footloose and fancy-free [billie]

Billie tried to keep her smile modest, but it widened a touch at Barbara’s reaction to her suggestion. Mrs Gibson would die? “I would die,” she countered, eyebrows raised slightly. She let her friend take the top from her hands and glanced down at the one she’d picked up, placing it over her arm along with the two pairs of jeans. Tailor? Billie glanced at her, then turned around in a half-circle looking for someone who looked like they worked here.

She glanced at Barbara, then at where she was looking, to see what her friend was trying to show her. “Oh,” Billie said. “Fitting rooms?” she read out loud, glancing at Barbara as she emphasised the second word. “I suppose we should go and see,” she said, only moving when Barbie did. She slid her free arm into Barbie’s free arm effortlessly, the pairs’ steps almost exactly in time with one another.

“Do you think it’ll go with your necklace?” she asked in a hushed voice as they walked arm-in-arm, straight-faced this time as she glanced at her friend. Barbara had it (rightfully) tucked away at the moment, but Barbie had already complained to her — before today — about the weird little amulet her mother had made her promise to wear. She gave her the smallest of smiles as they approached what seemed to be a small hallway, with a desk and another rack of mismatched clothes. A young woman sat on a stool there, folding clothes.

Billie glanced at her friend, exchanging a look, before clearing her throat quietly to get the woman’s attention. When it was polite to do so, Billie hesitantly lifted the clothes she’d neatly draped over her forearm. “We’d like to try these clothes on, could you help us with that…?” She gave her a polite smile.

The woman looked at them, at the clothes Billie had, then further down the hall, where there were multiple doors. "They're all free, just use any of them," she said, giving the girls a brief customer-service sort of smile before returning to what she was doing. Billie glanced at her friend, mildly alarmed.

Barbara giggled, less daintily than she had intended to. “You would,” she agreed, as though she wouldn’t too. Still – she thought herself a fraction more likely than Billie to be caught in anything provocative. She was a dancer; Billie seemed to fill her free time mostly by reading. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Billie’s bare shoulders. (She thought about that for too long, before she pursed her lips prudishly and looked around, trying to guess their next step.)

“Oh – tosh,” she said, realising her friend was joking – “Nothing would.” The heavy, cracked turquoise stone in the centre of the pendant was, unfortunately, the subtlest part of it – she had been wearing it tucked under her blouse, where nobody had to look at it. Barbara patted it over her chest, comforted that it was, most importantly, out of sight, and second most importantly, still there.

Barbara looked at Billie; Billie looked at Barbara. For what felt like a very long time, neither of them spoke, and just as Barbara was about to break, Billie broke first – grateful, relieved, Barbara let Billie handle talking to the Muggle worker.

Barbara looked at Billie; Billie looked at Barbara; Barbara set off toward one of the doors, wondering if there was a worker there, but it was empty, and much smaller than she expected it to be – she stepped in and held the shimmering green shirt in front of her in the mirror, then put her head back out, whispered loudly, “Billie!” and, once Billie had emerged, “We’ve got to do it ourselves?”

She put her head back in, found the funny metal seam Muggles used instead of buttons or laces or anything proper; the shirt showed far too much skin, and – worse – her amulet, so she poked only her head out again – “I feel like a trollop,” she said, “How’s it look on you?”

Billie unlaced her shoes and put them neatly side-by-side by the wall. They had to do it themselves. Sounded easy enough; Billie knew how to dress herself, didn’t she? The room was small and claustrophobic, with unflattering lighting and far too many mirrors. The blonde struggled with her first pair of jeans, abandoning them hastily. Thankfully, the top didn’t take too much working out.

“Awful,” Billie said, trying to call out but be quiet at the same time. She stared at herself in the mirror, hating how vulnerable she felt. Her shoulders never saw the light of day; they almost looked out of place exposed like this. Too much neck, too much upper arm; she didn’t look or feel like herself at all. “One moment,” she said. The blonde finished pulling up the second pair of ‘jeans’, wrinkling her nose at the texture. When she’d done up the button, she poked her head out. No one else was around. Okay. Billie took a small step out, still hovering close to her little fitting room.

“It’s so wrong isn’t it,” she said to her friend under her breath. She had to tell herself consciously to stop fiddling with the strap of the weird top; she was clearly self-conscious about the bits it didn’t cover, but if she kept playing she might pull one of the rhinestones off or something. “These are so rough,” Billie complained of the jeans, rubbing her fingers against the denim at her hip for emphasis. “And this pair’s so big, but the other pair I got felt so uncomfortably tight and I’m fairly certain they’re only one size smaller; do you think they’re just supposed to be like that?” She felt alarmed at the idea.

In doing up the seam Barbara had pinched at her skin; somehow even the sharp pain, which wasn’t going away even though she’d gotten it figured out after a moment, was the least of her concerns just now. The trousers she’d picked were tighter around her thighs than anything she’d ever worn; even ballet tights, which were called tights, didn’t carry the same constrictive feeling. They bagged around her ankles and the button barely closed; the waistline sat lower than she was comfortable with, and she was glad the shirt was too long for her, and fell neatly past her hips.

Her mother would die, she thought again; Billie, from the room next door, seemed to agree – she said, in nearly a whisper, that it looked awful. That made Barbara feel better, enough to open the door again and step out sheepishly, the backs of her shoes digging into her heels where she hadn’t bothered to put them on correctly.

“Horrible,” said Barbara, wrapping her hands around her bare shoulders to suppress a shiver. Billie kept going, and Barbie widened her eyes with distress – “What, and they don’t have a tailor on hand?”

She rubbed her hands up and down briskly and said, “I can’t stand it – let’s just get out of these and I’ll have to tell Killian that I tried and couldn’t.” Chances were he wouldn’t be surprised at all to hear it; Barbara tilted her head to the side and said, “Maybe we ought to come back in winter – then they’d have to sell something more modest, wouldn’t they?”