Nina rejoined them, carrying a pair of stack-heel wing tips in a shade of red commonly referred to as oxblood.

“Score!” she said happily. “Gladys is my secret source.”

Polly narrowed her eyes. “Why are we not the same size? I would rock those.”

Nina shook her head. “No, you’re too bohemian for wing tips.”

“You’re wrong, I could totally pull off sexy librarian.”

They started bickering back and forth, and Laura wandered off to peruse the racks. Polly was right; she loved bright colors and big patterns, but at her size they drew more attention than she was comfortable with. She daydreamed about everyone looking when she walked into a room, gasping at her wonderful outfit, amazed by this tall, gorgeous woman in six-inch heels, gazing imperiously over everyone’s heads . . . but even in her dreams she wanted them to go back to ignoring her after a minute or two. She remembered very clearly a middle school dance—Nick had been there, and the youngest of her brothers—where a friend had talked her into wearing a then-fashionable black furry coat, enormously fluffy and over the top. She had felt very glamorous in it, and walking through the snow in matching boots and a woolly hat, she’d appeared invincible. Several grown women had smiled encouragement at her, and once or twice she’d felt the eyes of young men on her and wasn’t sure what to do with her face. Middle school had been agony for a girl taller than many of the teachers, in a society that judges people on their package rather than their contents. She’d walked into the gym, looking around for her friends, and a gang of middle school boys had burst into laughter and pointed: Look, it’s a gorilla! Then they’d pretended to run away from her, screaming, and everyone’s laughter had followed her across the room and everywhere she went after that. Gorilla Girl became a nickname she hated, and the joke of people running away when she came around the corner got old pretty much instantaneously. It faded away in high school, only to be replaced by you’re tall enough to be a model (not, she always noticed, you’re pretty enough to be a model) or you must play basketball. Grown men assumed she was older than she was—or didn’t care—and approached her all the time, commenting on her height and scanning her up and down in a way that made her feel sick with confusion.

Polly and Nina sidled up to her, clutching a selection of funky T-shirts in bright colors. Nina also had some dark vintage jeans and a pair of chunky boots.