7
TATI
So, I guess I can be let out of my cage on special occasions like weddings. Good to know.
This morning, my father came into my room and informed me that I’m to get ready to be fitted for a dress for my cousin’s wedding this afternoon. The moment I heard she was getting married, I figured I’d be expected to attend. Under these new rules, where I need to be cloistered away until I “grow up”, I haven’t really been sure my father would adhere to that expectation.
So, now I’m standing on a block in the middle of the living room while a seamstress judges my figure in this long, blue thing with fluffy taffeta sleeves and a square neckline. All while my father and Yanov watch.
She’s kneeling next to me, pinning parts of the hem so I don’t trip and fall over this thing when I walk. Through the pins in her mouth, she tells my father in Russian, “Her legs are very short. Much shorter than I remember.”
“Her mother was short,” he returns in Russian. “And her mother before her. It’s genetic, unfortunately.”
“Hmm,” she grunts. She sticks the last pin in and sits back on her heels, looking up at the dress. “Her hips are also very wide, and her bosom is far too large. A girl as small as she is shouldn’t eat so much. She’ll turn into a meatball.”
“I hear men like women with a little meat on the bone,” I say to her in Russian. Her face flushes and she looks away from me, embarrassed. I don’t know which is more insulting, the fact that this little old lady thought I didn’t speak Russian, or the fact that my father knows I do.
“Tatiana,” my father says sharply. I roll my eyes and drop the self-serving smile from my face.
“In any event,” the seamstress says, “all that’s left to do is to readjust the hem and give a few other final touches to the gown. It shouldn’t take but a few hours and I can have the dress back to you before your niece’s wedding.”
“Good,” my father says with a slow nod, looking me up and down. There’s no mirror in this room for me to see myself, and for once, that’s a good thing. With these itchy, puffball sleeves, I dread seeing myself in this getup. I imagine I look like a clown heading to a formal.
“She will change her hair, yes?” the seamstress asks my father. “That dreadful color will clash with the blue. Her natural hair color is much more suited for this dress.”
My natural hair color. That ugly, mousy brown that I’ve lived my whole life with. I grimace at the very idea of changing it.
My father, on the other hand, just says, “Of course. We’ll take care of that today as well.”
“Hold on,” I say in English. “I’m not changing my hair.”
My father gives the seamstress a side glance as she looks down at her tools and starts putting them away. To me, he says, “Yes. You will.”
“No, I won’t,” I say back to him. “I like my hair and I refuse to change it. For anyone.”
He steps up to me and growls through clenched teeth, “You will change it or I will force your head under water until it washes out on its own.”
I have to clench my fists to keep from flinching away from him. He’d love it if I showed him fear. “I’ll shave it all off before I let you touch my hair,” I say back at him. “It’s staying, or I’ll go to this wedding completely bald.”
He starts to retort, but Yanov speaks up. He’s been sitting on the coffee table watching this entire thing silently. I don’t even know why he’s here. “Sir, maybe let her have this one. We still have a lot to do and we don’t have time to deal with” —he waves his hand dismissively at me— “that. Let her have her cotton candy hair. She’ll look the fool. Not you.”
Ugh, he’s such a dick. If I didn’t see the decision to leave me alone about it changing in his eyes, I’d argue with him. I’m serious. I’ll go bald before I change my color back to the stupid shade of shit brown it was before.
“I’d rather she not look the fool at all,” he says, looking me up and down, his mouth twisted with disgust. “But you’re right. If she wants to look like a circus clown, then let her.”
He turns away and pulls out one of his stinking cigarettes.
“Can I go now?”
He waves me off, and I step off the block and head out of the parlor and to my room as quickly as possible. If I have to show up in this God-awful thing, I’ll be damned if it’s going to smell like his cigarettes, too.
I get out of the dress fairly quickly and put on my regular blue jeans and plain white shirt. The seamstress knocks gently on my door. “I need the dress, Ms. Aronin?—”
I open the door and hand her the dress, then close the door. I wish I could get out of this whole thing. I suppose I should be happy that he’s even letting me out of my cage to go somewhere, even if it’s just to keep up appearances.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I grab it and see that it’s Marla calling. “Hey,” I sigh as I lie down on my bed.
“Hey. Just checking in. How are you holding up?”
