“That bad, huh?” Morgan says.

“You probably still have some growing to do.” Next she wraps the tape measure around my chest. I breathe in deeply to expand as much as possible, but she frowns. “Let’s be generous. You’re a size four.”

I grin, relieved. A big promotion from size zero!

“With strings, you can tie everything tighter anyway.” Her mouth twists around as she chews on that information. “We did have some.” Nose tapping again. “So much of our stock is gone now with the end of summer. Let me just see.”

The end of summer? It’s not even July, I think as we follow her to the rack at the back of the store. This store only sells beachwear. Are there back-to-school bathing suits coming soon?

She begins sliding the bikinis back, one by one, as she checks the tags. “No, no, no. Mmm, mmm, mmm.” Her lips fold over in a straight line. She pauses at a red two-piece with no tag and flips the fabric to find the label. “Here’s one!” She hands it to me, triumphant. “On sale, too! Forty percent off.”

I stare at the sunset-red scraps of cloth.

“Try it on.” Morgan gives me a shove toward the changing room.

What choice do I have? I step into a nearby stall and switch from my shorts into the swimsuit bottom, which ends just below my belly button.

Then I slip on the two triangles and tie the string around my neck. Oh great, how do I tie the back?

“How you making out?” the salesgirl calls.

“Morgan! Help me!” I open the lock with one hand while holding my top closed at the back with the other. She’s going to make fun of me; I can’t even dress myself. I step outside.

“Here, allow me.” The salesgirl reaches around my back and ties the strings up tightly. “You’re in luck. These tops look fab on flat girls.”

“Guess you would know,” Morgan says.

I want to hug her.

“You’d never catch them making clothes men can’t close themselves,” Morgan grumbles.

The salesgirl ignores her. “Dynamite colour for you! Fits nice, too.”

I look in the mirror. Gasp.

“Take it!” Morgan commands. “It looks great!”

I quickly change back into my clothes and carry the bikini to the counter.

“How much is it?” I ask.

“No tag, let me just check. They were a hundred twenty dollars …”

One hundred and twenty dollars!

“Less forty percent … that makes …”

“Seventy-two dollars before tax,” I tell her as she scans the calculations on her chart. For a couple of stretchy red scraps. “I’m sorry. I only have sixty.” Quickly, I take the stroller and push Luanne through the exit.

“You have to have that bikini,” Morgan hisses after me.

“You said it would cost forty dollars max!” I hiss back.

“Who cares? I’m going back to get it for you.”

Luanne begins waving the white stick of her sucker around, squawking again.

“You’re not stealing it,” I call, loud so she can hear me over Luanne’s noise. Heads turn toward us.