“Do you need help?” I ask her.

“No,” she says, her arms raised and held tight above her head by the dress. She wiggles her shoulders to try and dislodge them, flails her bound arms, loses her balance, and falls over.

“Ooph!” I cry as she crashes into me on her way down and we come tumbling out of the changing room and land in a heap on the floor. My butt suddenly feels cold and exposed to the world.

I look at her on top of me, her head and shoulders stuck in the dress. I start giggling.

“What?” she says from inside the dress as I roll her off me. “Is there a problem?”

I accidentally let out a snort. Honey double-snorts back. We howl with laughter.

“Excuse me,” I say, pinching my nostrils to imitate the saleslady’s voice. “Excuse me, girls, but do your mothers know you’re here?”

“Girls,” a voice says sharply.

I look up—the saleslady is standing right over us.

Oh.

Um.

Oops.

My hand goes to my mouth before another snort can escape. The saleslady crosses her arms and taps her foot on the speckled carpet Honey and I are lying on.

“We’re allowed to be here!” Honey says from inside her dress.

“Then behave like it,” the saleslady snaps. I can’t see Honey’s face but mine sobers instantaneously.

I lead Honey back to the changing room and tug the dress off her. We try on the rest of our stuff, careful not to jab or even look at each other for more than a second in case we are tempted to start laughing again. Honey decides to get the red plaid shirt and jean skirt, and I get the sundress.

“It’s off-putting to the other customers for you to use this establishment as your playground,” the saleslady says tightly as she rings us up.

But when she hands me my purchase in a plain brown shopping bag, I clasp the handle firmly and feel emboldened.

“Thank you,” I say. “Because, like your other customers, we believe that buying vintage is a great way to reduce your carbon footprint.”

Honey elbows me in the ribs, and before the door has even finished jingling, we are laughing again, bumping into each other as we run down the street, our breath frosting and our navy plaid uniform skirts flapping against our knees.

An hour after Shabbat ends, I sail down the stairs, calling, “I’m ready!”

My parents drift into the front hallway from the kitchen, my dad holding his car keys.

“What on earth are you wearing?” my mother says.

“It’s vintage,” I say. “Like Aunty Steph wears.”

My mom narrows her gaze in disapproval. “Did she give it to you?”

“Kind of,” I lie.

“It looks like an apron.”

“Well, I think it looks cool,” I say, folding my arms in front of my chest.

“Our daughter is stating her need to begin emancipating herself from the influences and clutches of her parental units,” my dad says.