In My Mother's Size Chart, I Was Always Twelve

For Grandma's seventieth birthday, Mom ordered new outfits for the whole family and booked a portrait sitting.

Dad's shirt fit. My brother's new shoes fit. My sister's waistband had been measured just yesterday.

Only my zipper stuck below my shoulder blades, and no matter what I did, it wouldn't go up.

Mom called through the curtain:

"Deidre Carpenter, suck it in."

"It's just one photo. Bear with it for a minute."

I told her it was two sizes too small.

She took out her phone.

"That's impossible. I bought it off the size chart."

Dad's waist measurement had been updated last month. My brother's shoe size was from last week.

My name sat at the very bottom.

Height five foot even. Shoe size six.

Last updated six years ago, the year I was twelve.

Outside the curtain, my sister suddenly said her strap had snapped.

Mom immediately pushed the sewing kit in to me.

"You're good with your hands. Fix hers first."

"Just let out your own dress a little. You can still wear it."

The whole family was already standing under the lights.

Dad said to the photographer with a smile:

"She'll just be a minute. She's never been any trouble, even as a kid."

I looked down at the dress cutting off my breath.

It wasn't that they'd never bought me new clothes in six years.

It was just that no one had noticed I'd stopped fitting into a twelve-year-old's size a long time ago.

...

Mom always kept a sewing kit in her bag.

My sister's dress was pale pink. I picked the thread closest to the color and told her to turn around.

"Deidre, maybe you should do your own first."

Constance Carpenter gripped the curtain and said quietly:

"Mine can hold with a pin for now."

"A pin would scratch your skin."

She had a dance performance next week, and the strap had torn at the seam. A pin would only hold it for a moment, and it would come open the instant she raised her arm.

I folded the torn edge under once and stitched it firm again.

Mom called from outside:

"Done yet? The photographer's been waiting."

"Two more stitches."

"Hurry up. Constance's is expensive. Don't let it tear open later."

I tied off the knot and handed the dress to my sister.

She didn't go out. She looked down at my back.

The zipper was still stuck below my shoulder blades, and the skin had rubbed red.

"Deidre, what are you going to do about yours?"

I took off the dress and turned it inside out.

The side seams had been left very narrow. Even letting them all out wouldn't make up two sizes.

There were two decorative bands at the back of the waist.

I took one off, cut it down the middle, and worked it into the two sides.

Constance held the fabric down for me.

"Will this even work?"

"You won't be able to tell in the photo."

After I said it, I paused.

Mom always said the same thing.

Sleeve a little short, you can't tell.

Shoes a little tight, sit down and you can't tell.

As long as no one could tell, it not fitting didn't count as a problem.

There wasn't enough time. I only sewed the outer layer.

Once I had it on, the zipper finally reached the top. It was just that the stitches ground against my waist, and every move hurt.

Constance saw me suck in a breath.

"Maybe I'll tell Mom we're not doing the photo."

"It's Grandma's seventieth. There's only this one."

I cut the thread.

"Let's go."

In the studio, Dad, Mom, and my brother were already in place.

Mom pulled my sister over first to check the strap, and only after she was sure there was no mark did she glance my way.

The dress could be worn, the color hadn't changed. She let out a breath.

"See, I told you you could fix it yourself."

The photographer put me at the very edge, then told me to lean in a little.

I'd barely shifted half a step when the stitches at my waist dug in.

Mom murmured a reminder:

"Don't slouch. Smile."

I straightened my back.

The studio lights flashed three times.

On the third, the fabric I'd worked into the right side split open a little.

I pressed my arm against it right away.

The photographer looked down at the photos and said the last one was the best.

Mom crowded over and only said:

"Constance's smile looks natural in this one."

But my brother had one eye half-closed in that photo.

The photographer agreed to reshoot for free on Saturday, and Mom booked the evening on the spot.

No one noticed I'd been holding my waist the whole time.

Back at Grandma's for dinner, I changed into my old hoodie. There were two red marks rubbed raw at my waist.

At the table, Aunt Marlene praised how neatly the five of us were all dressed.

Mom said with a smile that it was thanks to me knowing how to sew.

"Deidre's been good with her hands since she was little. Anything in the house tears, we go to her."

Aunt Marlene jumped right in:

"I've got a coat with a split cuff. I'll bring it to you one of these days."

Mom answered for me.

"Sure. She's fast with that kind of thing."

Grandma asked if I'd be staying local after graduation.

I was about to say something when Mom spoke first:

"A major like hers is the same anywhere."

"Stay close by, and she can help out at home too."

My brother knocked over his drink beside her.

Everyone rushed for napkins, and the whole thing was dropped.

That night at home, Mom handed me her phone.

"Fix your sizes on here, so I don't buy the wrong thing next time."

The note was titled “Family Sizes”.

Dad, Mom, my brother, my sister, each on their own line.

My name sat at the very bottom, with two extra words in front of it.

Other.

"Why am I under Other?"

Mom was taking her hair down, not looking my way.

"I just jotted it down back then."

"It's only a label. Don't read into it."

Then she pressed me again:

"Go on and fix it. You know your own sizes best."

I didn't fix it.

When I went back to my room, my textbooks and the tape measure I'd used for three years were sitting on the desk.

My phone had just lit up with a recruitment notice from my counselor.

A ready-to-wear studio in a neighboring city was hiring two paid pattern-making apprentices, room and board included.

Before the final round of evaluation, you had to submit one independent pattern-making piece.

Seven days until the deadline.

My counselor asked:

"Deidre, do you want to give it a try?"

Outside my door, Mom was calling for me to sew that portrait dress up firm again.

I looked down and replied.

"Yes."