Chapter 10
December 1971 - Lord & Taylor, New York City
"Angela. Is there a reason you're trying to hide under a moderate-sized throw blanket?"
"It's a turtleneck."
"It's appalling."
Angela looked down at the royal blue sweater and frowned. "What? Why?"
Mona sighed and rolled her eyes, "Darling, you have the most magnificent shoulders of anyone I've ever met, and they never see the sun!"
It was Angela's turn to roll her eyes, and look down at her mother. "That's actually not true. I bought a strapless gown not much more than a month ago. But even if it were true, I think I'm more comfortab-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Mona interrupted. "You bought a gown?" she questioned a little too sweetly. "For what?"
Angela was kicking herself. That's what I get for standing up for myself… "It – it was a thing for my sorority, but I didn't even end up going." Mona threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "But that's not my point," Angela continued. "What I'm trying to say is that I am perfectly capable of finding clothes that accentuate…whatever it is I want accentuated." Mona's eyebrows rose delightedly. "And this," Angela said with strained patience and a grip on the sweater, "does exactly that."
"It accentuates your…chastity?"
"I was going for brain, but close enough, I guess."
Mona paused. "Angela, you don't really buy into that baloney do you? - that you can't be sharp as a tack, and still look spectacular?" Mona dipped her brows in genuine concern. "Is that what they teach you up there?"
"Well, there are plenty of professors who still aren't pleased with making the college co-ed, but it's really more the guys. And they teach that lesson everywhere."
"Maybe it's time you proved them wrong?" Mona said with a wink.
"What makes you so convinced they're wrong? The value of an item is what someone is willing to pay for it." Angela had gone cold again, and was speaking with less and less inflection.
Mona slapped the heel of her hand against her forehead. "So, it is the professors!"
"Well, they teach the lessons, but the market proves them right."
"They're not right."
"Again, what makes you think so?"
"You. You're a marvel, Angela; the whole package. You're brilliant. You're dedicated. And you've got the bone structure of a Norse goddess! Why can't you see that?"
"It's hard to argue my view has been pretty obscured the past few years," Angela noted dryly.
"Oh, come off it. What woman doesn't struggle with her weight?"
"You tell me?"
"You don't think I struggle? Angela, I'm 5'2", and it was my love of chocolate you inherited! And for the record, I'm smart, too. I didn't go to college, and we both know my interest in numbers is minimal. But I've held my own with slippery lawyers, cocky doctors, and a mouthy daughter for 20 years." Mona breathed. "Look, Angela, I know my voice hasn't been the one you've been used to listening to. But maybe, could it be one of them?"
Angela just looked at her mother - her always beautiful, always put together mother. She had spent over six years wishing she could look like her. Now, she wanted to believe like her.
What if she's right? What if I was…sexually viable? What if some wonderful man would want me – like, really want me, not just out of desperation?
"What are you afraid of?" Mona said, interrupting Angela's thoughts.
"Hmm? Oh, I don't know. It's not that I'm always covered up. I have fun pieces. I just- I haven't had the best experiences trying to…fit in. I know I can hold my own in a classroom, but I guess I've felt safer under this kind of thing."
"It sure is a waste."
Angela rolled her eyes again. "Please, Mother. I don't have to wear a strip of fabric to not be wasting myself." Although, that was the best reaction I've had…
"Not that. The waste of you. Your personality. I remember when you were little. You used to come up with the funniest ensembles. They were ridiculous, and fun, and flashy, and you shone from the inside whenever you wore them. That's what I want for you. It's a waste to wear what you think other people think you should wear." Angela looked at her mother pointedly, and she threw her hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. Me, too. But do you really think this is you?"
Angela looked down at the cushy sweater in her hands, and sighed. "I guess I've always liked how I looked in red."
"No, red isn't your color," Mona grabbed her daughter's hand and dragged her over to some mannequins.
When they got home, Angela was tuckered out. She snuggled into bed, and read another chapter in Wuthering Heights by the light on her nightstand. She gently closed the classic, tipped her head back to the headboard, and sighed.
I may not know who I want to be, or can be, at this point. But I don't want to be like Heathcliff, even if I have a reason. He sure did.
She set her alarm for the morning. She needed to run.
