A Party Suit
It’s not my own suit so it really shouldn’t matter. I’m just borrowing it. And it’s just for a costume party. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t fit me. That the shoulder pads extend far past mine. That the blue lapels almost reach my belly button. That it steals my body from me.
Except… I really wish it did fit me like I was made for it.
I’ve paired it with a shiny black belt and shoes stolen from my brother. They’re black, too, but used enough to have small white scratches. They’re bigger than any shoes I’ve owned, toes so long every step slaps against the ground, loud and unforgiving. I have to wear three layers of socks so my feet don’t slip out but it’s better than my bright white sneakers or heels. It goes with the outfit. It’s the one rule of men’s fashion, to match the belt and shoes.
So I do. Even though it’s just a costume party. A tiny slip of paper pulled from a scratchy santa hat. I really didn’t want to stick my hand in it. I knew I would itch for the rest of the day but I did. And then I unfolded the crumpled piece of paper: Mr. Thomas.
Our one teacher who wears a suit every day. Even on spirit days.
The obvious choice was to wear my dad’s old suit and my brother’s shoes and stare at myself in a mirror too skinny to hold this big silhouette I’ve gained.
The pants had to be pinned. We didn’t have time to hem them. Paired with thick socks, I move stiffly. An immovable inhuman object.
My stomach keeps flipping. It’s a restless creature. It curls to the edge of my skin like it’s trying to touch the stiff fabric. I like the way it holds my neck, my waist. My chest.
“Maddy! You ready?”
Yes, technically. No, not really. Not emotionally. I don’t peel my eyes away from the mirror. I keep staring at the corners of me. The pieces. If I focus on just the small little sections, I can pretend it fits. That it looks good. Almost stylish.
“Just a sec!” I put my hands into my pockets as I say it, like I could be on the cover of some masculine magazine.
It feels like a mean trick, looking at myself like this. Some weird possibility. But also proof of how far away I am. I’m not made for this suit. I’m not built properly. I like it and I hate it. I want it and I want to run.
If I was quick, I could throw on my fanciest skirt. I could say I was just genderbending him. The girl version of too formal. I could steal my mom’s pearls.
The door squeaks. Liz’s head pokes in. She has eyeliner under her eyes. A candy cigarette in her mouth. Just the tip of a shawl pokes in with her. “What’s — ”
But she doesn’t finish. She stares at me instead.
I pull open the suit jacket. An automatic response. A silly ‘look at me’ pose. Something to say I’m in on the bit too. I know how ridiculous and silly it is. Me, a girl, in a suit way too big. It’s funny.
She smiles but doesn’t laugh. The smile doesn’t even seem like one you share in response to a joke.
Slowly, her head cocks to the side. “You should wear suits more often.”
