Self-pride is a road to ruin.
They gathered around me, crowded me, asking about the dress as if it hung on a mannequin—where did it come from, who made it—turning me around and around as they gawked and sputtered surprise and praise.
Only one woman made her distaste plain, though I imagined there were others of the older set who felt the same.
With her porcelain smile firmly set, Mother came and took me by the arm.
“Yes, yes, dear girls, she looks quite…extraordinary,” she said to my friends, detaching me from within their protective circle, “but Pearl must make her way about, must greet all her guests. I know you understand.”
She didn't care if they did. Her fingers pinched my arm; a bruise would be in full bloom by morning.
“That…is not the dress I bought you.” Her frozen smile did
