Open My Eyes

{Ch. 9} Compost and Caramel ✓

          There had been a total of three times in my life so far when I had been embarrassed about my sense of fashion. One, my teacher had pointed out tomato sauce on my shirt and kids kept pointing at it the rest of the day—for which I couldn't really blame my fashion sense (although, I did wear a shirt similar to the tomato-stain shirt on a weekend). The second, I had convinced a classmate I wore a Spirit Week outfit—Spirit Week not being for another two months. And the third, my ex-boyfriend said he refused to acknowledge me in public on a date because of the outfit I sported.

Today marked the fourth time.

When I'd spun about in front of the mirror at home, I considered the dress beautiful: pressed flowers sewn into thick fabric of teal, with a high-neck, illusion neckline—a project over last winter break. I had tied my hair back into a bun, accented with flower pins to match the dress. I wore teal ballet flats to complete the ensemble. I looked like a garden.

But according to the whispered exchange I'd accidentally overheard, I looked more like compost.

I grasped an empty champagne flute in my hand, which had held sparkling cider at one point. I kept my eyes fixed on the artwork rather than the people, who shoved their noses toward the ceiling and gave everything the stink eye. They didn't drink their wine with their pinkies in the air, to my surprise.

I paused in front of a series of metal sculptures. The plaque on most of them read "Sarah Fuller," my mother's pseudonym. I had gotten lost in a maze of twisting iron (it was supposed to be a circus, but I had trouble picturing it) when the artist herself approached me.

"What do you think?" she asked, wrapping her arm around my waist and beaming at the piece named Cirque Nouveau – Spinoff.

"For this one," I gestured to the hunk of metal, "I think your artistic vision is above me."

Mom laughed. "Everyone's a critic."

I gave a slight smile, picking at a pressed daffodil by my thigh.

"Everything okay, sweetie?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah." I sighed, setting my champagne glass down on a nearby table (where food and liquids were allowed). "Mom, is this dress weird?"

She stood back to survey me, lips pursed. "I think it's very elegant. Appropriate for an art gallery too."

"And apparently reminiscent of the week's vegetable compost." I crossed my arms, shoulders near my ears.

Mom gave me a side-hug and rubbed my arm. "You are beautiful, Angie. And if this were a catwalk in Milan, everyone would be applauding that outfit."

"Those outfits scare me." I glanced at her with puppy eyes.

She chuckled. "I rescind my statement then. Honey, you've always just done your own thing. Why are you letting these higher-than-thou art snobs get to you?"

"Because I'm not twelve anymore."

She kissed my forehead. "You're not grown up either. You don't need to grow up yet. How's this. How about you head to the shop down the street and stuff your face with salted caramel ice cream?"

"You'd really be okay with that?"

"I can handle these snobs on my own." She patted my side and flashed a gentle smile. "Go. It's a Saturday night. You should be having fun."

"Thanks, Mom. I love you."

"Love you too."

And so I went to the ice cream shop in my compost dress.