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Authors: Marta Acosta
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into the sandwich, which was tastier than I expected.
While we ate, I watched customers in the long mirror on the wall. Three
teenage girls came into the store, arm in arm, giggling. They stopped when they
spotted Mrs. Monroe and exchanged whispers.
They were pretty, with shining, long hair, smooth skin, and perfect white
teeth. Two wore shorts and tank tops and the third wore a long gauzy white skirt,
lilac blouse, and a straw hat.
Mrs. Monroe spotted them in the mirror and the corners of her mouth went
up.
The girls approached in that friendly, yet wary way that you do with
people you like who have authority over you. “Hello, Mrs. Monroe,” they said in
unison.
“Hello, ladies. How has your summer been?”
Even though the girls tried to be subtle about looking at me, I was acutely
conscious of my hand-me-down clothes. They described their vacations in a
jumble of words, tumbling over each other’s sentences. One had been sailing, and
one had traveled to Italy.
The prettiest, the brown-haired girl in the skirt, had spent the summer in
Montreal with an aunt and uncle. She was as pale as the headmistress and I
caught a whiff of the same herby scent.
Mrs. Monroe said, “This is Jane Williams. She’ll be joining us this term.”
We all said hello awkwardly, knowing we wouldn’t say hello if not for
Mrs. Monroe. Their sharp eyes took in my shabby clothes and the shoe store bag
on the floor beside me.
“I won’t take up any more of your last precious minutes of freedom,” Mrs.
-49- The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta
Monroe said. “See you on Monday.”
When the trio drifted off to the cosmetics section, out of hearing, she told
me, “I know that it’s not easy to transfer for your junior year.”
“I’m sure it’s better than where I was,” I answered.
“I hope that you’ll find that we are more than merely the lesser of two
evils,” she said. “Let’s pick up a few basics for you.”
She took me to women’s clothing store with neatly folded stacks of
clothes and orderly racks of dresses and jackets. The price tags were tucked
inside the clothes. I unfolded a pair of jeans and the tag fell out, stunning me.
“Do you see anything you like, Jane?” Mrs. Monroe asked.
There was no way I was going to spend all my stipend at this overpriced,
old-lady store. “Not really.”
Mrs. Monroe quickly figured out way I hesitated. “One pays for quality,
Jane, and quality pays for itself in the end. The clothes are part of our gift to
you.”
That changed everything. I wasn’t going to turn down free clothes, even
boring clothes. Mrs. Monroe offered advice while I selected solid-color shirts, an
assortment of t’s, cami’s with straps wide enough to hide my scar, a black kneelength skirt, khaki cargos, and two pair of jeans.
Then Mrs. Monroe walked with me to the lingerie section and said, “You
should be stocked with a good supply of the necessities.” She picked out a dozen
pair of lace-trimmed cotton panties as well as navy knee-his and white crew
socks.
Then she looked at the bra display and said, “What’s your size?”
My face went hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know, ma’am.” I looked
down at the floor. “I don’t really need to wear a bra.” I’d begged Mrs. Richards
for bras, but she’d said I didn’t have anything to put in them and laughed an ugly
laugh.
Mrs. Monroe made a tching sound. “Young ladies should have proper
undergarments, and you are a young lady, Jane.” She called over a clerk and soon
I was in the dressing room and holding my arms out while the clerk used a
-50- The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta
measuring tape to find my size. “A very ladylike bosom,” she said, approvingly.
“There’s nothing there,” I complained.
The clerk grinned. “I have been fitting bras for twenty-five years and no
one ever thinks her breasts are good enough,” she said. “You’ll save yourself
While we ate, I watched customers in the long mirror on the wall. Three
teenage girls came into the store, arm in arm, giggling. They stopped when they
spotted Mrs. Monroe and exchanged whispers.
They were pretty, with shining, long hair, smooth skin, and perfect white
teeth. Two wore shorts and tank tops and the third wore a long gauzy white skirt,
lilac blouse, and a straw hat.
Mrs. Monroe spotted them in the mirror and the corners of her mouth went
up.
The girls approached in that friendly, yet wary way that you do with
people you like who have authority over you. “Hello, Mrs. Monroe,” they said in
unison.
“Hello, ladies. How has your summer been?”
Even though the girls tried to be subtle about looking at me, I was acutely
conscious of my hand-me-down clothes. They described their vacations in a
jumble of words, tumbling over each other’s sentences. One had been sailing, and
one had traveled to Italy.
The prettiest, the brown-haired girl in the skirt, had spent the summer in
Montreal with an aunt and uncle. She was as pale as the headmistress and I
caught a whiff of the same herby scent.
Mrs. Monroe said, “This is Jane Williams. She’ll be joining us this term.”
We all said hello awkwardly, knowing we wouldn’t say hello if not for
Mrs. Monroe. Their sharp eyes took in my shabby clothes and the shoe store bag
on the floor beside me.
“I won’t take up any more of your last precious minutes of freedom,” Mrs.
-49- The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta
Monroe said. “See you on Monday.”
When the trio drifted off to the cosmetics section, out of hearing, she told
me, “I know that it’s not easy to transfer for your junior year.”
“I’m sure it’s better than where I was,” I answered.
“I hope that you’ll find that we are more than merely the lesser of two
evils,” she said. “Let’s pick up a few basics for you.”
She took me to women’s clothing store with neatly folded stacks of
clothes and orderly racks of dresses and jackets. The price tags were tucked
inside the clothes. I unfolded a pair of jeans and the tag fell out, stunning me.
“Do you see anything you like, Jane?” Mrs. Monroe asked.
There was no way I was going to spend all my stipend at this overpriced,
old-lady store. “Not really.”
Mrs. Monroe quickly figured out way I hesitated. “One pays for quality,
Jane, and quality pays for itself in the end. The clothes are part of our gift to
you.”
That changed everything. I wasn’t going to turn down free clothes, even
boring clothes. Mrs. Monroe offered advice while I selected solid-color shirts, an
assortment of t’s, cami’s with straps wide enough to hide my scar, a black kneelength skirt, khaki cargos, and two pair of jeans.
Then Mrs. Monroe walked with me to the lingerie section and said, “You
should be stocked with a good supply of the necessities.” She picked out a dozen
pair of lace-trimmed cotton panties as well as navy knee-his and white crew
socks.
Then she looked at the bra display and said, “What’s your size?”
My face went hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know, ma’am.” I looked
down at the floor. “I don’t really need to wear a bra.” I’d begged Mrs. Richards
for bras, but she’d said I didn’t have anything to put in them and laughed an ugly
laugh.
Mrs. Monroe made a tching sound. “Young ladies should have proper
undergarments, and you are a young lady, Jane.” She called over a clerk and soon
I was in the dressing room and holding my arms out while the clerk used a
-50- The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta
measuring tape to find my size. “A very ladylike bosom,” she said, approvingly.
“There’s nothing there,” I complained.
The clerk grinned. “I have been fitting bras for twenty-five years and no
one ever thinks her breasts are good enough,” she said. “You’ll save yourself
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