‘Luck of the Game’

A schoolmaster once wrote ‘bunkum’ on a pupil’s essay and the boy thought it was Latin and started declining it: bunkum, bunkum, bunkum, bunki, bunko, bunko. Terribly funny, that.—theodore kulygin

“Oh, Marianne—you look gorgeous!”

Marianne smiled and twirled in the flowing white dress she was trying on in preparation for the Miss 37th Ward pageant. With her cascade of yellow curls, she only needed her wings to be an angel.

She relaxed her wide grin, “Are you sure I don’t look too bridal?”

“Well, maybe a little . . . but maybe that’s good! You can use the dress again if you and Trevor get married.”

Marianne disappeared into the dressing room and slammed the door. “Trevor and I are never getting married.”

“Really? Why not? You’ve been dating long enough,” I asked through the door; I hoped to pass her answer on to Derek.

“This dress isn’t right. I’m going to try the ruby one again.”

“That was twice as expensive as the white one.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She burst out of the dressing room again, wearing a stiff, fifties-style organza dress that reached just past her knees. “Whaddya think?”

Her shoulders looked a little wide in the boatneck, but otherwise . . . “You look perfect, as usual.”

“Well, I’ll get this one then.” She returned to the dressing room to change back into her street clothes. Marianne spent over three hundred dollars at the Gateway Anthropologie. Then she suggested, “Let’s go to that vintage store you like before we meet up with Rock and Laecie.”

Marianne, Nicholette, and nearly everyone else whom I had ever shopped with thought that I adored thrift stores for their unique finds. I hated them. I hated the mothball smell; I hated the shifty cashiers; I hated that the cute vintage clothes were always too small. But they were cheap.

“How about this one?” I asked Marianne at Decades, pulling a seventies-era flowing sea-green number from the size-twelve rack.

Marianne scoffed, “Why do you like that color so much? It does nothing for your complexion.” She pulled out a deep blue satin gown, “Now, this would look wonderful with those eyes.”

I tried it on, but nothing fit right: The dress sagged around my arms and waist, and the fabric was so . . . dramatic. “It was a good idea, Marianne, but somehow . . .”

Snapping her fingers, she bounced towards me, “Yeah, I think that dress is too much. But have you lost weight, Bekah?”

Looking back, I realized that between skipping shifts at Cougar Dental for rehearsal and trying to avoid encountering Chris in our condo’s kitchen, I was lucky to afford one square meal a day. I shrugged and tried on a dress from the size-ten rack. It was loose, everywhere but through the bust, where it pulled dangerously. “I guess so,” I told Marianne, “but there’s no room for my stupid chest in these smaller sizes.”

“So, you’ve lost two sizes this month, wow, what is up with . . .” Marianne whooped and carried a new prize from the rack for me to see. “I think this is your lucky day, check it out: Oscar de la Renta knock-off, size eight, 38-inch bust.”

I reached out—I was as mute as Graça. Layers of translucent lavender fabric cascaded into my hands. It was all fine silk cut on a bias, draped seductively, even on the hanger. The high waist tapered into the V-shaped neckline.

“Are those lilacs printed on the outer layer?” Marianne wanted to know.

“No, I think they are wisteria blossoms. When we were little in Colorado, Ruth used to climb down the wisteria vine at our window in the middle of the night to meet her boyfriend.” When I slipped into the dress, I was convinced that I should buy it. There was a large tear in one of the inner layers, and the hem was slightly stained with water spots, but I paid fifty dollars, and the dress was mine. I had the perfect dress—and nowhere to wear it.

* * * *

I called my father as soon as we got back to Provo:

“Hello?” he asked. He sounded far away.

“Hi, Pai. It’s me. I saw Rock this afternoon in Salt Lake. Laecie was there too.”

“Oh, Beki, I am very happy for tis.”

“Yes, Pai, and—”

“Querida, I need to go. I love you.”

“Um, love you too!”

Shaking my head at my cellphone, I barged into my room to find Graça dressed in one of Ruth’s old formals that I kept in the back of our closet, spinning in front of the mirror. She gasped and rushed into the closet like a frightened deer. “It’s okay, Graça,” I called.

Staring at her feet, Graça turned towards me and fingered the fabric of the red gown.

I smiled. “Ruth left all of her dresses to me after she got married and had the boob job. I’m glad someone can wear them, since they’re too small for me.” I walked around Graça, examining the dress. “Wow, you look—not like Graça.” I frowned, with skin so light and hair so dark, it would be hard to find a good dress for Graça among my tawny sister’s old clothes. But, ah ha! Behind a box a ribbon was a tea-length blue-violet number that I had never seen Ruth wear before. “This is a special dress,” I said, fumbling around in the closet to bring the sparkling dress into the light. “Charlie will be speechless when he sees you in this,” I breathed.

Graça reverently took the dress, but her eyebrows questioned.

“Yes, I know about you and Charlie,” I plopped down beside her on her bed and patted her hand. “Charlie is a very special guy—don’t break his heart.” I shook the memories from my head.