There are times when Mom buys clothes for me when I’m a teen, and I’m overjoyed. It doesn’t happen often because hand-me-downs and my raggy, measly paycheck as a cashier at Grade A Market cover my wardrobe. I write in my journal, “Mom spent $40 on me at Bradlees today! I can’t believe it!” What a wonder Mom is at times like this.

When I was in the ninth grade, Mom bought me a red, hoodie jacket at Gimbel’s Department Store in Stamford. It was lush, lush, lush, soft, soft, soft, red, red, red, and hip, hip, hip. I loved it.

The first day that I wore it to school, a hip, pretty girl came up to me at my locker after homeroom period. I never talked to her before, or to any of her friends, the other cool, snobby, rich girls of Darien. She asked me where I got my hoodie, and lovingly touched my arms that were lovingly smothered with the red jacket. She didn’t look at my face. She looked at my jacket.

I took her action as a sign of friendship, and with my biggest smile, told her, Gimbel’s. She looked up at me. As my smile threw her off, she hurriedly turned away in the noisy hallway of junior high students. My red hoodie was crushed, crushed, crushed.