Rin

Sometimes, all a girl needs is a little Wu-Tang to turn things around.

Method Man encouraged me to protect my neck as I pulled on my sweater the next morning, my mind cataloging the research points I’d focus on today. Points I’d fix, and I was determined to do it. I could impress them. I just had to do my job well. Be the best damn researcher to ever research.

I’d like to say that I didn’t care that Bianca hated me, but that would be a lie. I wanted her approval just as much as I wanted all of my professors’ and parents’ approval. I’d had professors who were hard-won and some who were determined to see me fail despite my efforts. The latter were the hardest; it was like my enthusiasm about my education somehow offended them, like they’d rather I didn’t want to learn anything, like they’d prefer if only students who were failing did the extra credit without seeming to consider that maybe I wanted to do it. Not to be an ass-kisser, but because I genuinely enjoyed learning.

But Bianca was on a level I’d had yet to encounter, like I was inconvenient and in her way. I wondered if I were more like her if she’d be more inclined to work with me. If I were bright and shiny, confident and outgoing, would she have respected me on first glance? If I had a closet full of pantsuits and pencil skirts, would she have been impressed on the jump?

I sighed, popping in my headphones as I headed out of my room, snagging an oatmeal pie and opening my book on my way out of the house. Ol’ Dirty Bastard suggested I knock a motherfucker’s teeth out, but I figured assault probably wouldn’t help me secure a positive review.

Thanks anyway, ODB.

I nibbled on my cream pie with my nose in my book, moving with the flow of pedestrians easily. That was, until a woman darted through to the curb. She slammed into me—my book spiraled into the air in slo-mo, and my oatmeal pie hit the pavement with a splat. Our height difference face-planted her directly into my boobs, sending us teetering, righting ourselves almost too late.

“Holy shit,” she said, trying to step back, but she pulled me with her.

We looked down, confused. In an attempt to catch herself, she’d thrown her arms out, and her bracelets were caught up in my sweater. But rather than take five seconds to untangle them, she yanked herself loose, unraveling the open knit, leaving a gaping hole next to a dangling loop of tan yarn.

She was immediately off without another word, running for the curb with her hand in the air, calling, “Taxi!” like any of the cabs could hear her.

I sighed, looking for my book, which had been stepped on, then my breakfast, which had also been stomped, leaving a boot print in the pie and the cream squirting out onto the sidewalk. And I did my level best not to cry.

Inspectah Deck commiserated in my ear that life as a shorty shouldn’t be so rough. Not that I was a shorty in any sense of the definition, but still.

Book dusted off and clutched to my chest, I made my way into the subway without reading a word, not willing to risk another collision. And, once sitting, I sighed at my ruined sweater, tying the long loop in a knot in the hopes it would hold for the day.

I buried myself in the story, and by the time I got to work, I felt a tiny, little smidgen better. That was the only good thing about the long commute to the Upper East—I had plenty of time to get over ruined breakfasts and sidewalk collisions with sweater-rippers. And as I climbed those steps to the museum, I found a bit of the determination I’d had in abundance that morning.

The museum was quiet, and the office was quieter, the only sound that ever-present hum of the air-conditioning, the halls abandoned but for one other curator who passed without looking at me. And as I approached Bianca’s office, I took a deep breath, straightened up, and stepped in.

I forced a smile when she glanced up at me and dragged her eyes down my body, pausing on the stretched out hole in my tan sweater and once again on my khaki pants, not even making it to my shoes, which were brown and comfortable and admittedly a little ugly.

I kept my smile where it was but felt it tighten unnaturally. “Morning,” I said, moving past her to my desk. “I’m sorry about yesterday, but I’m ready to take another shot. I had some ideas—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

I paused. “I’m sorry?”

She snapped her computer closed, her eyes glinting when they met mine. “I said, that. Won’t. Be. Necessary.” Each word was enunciated with painful, patronizing clarity. “Dr. Lyons was…unhappy about yesterday, and I’m not willing to disappoint him for you. If your performance reflects on me, I’ll make sure there’s no opportunity for error. So, I’ll take care of it myself. Go to the stacks. Work on your dissertation. And stay out of my way.”

“I know I can do this, Bianca—”

“Dr. Nixon,” she corrected coldly.

My cheeks flushed so hard, they almost hurt. “I…I’m sorry, Dr. Nixon. I promise, I won’t get it wrong again.”

“I don’t have time to find out whether or not that’s true. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She turned to her computer, and I stood there for a painful moment before turning on my heel and rushing out of her office, my head down and nose burning with tears.

But before I could escape, I slammed straight into a marble statue.

Dr. Lyons’s body was hard enough to hurt when I bounced off him, his hands like clamps on my upper arms when they caught me, his eyes like flint when they met mine. His face was chiseled and stony, his jaw square and set, his lips full and sensual, flat, except for the slight curl at the corner of one side.

Amusement, I thought, and my horror deepened.

I imagined that was as close to laughing as he ever got. And he was laughing at me.

“I didn’t see you there,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face, smell mint and spices on his breath and suit, see the flecks of silver and blue in his stormy irises.

“I…” I breathed, my eyes locked on his for a second too long before I pulled away in a whirl and fled.

My heart thundered as I beelined for the bathroom, the sound of my pulse deafening, my breath ragged and aching with every draw. I blew through the door and pushed it closed, leaned against it and closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear.

Rejection and shame slipped over me like a rogue wave.

Bianca—Dr. Nixon—had cut me off at the knees, leaving me no chance at redemption, giving me no quarter. I would be confined to the stacks, potentially all summer, to learn nothing about the job or department I was supposed to be interning for.

It was almost worse than being fired.

And then there was Dr. Lyons.

I didn’t see you.

No one ever did because, typically, I didn’t want them to. I was recognized strictly as an oddity and then passed by, dismissed. When I looked down at my clothes, I couldn’t even blame him for missing me—I was wearing fifty shades of khaki. Nothing about me stood out but my height, and for once, I hated the fact that I’d cultivated an appearance of such colorless camouflage. I was dressed head to toe in the equivalent of oatmeal, bland and lumpy and unappetizing.

But I didn’t have to be oatmeal. Not when I could be Boss Bitch.

I turned to the mirror, inspired by a manic shot of bravado, setting my backpack on the counter so I could rifle through it in search of that little tube of salvation. Hope sprang when my fingers found it. And when I saw that shiny metal bullet in my hand, all I wanted to do was fire the gun. So I did.

I twisted the base, the blood red rising to meet me, the angle of the tip perfect, untouched. And with more confidence than I knew I had in me, I touched it to my lips. It went on smooth, but my unpracticed hand was timid, taking far longer than it should to figure out how hard to press, the best angle and motion to use. Shaping the edges to match the shape of my lips was the hardest part of all. I couldn’t get the damn line straight, and it wobbled in spots, but after several minutes of hyper-focus, I stepped back to assess myself.

My lips—deep crimson, thick and full—were all I could see for a second. The color called all attention to them in a way that felt even more extreme than it had in the makeup store, probably because I didn’t have a single stitch of makeup on otherwise. I cataloged every insecurity—my eyes, too dark and angled, my lids heavy and lashes straight. My skin was too pale, my brows not arched enough, not dark enough. I wasn’t enough, not in my frumpy sweater with the big hole in the front. I hadn’t even brushed my hair.

I might have bought that lipstick, but it wasn’t mine.

I was an imposter.

A stinging rush of tears nipped at the corners of my eyes as I reached for a paper towel and swiped carelessly at my lips.

Which was a monumental mistake.

The pigment smeared like a bloody stain on my fair skin, and my eyes widened in panic.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no, no,” I muttered in abject horror as I scrubbed at my face with the coarse paper towel.

Wetting it didn’t help. I pumped hand soap into my palm and washed the bottom half of my face, ignoring the smell of lemon or the stringent feel of the foamy soap, begging the universe to please let me be wrong, to let it magically lift that cursed lipstick off my skin. But, in true form, the universe did nothing to help me.

I scrubbed until the skin around my mouth was raw and razed, pink from agitation and lipstick from hell. And I stood there in the museum bathroom and stared in the mirror, assessing my reflection with rising hysteria.

And I started to laugh.

It was a laugh from deep in my belly, one accompanied by warm, embarrassed tears that raced down my cheeks in salty trails, a laugh edging on delirium, equally ashamed and amused.

Only me.

I swiped at my tears once they ebbed and blew out a breath, my chin quivering in a show of true emotion before I pushed the feeling away and packed my mortification alongside that stupid tube in the depths of my backpack where they belonged. And then I took a picture in the mirror with my phone and sent it to my friends.

I’d be damned if I was going to be the only one who had to endure the moment alone.

And, with their laughter and encouragement lighting up my screen, I found the will to leave the bathroom, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone on my way to the library. But, like I said, the universe and I were not friends.

Dr. Lyons was kneeling at a bookshelf right in front of me. He turned his severe gaze on me, his eyes hanging on my lips, his brows flicking in the slightest of quirks. He was amused again. Laughing at me.

I flushed so hard, I thought I might pass out before hurrying away, counting the seconds until I’d be in the solitude of the library and out from under his scrutiny, which had resurrected my desire to disappear.

Served me right for wanting more in the first place.

By four thirty when the library closed, I had succeeded in hiding all day and working on my proposal for my dissertation, which was due at the end of the summer. Too ashamed to go to Bianca’s office, I emailed her half an hour before I left and asked if she needed anything, which she didn’t. And I snuck out of the offices without seeing either doctor of doom.

As I hurried down the steps of The Met, I caught sight of three backs I recognized, and relief touched me like a balm, soothing the burn of the day.

Amelia turned, hopping to her feet when she saw me. “Rin!” She met me with a gripping hug, assessing my face when she pulled away. “It doesn’t look so bad now.”

“Well, it’s had all day to calm down,” I said on a laugh. “What are you guys doing here?”

Val grinned from behind Amelia. “We’re taking you shopping.”

I groaned, my joy at seeing my friends gone in a whoosh.

“No groaning,” Val said as she took my side, hooking her arm in mine. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Shopping is never fun,” I lamented.

Val gave me a look. “You act like I don’t get it. I have never once found a pair of jeans that fits this.” She gestured to her pepper-grinder hips.

“We found a store for tall girls,” Katherine said. “A fashionable one. There wasn’t a muumuu or single pair of capri pants on their website.”

I frowned, unconvinced.

“Really,” Amelia added. “It’s called Long Cool Woman, and their clothes are gorgeous. You’ll see.” She tugged me toward the street.

“I don’t know,” I started, but then Val started pulling, and before Katherine could get behind me and push, I relented. The last thing I needed was to fall down the stairs and take all three of them with me. “I can’t really afford a shopping spree on my allowance,” I argued feebly.

But Amelia smiled. “Well, thanks to the ShamWow, I can.”

By the time we reached Long Cool Woman—a name that had the song by The Hollies stuck in my head for the full train ride—my stomach had twisted to the point that no amount of Pepto Bismol could straighten it out. The bell on the door rang as we stepped into the store, which was small but open with tall ceilings and beautiful lighting, the walls packed with clothes and the tables in the center of the shop stacked with sweaters and tanks and rectangular pillars of folded jeans.

Theoretically, my size was somewhere in there.

“Hello,” someone called from the back, followed by the sound of heels on hardwood. And then an honest toGod supermodel walked into view.

Our collective eyes widened in wonder at the woman, who looked like a cross between Heidi Klum and Claudia Schiffer, in a tailored blazer that was such a light pink, it was almost white, and a silky white tank half-tucked into perfectly fitting jeans. On her feet were four-inch pumps the color of midnight, which made her tall enough that I had to look up at her when she reached us.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her smile off a freaking billboard.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t bother with more than a glance at Amelia’s face, which was boarded up like a hurricane was coming. Val’s eyes scanned the shop girl, dumbstruck. So it fell to Katherine, her stubborn jaw lifted all the way up, to speak for all of us.

“My friend Rin is looking for some work clothes.”

She met my eyes, still smiling. “I’m Marnie. Let’s see what we’ve got for you, shall we?”

I nodded stupidly, following her as she walked away.

“So, what do you do?” she asked.

“I…I work at The Met.”

“She’s an intern in the European Paintings department,” Katherine added.

I shot her a look, my cheeks warming.

Marnie offered me an impressed look over her shoulder. “Congrats on landing that. Couldn’t have been easy.” She stopped in front of a rack about halfway into the store. “So, something professional, something classic. I’m thinking you’re into simple lines, something easy to manage and match. Right?”

I nodded again.

“Are you looking to rebuild your wardrobe?”

“Yes,” Val answered for me.

I took a breath, separating myself from my friends to take a step closer. “I…I’m not really sure what I’m doing.”

Marnie smiled. “That’s what I’m here for. And you’re exactly the type of girl I opened this store for.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed as she sorted through the rack. “I was a model in the nineties. While I was working, it wasn’t so hard to find clothes to fit a thirty-seven-inch inseam,” she joked.

“That’s my inseam,” I breathed.

“Thought so,” she said with a smirk. “Aha!”

In her hands were a pair of pants so long, they were comical. I eyed them skeptically.

She must have noted my expression because she said, “I know they look like they should be worn with stilts, but they’re high-waisted and meant to be worn with heels.”

I shook my head, taking an unwilling step back. “Oh, I could never wear heels.”

One of her brows rose. “Why not?”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

But she smiled. “I have a feeling you don’t think I look ridiculous.”

“Well, no, but you’re…”

“The same height and build as you.”

“But you look…”

“Like I have my hair and makeup done. That’s all it is—hair and makeup.”

I looked her over, panicking. “I…”

Marnie paused before resting her palm on my shoulder. “Trust me. Just try a few things on and see how they feel. And if they don’t feel good, if they don’t make you feel incredible, don’t you dare buy them. Okay?”

I exhaled. “Okay.”

Marnie made her way around the store with me on her heels as she pulled outfit after outfit, even three pairs of jeans and a pair of heels, which I eyed like they were twin cobras instead. And then I stepped into a dressing room with my friends sitting on the couches in the center, waiting to score every outfit, one by one.

I stripped off my mangled sweater and tank, then my shoes and khakis. And I stared at those pretty clothes hanging in the dressing room with me, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

The jeans were first—they were the closest to anything I owned, and I figured would be the quickest to break the ice—and when I stepped into them, it was with absolute certainty that they would never fit. But then I pulled them over my ass and hips, and I stared in the mirror, stunned.

They were black and sleek, tight without being constricting, the denim somehow stretchy, just a little, just enough to hug without bunching or being stiff. And the length was perfect. In my and Amelia’s research the night before, we’d learned that cigarette length was very in and flattering for tall girls and that showing a sliver of ankle was super fashionable. Per the internet at least.

Confidence struck—I reached for a silky blouse in a shade of Army green, the sleeves cuffed to three-quarters by little straps. And then I slipped my feet into a pair of black flats with pointy toes that I thought would make my size elevens look like boats. But when I looked in the mirror, I looked perfectly proportioned. Nothing stood out—not my height, my feet, my long legs. Nothing. I could have been five feet or six. The clothes fit so well, they gave the illusion that I was normal.

My throat tightened with emotion as I pushed the curtain away and stepped out.

Four faces lit up—three with surprise and one with knowing.

Val gaped. “Rin, they’re perfect.”

I ran my hand over my thighs, inspecting my reflection in a triptych of mirrors. “I can’t even believe it. Are you sure they won’t shrink though?” I asked, uncertain.

“They won’t,” Marnie assured me. “They have enough lycra in them not to shrink, but if you’re worried about it or the wash fading, just wash them in cold and hang them to dry. Super easy. How do you like the shoes?”

I looked them over, shaking my head in disbelief. “They make my legs look longer, but I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad one.”

“Oh, it’s definitely good,” Val noted.

Marnie laughed. “It’s the illusion of the pointed toe and the fit of the jeans. It’s meant to showcase your best feature—your legs.”

“It’s magic is what it is,” I said.

“Oh, just you wait,” she said with a laugh.

For the next hour, I tried on dozens of outfits, each of them shocking me one by one. Blazers and tailored shirts, pencil skirts and slacks, blouses and even dresses. The last outfit I tried on included those navy high-waisted pants she’d picked out first and a pair of heels she’d insisted I try. They were nude suede, the heel wide enough to keep my gait steady and sure. In fact, I found them far easier to walk in than I’d anticipated.

When I stepped out of the dressing room and four jaws hit the ground, I felt like I could climb Everest. And when I looked in the mirror at the girl who I knew to be me but amplified, more, I felt too good to be scared.

All I felt was the blessed feeling of something that had eluded me for far too long—possibility.