straight lines and gangly limbs.
She didn’t have a waist, and she didn’t have hips, and she didn’t have a bust.
Even her hair — dark and straight — paled by comparison to Cynthia’s wavy blond tresses.
“See?” Cynthia said. “We’re exactly the same height! So you can go to the fitting tomorrow, and I — ” Abruptly, she fell silent.
“You can what?” Joan had asked.
Cynthia smiled. “Never mind. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
So she went to the fitting instead of Cynthia, and Mrs. Fillmore had lowered the dress over her head, and she’d turned to look into a mirror, certain the dress would somehow transform her into as beautiful a creature as her sister.
It hadn’t.
Instead of seeing the fairy princess she’d let herself imagine — even hoped for — she was still the same gawky girl she’d been before.
“It’s just not your color,” Mrs. Fillmore had tried to reassure her, reading her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them out loud. “When it’s time for your prom, I’ll make you a red dress. It wouldn’t be right on Cynthia, but red will be perfect for you. You’ll see.”
Joan had made no reply, because even though she was only twelve, she was already sure no one would ever ask her to the prom. But she’d stood perfectly still, and Mrs. Fillmore hadn’t stuck any pins in her, and that night when their mother asked Cynthia how the fitting had gone, her sister lied so smoothly that even Joan almost believed it had been Cynthia who went to Mrs. Fillmore’s that afternoon.
And then the dress arrived, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper and packed into the gray cardboard box. And even though Joan knew she should wait until Cynthia got home and tried it on, she couldn’t contain herself. The unfinished dress had looked so beautiful that she could hardly even imagine what it must look like now.
The box drawing her like a magnet, Joan moved toward it, her fingers untying the string and lifting the lid almost of their own volition.
And then, from behind her, she heard her mother’s voice.
“What are you doing? How dare you touch that box!”
Joan spun around, her hands going behind her back as if to hide from her mother’s wrath.
“Useless!” her mother said, shoving her out of Cynthia’s room and closing the door so she couldn’t even see the box, let alone the beautiful dress inside. “What if you’d ruined it? What if you’d spoiled the most wonderful night of your sister’s life?”
* * *
BUT SHE HADN’T ruined the most wonderful night of Cynthia’s life.
And, despite what Mrs. Fillmore had promised, she’d never had a prom dress of her own.
“Useless!” she heard her mother mutter behind her. “You’re just as useless now as you ever were. I don’t know why I ever had you!”
I don’t either,
Joan thought.
I truly don’t.
But she said nothing, reminding herself once more that her mother didn’t mean what she was saying.
It will be all right,
she insisted to herself as she carefully hung the dress in the exact spot her mother wanted it.
I’ll get through this.
I’ll get through this, just as I’ve gotten through everything else.
But even as she repeated the reassurances to herself, she still heard her mother’s angry words echoing in her mind.
Useless . . . useless . . . useless . . .
* * *
BILL HAPGOOD GAZED down the fourth fairway of the granite Falls Golf Club course. The fourth hole had always been his favorite — the fairway ran 180 yards from the tee, then veered sharply to the right to proceed another 150 yards to the hole. There was a dense stand of forest to the right of the first run, and if you couldn’t control
She didn’t have a waist, and she didn’t have hips, and she didn’t have a bust.
Even her hair — dark and straight — paled by comparison to Cynthia’s wavy blond tresses.
“See?” Cynthia said. “We’re exactly the same height! So you can go to the fitting tomorrow, and I — ” Abruptly, she fell silent.
“You can what?” Joan had asked.
Cynthia smiled. “Never mind. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
So she went to the fitting instead of Cynthia, and Mrs. Fillmore had lowered the dress over her head, and she’d turned to look into a mirror, certain the dress would somehow transform her into as beautiful a creature as her sister.
It hadn’t.
Instead of seeing the fairy princess she’d let herself imagine — even hoped for — she was still the same gawky girl she’d been before.
“It’s just not your color,” Mrs. Fillmore had tried to reassure her, reading her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them out loud. “When it’s time for your prom, I’ll make you a red dress. It wouldn’t be right on Cynthia, but red will be perfect for you. You’ll see.”
Joan had made no reply, because even though she was only twelve, she was already sure no one would ever ask her to the prom. But she’d stood perfectly still, and Mrs. Fillmore hadn’t stuck any pins in her, and that night when their mother asked Cynthia how the fitting had gone, her sister lied so smoothly that even Joan almost believed it had been Cynthia who went to Mrs. Fillmore’s that afternoon.
And then the dress arrived, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper and packed into the gray cardboard box. And even though Joan knew she should wait until Cynthia got home and tried it on, she couldn’t contain herself. The unfinished dress had looked so beautiful that she could hardly even imagine what it must look like now.
The box drawing her like a magnet, Joan moved toward it, her fingers untying the string and lifting the lid almost of their own volition.
And then, from behind her, she heard her mother’s voice.
“What are you doing? How dare you touch that box!”
Joan spun around, her hands going behind her back as if to hide from her mother’s wrath.
“Useless!” her mother said, shoving her out of Cynthia’s room and closing the door so she couldn’t even see the box, let alone the beautiful dress inside. “What if you’d ruined it? What if you’d spoiled the most wonderful night of your sister’s life?”
* * *
BUT SHE HADN’T ruined the most wonderful night of Cynthia’s life.
And, despite what Mrs. Fillmore had promised, she’d never had a prom dress of her own.
“Useless!” she heard her mother mutter behind her. “You’re just as useless now as you ever were. I don’t know why I ever had you!”
I don’t either,
Joan thought.
I truly don’t.
But she said nothing, reminding herself once more that her mother didn’t mean what she was saying.
It will be all right,
she insisted to herself as she carefully hung the dress in the exact spot her mother wanted it.
I’ll get through this.
I’ll get through this, just as I’ve gotten through everything else.
But even as she repeated the reassurances to herself, she still heard her mother’s angry words echoing in her mind.
Useless . . . useless . . . useless . . .
* * *
BILL HAPGOOD GAZED down the fourth fairway of the granite Falls Golf Club course. The fourth hole had always been his favorite — the fairway ran 180 yards from the tee, then veered sharply to the right to proceed another 150 yards to the hole. There was a dense stand of forest to the right of the first run, and if you couldn’t control
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