I stood again, aware of how the dress moved. Sat down slowly, hands smoothing the back of the skirt slowly. "They're important. It's not just whether a costume fits, but whether a person can live in it. The actresses had to be able to lift, reach, fight off grabby hands, bend without falling out or splitting seams."
She nodded.
"Makes sense. So, you had to wear them for hours at a time?"
"Literally days." I stared at the skirt. "Kind of weird, really. In those costumes, they came with rules built in. You could feel those rules, too. A bodice told you how far you could twist. A full skirt with petticoats let you know how much room you were taking up. Especially if you start knocking over milk-jugs." I took in a breath and huffed. "And stays? They told you where your shoulders have gone. Kept you from hunching."
Brittany's lips twitched.
"Like: bossy."
"Yes, bossy," I agreed and then frowned again. "But this—"
I stood and turned, studying the line of the dress in the mirror.
"Different rules," Brittany said.
"It's actually harder, way harder," I said. "This is bossy because—" My lips went thin.
"Because it expects more of you." I nodded slowly. "Those costumes you tested told you the rules," she continued. "Modern stuff expects you to already know."
I puffed a sigh.
"Yes," I said. "That's exactly it."
I took in a deep breath: it failed to settle me.
This dress comes with designed-in expectations.
It was comfortable enough, just standing there. Didn't pinch or drag or hold me in the way a set of stays would. But it seemed to presume a girl who already knew certain things.
How to sit.
How to lean.
How not to yank at a hem every five seconds.
How to move as though none of it needed thinking about.
I could feel the shape of the realisation settling. I glanced over at Brittany. She was biting a nail.
"You're not in Wardrobe anymore, are you?"
I shook my head. "There, the costume teaches the body."
Brittany nodded once.
“And here?”
I let out a breath through my nose.
“Here, the garment expects the body to know the rules.”
For a moment she looked at me with that sharp, measuring steadiness of hers.
“Welcome to literally every shop aimed at women under thirty.”
I snorted and smoothed the skirt again, more thoughtfully this time.
“There's something really wrong with that.”
“Maybe. But it’s also true.”
"That came out wrong," I said quickly. "It’s like women’s clothing assumes someone already briefed you. Can't just chuck on a dress like jeans and a t-shirt. It's completely different. A dress has rules."
"Exactly. Rules. Which is exactly why girls help each other in change rooms, bathrooms, cars, formal nights, everywhere. Because half this rubbish has to get passed along girl to girl, while fashion expects those rules to come preinstalled.”
I took a few more steps in the dress, then sat one last time, more naturally now.
Brittany watched, then gave a single nod.
“You got it. Much better.”
I looked up at her.
“You know,” I said, “I honestly thought modern girls’ clothes would be simpler.”
She laughed through her nose.
“No, Charlotte. Just less honest.”
Brittany took the dress off its hanger and marched it to the counter before I could start objecting on financial grounds.
“Brittany—”
“Don’t start.”
“I only said your name.”
“Yes, and I heard the budget speech lining itself up behind it.”
I followed her to the register, still hyper-aware of the ghost of the dress on my body—where the skirt sat, how the neckline shifted, the strange new fact that a modern frock could require more thought than a period costume and still pretend otherwise.
The sales assistant smiled. “Did we find the one?”
Brittany answered without hesitation.
“We did.”
I looked at the counter. “Apparently.”
The assistant folded the dress with unnerving neatness. Brittany leaned one elbow on the counter and looked at me.
“You all right?”
I let out a breath.
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
I gave her a look.
She grinned.
The girl behind the counter told us the dress looked lovely on me. My face heated at once.
Brittany, of course, didn’t miss a beat.
“That’s because I picked it,” she said.
The girl laughed. So did Brittany. I only smiled, but as she handed me the bag, I took it carefully. Not because it was expensive, though it was. Because it no longer felt like just a purchase.
“Congratulations,” she said as we turned towards the mall. “You now own one socially competent dress.”
Outside the shop, Brittany nudged my arm.
“Next lesson,” she said, “is how to get in and out of a car without flashing half of Queensland.”
I stopped dead.
“There are rules for that too?”
Her smile was tinged with serene pity.
“Charlotte. There are rules for everything.”
¶
¶
