The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Can I have that back, please?” I tried to keep my voice casual as I gestured to the envelope.

  As Jay made to hand it to me, Tim stretched out a hand to stall him. “Whoa, not so fast, Jay.”

  Freaking Tim! What an ass. Why had I ever asked him out? What had possessed me to commission a report from him?

  “Don’t you want to see what secrets Peyton’s hiding inside this? What’s so all-fired important that she doesn’t want us to see?” Tim teased, flicking a finger against the envelope.

  “No!” I gasped, glowering at Tim. He was such a douchebag. He was the doucheiest douchebag that ever douched.

  Jay merely handed me the envelope. I immediately rammed it deep into my book bag.

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him a shaky smile.

  “What are you still hanging around for?” Chloe said to Tim. “You already got your A in assitude.”

  Tim just laughed and strolled off, and with a “See you later,” Jay followed.

  I sagged in relief against the hall wall.

  “Can you believe Tim — just snatching your stuff like that?” Chloe sounded so outraged that I felt obliged to point out that she’d been attempting the exact same thing just minutes before.

  “Don’t judge me by the things I did minutes ago. I’ve changed since then,” she said in a wounded tone. “Besides, I’m your best friend, and he’s nobody to you. And you know what they say?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “Sisters before misters,” she said as we entered the classroom and took our seats. “That is what they say, Peyton, sisters before misters.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s like ovaries before brovaries. It means you should share stuff with your girlfriends that you wouldn’t with guys.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The teacher was calling the class to order, but Chloe was still pleading from her seat beside me, her eyes boring like lasers into my bag.

  “Like secrets and stuff. You shouldn’t keep secrets from your bestie,” she whined.

  “Later, okay? Tonight. Wait, no, not tonight.” I was going to the movies for my second date with Mark. “Tomorrow,” I whispered.

  Her eyes lit up with excitement. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She locked pinkie fingers with me, squeezed tight and hissed solemnly, “Breasties before testes!”

  ~ 11 ~

  Half an hour before my date with Mark that evening, I finally set aside the report on Jay I’d been studying all afternoon. Too lazy to make my way to my mother’s room, I sent her a text telling her I was going out.

  Going to movies, bye.

  Her response: Who are you going with? What are you going to see?

  There she went again, coming over all concerned like a regular, normal, involved parent — which she so was not. It made me mad, so I ignored her questions and merely replied: See you later.

  I slung my purse over my neck and across my chest, tossed the rope ladder out of the window and made my way down to the ground.

  My phone chirruped.

  What time will you be home? It’s a school night, so please make sure you’re home by 10 pm. Love, Mom.

  I ignored that one, too.

  Mark was already waiting at the movie theater by the time I arrived.

  “Hi, Peyton, how are you?” Mark tended to speak in an unusually formal way. I wouldn’t be shocked if one day he bowed and said, “Good evening, Miss Lane. I trust I find you well this eventide?”

  Mark glanced briefly at my forehead but was apparently too polite to make any reference to the lump in its center. Unlike Jay. Jay who had an impressive 3.9 GPA, a soft spot for the school cafeteria’s grilled chicken and Caesar salad, and who drove a two-year-old Honda Civic. Jay whose current relationship status was “involved”. With Faye freaking Fenton. All five foot three of her.

  “I’ve already bought the tickets,” said Mark, holding them up proudly for me to inspect.

  Batman. Another one? How many versions of the story could there be? I reminded myself that it could’ve been be worse. It could’ve been a Fast and Furious.

  Mark was staring at my jeans — the extra-long pair I’d sewn for myself.

  “Are those another of your home-sewn garments?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Right, so — popcorn? Soda?” I offered.

  “Yes, please. A medium popcorn and a medium lemonade. Small isn’t quite enough, and I always find that large is too much,” he explained. He smiled as he said it, which made me wonder if there was a jokey proverb buried in there somewhere.

  “Two medium popcorns, one medium lemonade,” I told the girl behind the refreshment stand.

  Mark nodded approvingly.

  “And one large chocolate milk.”

  “You’re really tall!” the girl said when she handed over my change.

  I sighed and handed Mark his snacks. He sprinkled a moderate amount of salt on his popcorn, frowning at my shake-the-salt, tap-the-box, shake-the-salt routine. Then his glance returned to my jeans and, judging by his wrinkled forehead, he wasn’t thinking complimentary thoughts about them, either.

  “It’s the pattern of the fabric,” I explained as we headed inside the theater. “I couldn’t get the roses to match up — that’s why it looks a little messy.”

  “No, it doesn’t look messy.”

  “Cool!”

  “It looks strange.”

  I looked strange? “Nice to know,” I said.

  “I think the proportions are wrong,” Mark explained as we took our seats. “The legs are too long.”

  “My legs are too long, Mark. That’s why I made the jeans extra-length.”

  “What I mean is, the legs are too long for the top part. It looks lopsided. It makes you look out of proportion.”

  “Better and better,” I muttered.

  “It’s like a stretch limo. Just making a car longer, without changing the size or shape of the front, only makes it look super-long. That’s the first thing you notice about a stretch limo, isn’t it? That it’s abnormally, disproportionately long. That’s how you look tonight — like a stretch limo.”

  Mark leaned back in his seat, apparently satisfied with his explanation, and took a slurp of his lemonade.

  I had just been told I appeared abnormal, like a disproportionately long stretch limo. And I was thrilled about it. Because I understood exactly what he meant — if I was going to look good in a dress or shirt or pants I made for myself, I’d have to design them differently. I couldn’t just add extra length to hems and cuffs. That wouldn’t make the garments better, it would only make them longer. They needed to be designed differently, so that the proportions would look flattering on a tall girl like me.

  I would have to redo the patterns from scratch.

  In the darkened cinema, my thoughts raced. I smoothed a hand over my thigh, imagining the jeans cut differently. A higher waist to balance the leg length? A pair of mom-jeans popped into my mind’s eye. Ugh, no. How about a broader waistband, with a wider belt? Or turn-ups to break up the lines of the long leg? Oversized pockets, front and back, with conspicuous stitching to draw the eye up? My fingers itched for my sketchpad and pencil, so I could capture the thoughts and images that chased each other through my mind’s eye.

  I needed to learn more about how this stuff worked. I wondered whether the local community college offered night classes and what they would cost, and made a mental note to check their website. Of course, there was nothing stopping me from doing some self-study. My mom had stacks of fashion magazines — I’d haul those into my room and pore over the photographs, figure out how garments were supposed to look, analyze the impact of different proportions on the final effect. And surely there would be books on fashion and dress-design in the local library — libraries were free — and I’d watch Project Runway to pick up tips.

  I was so lost in my imaginings that I
jumped when Mark took my hand in his.

  “This part is a little tense,” he said.

  Did he think I needed to have my hand held through the scary parts? Or maybe he did.

  On the screen, which I’d been staring at, unseeing, for the last while, Batman was roaring around Gotham City, flames shooting from the exhaust of his Batmobile, growling vengeance at the foes pursuing him. Nothing new there.

  Mark gave my hand a slow, reassuring squeeze. His hand was big and soft, and just the slightest bit damp. It made me feel nothing except a slight desire to wipe my own on my jeans. I wondered what Jay’s hand would feel like and just like that, my mind snapped back to that report.

  His sole extracurricular activity, according to Tim’s report, was drama club. He seemed to be quite serious about drama all-round. The printout of books he had borrowed from the school library included: The Glass Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, Theater-craft and, strangely, Platforms, Pipelines and Petroleum: An introduction to Off-Shore Oil Drilling.

  I knew that he regularly attended Gold’s Gym, an expensive place in the upscale suburb where he lived, about three miles south of our own much more modest neighborhood, but he hadn’t tried out for any of the school’s sports. Tim had it as “confirmed” that Jay had an Achilles tendon injury, and as “unconfirmed” that he’d played quarterback at his previous school. He did attend Friday night football games, but this might have been to watch Faye, who was on the cheerleading squad. Of course she was.

  I knew a bunch of facts about Jay, but still felt like I knew nothing. Every fact I read had sparked more questions. Why had he changed schools? What was his family setup? How had he injured that tendon? Did he really like Faye — I mean like her, like her? And what did his hands feel like?

  Mark was squeezing mine again. Looking up at the screen, I was startled to discover that the end credits were rolling.

  “Well, I enjoyed that. Did you enjoy it?” Mark asked.

  “Sure.”

  Outside the auditorium, Mark paused to dispose of our empty cups and cartons.

  “You know, if being an accountant doesn’t work out for you, you could always get a job as a cleaner,” I cracked.

  “No, no, I’m sure being an accountant will work out fine for me,” he said, perfectly seriously.

  The problem with Mark was that he was always perfectly serious. The thought came before I could stop it. No, no, no, I chided myself. I didn’t want to have critical thoughts about Mark. I wanted to have three dates and the prom with him. I didn’t want to dwell on how serious he was, how sober and earnest, how utterly lacking in any sense of humor. Mark was a good guy — way nicer than Tim. He was polite and respectful and decent and … dull.

  There was just no getting away from it. He was boring. I felt like I was dating a middle-aged man — no, a middle-aged accountant.

  “May I drive you home?” he asked.

  “Nah, there’s no need to drive me. My house is just a few blocks away. I’ll walk.”

  “Then I’ll walk you home.”

  Feeling guilty because of my unkind thoughts about him, I didn’t object.

  We walked slowly down the street, holding hands.

  “Thank you for your tip about the proportions of garments,” I said, to fill the silence. “It’s given me something to think about.”

  “I’m glad I could help. I always find that when you really think about a problem, it definitely helps to find a solution,” he said. “As my dad always says: ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again’.”

  I made myself smile. Then I said, “Mark, tell me something interesting about you. Surprise me, quick.”

  He looked taken aback. “Something interesting?”

  “Yeah, what’s the most interesting thing about you?”

  “Hmm, I need to consider that.”

  He thought for a long while. Perhaps, my inner bitch suggested before I had a chance to mute her, he had to look long and hard to find something interesting.

  “Well, okay. This is something rather unique about me.”

  Hope!

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “I’ve made a little study of the history of accounting.”

  Despair.

  “It started out as a paper for school, but it’s become my special hobby. I have quite a collection of books, including a modern reproduction of the original Summa de Arithmetica by Luca Pacioli. He was the Franciscan friar and mathematician who invented the double-entry bookkeeping system used by Venetian merchants,” he said, and then added, as if he thought this part would truly fascinate me, “In 1494!”

  “Right. Wow.” It was all the response I could muster.

  I learned more than I cared to about old Pacioli and his double-entries on the way home.

  When we got to my house, I said, “So, goodnight.”

  “Thanks for a lovely evening Peyton. I hope we can do this again sometime soon.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Next time you can pick the movie. I think that people should take turns in a relationship, don’t you?”

  We were in a relationship?

  “I guess.”

  Mark took a step closer, leaned forward from the waist, and planted a peck on my cheek. When he drew back, he looked pleased — as if he’d checked off another entry in a relationship bookkeeping column.

  “Goodnight then, Peyton. I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside.”

  “You really don’t need to wait, I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not in a hurry.” He seemed planted in the sidewalk.

  I walked slowly down the path that led between the overgrown bushes and grass to our front door, then turned and waved from the front step, hoping he’d take the hint. But he merely waved back and continued to stand as solidly immobile as the statue of Pacioli, which — I now knew — stood outside a church in Sansepolcro, Italy.

  I unlocked the front door and with a final wave, went inside. Immediately the heaviness of home closed around me. I sighed and texted Tori the details of my second date with Mark. When a peep out of the window beside the door confirmed that he was gone, I made my own way back to my bedroom, moving as quietly and carefully as a cat, so as not to alert my mother.

  Just call me Cat Woman.

  ~ 12 ~

  “Saturday night and you’re not on a date. Ready to concede defeat?” Tori asked when the early evening rush at the diner had subsided and we had a moment to catch our breaths.

  Steve was there, too, wiping the sticky plastic covers of the menus and looking smugly expectant.

  “Perhaps you need reminding: I have already had two dates with Mark Rodriguez, the most recent of which was only three days ago. And he is a full six feet three inches tall.”

  Mark and his family had flown to Texas for the weekend to attend a cousin’s quinceañera. Mark thought it was important to keep up family relationships with visits like this — not too many and not too few. He also thought routine was a good thing in a relationship, so he wanted a regular Wednesday night date. Fine by me. It wasn’t like I was craving more frequent dates with him.

  “I like things to be stable and predictable,” he’d said. “Besides, I don’t think we should rush this relationship. Not too fast, and not too slow. A weekly date should be just right.”

  Mark was a regular Goldilocks.

  “And,” I told Tori and Steve now, “our next date — our third date, please note — is in four days’ time.”

  Steve’s smile soured a little at this news, but Tori was quick to remind me, “Well, good for you, Big P. If date three happens, then you just need to make it to prom.”

  Prom was in April. That was seven months away. Seven months of Wednesday night dates with Mark. I figured it might be easier to earn the money with extra shifts at the diner. But then I’d have to pay them, plus put up with Tori and Steve’s gloating. And I’d be letting Team Tall down.

  “Not a problem,” I said, pulling my hair over my hot
ears.

  I spent the next day going through piles of fashion magazines — studying designs, measuring lengths, and comparing proportions. When my mother saw me lugging a bunch of Vogue magazines upstairs to my room, she followed me to see what I was doing. Then she got all enthusiastic.

  “I’ve got a stack of Harper’s Bazaar somewhere, too, I know I have. They have great fashion spreads in there. I’ll go see if I can find them,” she said excitedly.

  “No thanks. I don’t need any more magazines. These are enough for now.”

  I stared pointedly at her and, with a guilt-inducing sigh, she left. I would have felt sorry for her if I didn’t feel so damn irritated by her.

  The magazines were old — some dated back ten years ago — and so the fashions were outdated. But while the trendy stuff changed radically from season to season, many of the spreads were of timelessly classic designs that I could study to figure out the details of what never really went out of style.

  I was beginning to get some concrete ideas for what would work on a taller frame — these models were hardly short, after all — when I was distracted by a feature article on the New York School of Fashion. The school was situated in the heart of New York City’s garment district, and it sounded fantastic. According to the article, they offered a two-year associate’s or a four-year bachelor’s degree, with classes on the basics, like fashion design, fabric styling, draping, sewing, tailoring, and pattern-making, as well as optional credits in more specialized stuff: corsetry, accessory design, and the history and future of fashion.

  Did the school still exist? I fired up my old PC and checked in with Professor Google.

  As I studied every page on the school’s website, a longing began to blossom inside me. Is it possible not to know what you want until the moment you see it? It must be, because now I knew that what I wanted was this. I wanted to be that student sketching the laced bodice of a steampunk ball gown. I wanted to be that guy pinning the folds of a forest-green coat on a dressmaker’s mannequin. I wanted to be the girl in a block print dress and kickass Moto boots pouring over the Visual History of Hemlines.

  I clicked on the “Course Fees,” and at once my bubble of excitement popped. So much for that dream. They may as well have been asking for a million bucks. My savings seemed pathetically small now — a drop in the ocean of what it would cost to study, and stay, in the Big Apple.