By Callie Feyen
@calliefeyen

I am holding a dress the color of the fairest rose in my hands. It is delicate, I suppose, like a rose, though anything that grows tall and colorful in the world I think must have a strength that is by no means meek.

The dress is short, but it’s not fitted. It’s not forgiving, either. It’s not the kind of dress I feel swaddled in; that I have to wear uncomfortable underwear for. It fits like a glove. I feel good in it. Beautiful. It’s the kind of dress that makes me feel secure and free at the same time.

I am mindlessly running my hands down the fabric thinking about what it means to grow tall and colorful in the world, when Hadley walks into my bedroom.

“Ohhh,” she says, eyeing the dress. “That’s pretty.”

I am struck dumb. No time in the history of being alive has Hadley said something complimentary about a dress, especially one that I own. I would think she was joking except she’s eyeing it like she can imagine herself in it, and I realize she’s serious.

I think we might’ve reached the Lorelai-Rory Gilmore point in our relationship, when Hadley puts a hand on her hip, tilts her chin to the side, gives me a smile that comes straight from her father when he is doing his very best patronizing, and says, “Are you going to prom tonight?”

When I was in graduate school, we had to write these papers called, “Annotations.” They were short essays on how a book works. How does the author use setting to evoke? What does writing in the second person do to the narrative? In my 13-year-old daughter’s case—What role does comedy play in the story? How do Hadley’s words move the story forward?

First, it’s a jab at my age. My only opportunity to go to prom again will be as a chaperone, of which I will have to pass. I don’t even volunteer to go on my kids’ field trips, and there is no way I need to waste a therapy session working to unsee what I will see at prom. Here, Hadley is getting at the ridiculous, thus pointing out the suggestion and perhaps fact, that the days of my wearing this dress have passed.

Second, we are in a shelter-in-place, and so prom is literally out of the question. Saturday nights as we have known them do not exist. I’m not going to prom, out to dinner with Jesse, out with my friends. I’m not even going to Dairy Queen. Hadley’s using comedy to help me see and handle the truth, and the best thing about comedy is that it’s not tragedy. The story can still continue; it is not over. Really, Hadley’s doing me a favor.

“This is NOT a prom dress,” I declare to Hadley as she sits down at my vanity and looks at herself in the mirror. “Mmmmm, hmmmm,” she says, piling her hair into a perfect top knot that I want to yank out a little bit.

“My prom dress was electric blue and all sequins,” I say, and I say it with pride. Hadley looks at me with pity.

I cautiously stretch my arm out and hold the dress by the hanger, while Hadley fiddles with the caps of my various eyeliners. “These are all just different shades of grey,” she says.

“I like grey,” I mumble, surveying my dress.

This dress is my first book launch dress. My cousin Tara and I found it—ironically—in the prom section of Nordstrom’s. Tara pulled it out and suggested I try it on. I loved it once I was wearing it, but carrying it to the dressing room, its wispy, fairy-like material, its flirty ruching at the breast, I thought those days were over. Wearing it though, I realized I had another think coming.

Hadley pops the cap off a bronzer blush stick and twists the bottom to apply the make-up. She reminds me of when she was a toddler and would play with my make-up while I got ready in the morning. Back then, it was exploratory. She’d order the products large to small, or she’d categorize them. She would never apply anything. She used to say, “Hurt you,” while holding up eye shadow or mascara. She mixed her pronouns up, so what she meant was, “Hurt me.” She was afraid the make-up would hurt her.

Now, she isn’t afraid. She’s curious. And that curiosity is turning into expression.

***

A Prom Dress Memory: My date was a boy who was a year older than me, and who I’d gone to Prom with the year before, and since it’s always been difficult for me to let things go, he came back so that we could relive the evening.

And relive it, we did.

The evening was ending, and I was looking at the Chicago skyline holding my electric blue heels (to match my dress, obviously). My corsage was around my ankle, probably because it got in the way while I danced, and also because I thought it looked cool.

My date stood next to me. He wasn’t hovering. He was never demanding or possessive. That wasn’t his style, but that night, we both knew we had a conversation between us that needed to begin.

I didn’t want to go to college; didn’t want to leave the city, didn’t want to end whatever it was that was going on with this person who dressed up in a tuxedo for me so I could dance the night away when I knew he’d rather be golfing or fishing.

I loved Chicago, and maybe I loved this boy. I know I was done with all the failure school brought with it, and I wasn’t interested in pursuing more of that, but the real reason I wanted to stay and keep everything the same was because I was scared.

And being afraid of what’s next is not a good enough reason to stay.

***

A Book Launch Dress Memory:

It is hard not to feel like you’ve arrived when you step off a plane and into the late March California sunshine.

We were here to celebrate, these women I’d been writing with for a few years and who I called my friends. We’d written a book, and in a few days it would be in the world and so we put on fancy dresses, drank champagne, took pictures, and laughed and cried over what we’d just accomplished.

There was reason to celebrate, but this was a launch—a beginning. We celebrated in part because of what we’d done, but I think it was more because of what we believed we could do. We raised our glasses to our capabilities.

I was afraid then, too. My family had just made a move to a new state. I’d walked away—midyear—from middle school teaching. Both events felt like I was walking away from part of myself—from part of who I was—and I was terrified.

I am hoping though, that launching oneself into the world doesn’t necessarily mean you know where you’re going or what exactly will happen. I am hoping it means you can be afraid and unsure and sad, but also excited and curious and delighted in what it is you might become.

***

I hang my dress back in the closet, unsure if I’ll wear it again, but not quite ready to let it go. Perhaps it’ll serve as a reminder; as a motivator. I leave Hadley to herself, and head downstairs, keeping these stories for me, and understanding it is not Hadley I need to prove anything to.

Photo by Ashlee Gadd.