Five Snips Through the Dress I Picked With My Father

The first thing my stepmother destroyed that afternoon was not my dress. It was the last fragile piece of peace my father had managed to build inside our house.

The second was the lie that she could do whatever she wanted and never pay for it.

I was seventeen years old, standing barefoot in the dressing room of our mansion on Crescent Hill, when Renata lifted a pair of silver scissors and cut through the gown my father and I had chosen together.

Snip.

The sound was small.

Snip.

My hands went cold.

Snip.

I reached for the fabric, but Blair stepped between me and the dress.

Snip.

Renata smiled at me in the mirror.

The fifth cut was the cruelest. She turned the scissors sideways and dragged the blade down the satin, leaving a jagged opening that ran from my neckline almost to my hip.

"There," she said, lowering the scissors.

"Now it looks more like something a girl your age deserves.""

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

The gown hung from a padded hook behind me, its pale blue satin torn open, the delicate silver embroidery my father had admired reduced to dangling threads.

My father had driven me to Portland in June to buy it. We had spent two weekends visiting shops because he refused to let me settle for something that didn't feel right.

He wasn't a man who understood fashion. He was a man who understood promises.

When the saleswoman had asked what kind of dress I wanted, I'd shrugged and said something simple.

Dad had looked at me over the rim of his reading glasses.

"Simple doesn't mean you have to disappear, sweetheart.""

That was how we found it.

A blue satin gown with a fitted waist, soft sleeves, and a skirt that moved when I walked. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that made me feel like I was pretending to be someone else.

Dad had stood beside the fitting-room curtain while I stepped out wearing it.

For once, he had smiled without looking exhausted.

"That's the one," he'd said.

I'd turned toward the mirror.

"You don't think it's too much?""

"I think you're allowed to have one beautiful evening.""

He paid for it himself.

Not because we couldn't afford it. My father owned a successful timber-processing business, and our house had more rooms than our family knew what to do with.

He paid because he'd promised my mother, before she died, that he would make sure I never felt alone in the world.

He'd never told me that directly. I'd found the promise in a letter tucked inside one of her old books.

But I'd seen it in a thousand smaller things: the way he kept her favorite mug on the kitchen shelf, the way he remembered which songs made me cry, and the way he drove two hours to Portland just because I wanted to feel pretty for my senior-year spring dance.

That gown wasn't expensive enough to change my life.

It was precious enough to remind me that someone still saw me.

And Renata knew it.

She knew exactly what she was cutting.

"Give it back," I whispered.

Renata tilted her head.

"Give what back?""

"My dress.""

Blair laughed from the doorway.

She was eighteen, twenty months older than me, and had spent nearly two years treating my existence as a personal insult.

She wore a cream silk robe with her hair already curled for the dance. A diamond bracelet glittered on her wrist, a gift from Renata for her eighteenth birthday.

"Technically," Blair said, "it's a pile of fabric now.""

"Shut up, Blair.""

Her smile widened.

"Oh, listen to her. She's finally learning to talk.""

I moved toward the dress, but Renata held it away from me.

"Don't be dramatic," she said.

"You can wear something else.""

"You cut it!""

"Because you wouldn't stop making everything about you.""

I stared at her.

For two years, I'd heard variations of that sentence whenever Dad bought me a book, asked about my grades, or took me somewhere without inviting Renata and Blair.

If I was happy, I was selfish.

If I was quiet, I was ungrateful.

If I asked for anything, I was trying to take something from them.

Renata had a special talent for turning ordinary affection into a crime.

She'd married my father three years after my mother's death. At first, she'd been warm and attentive. She'd brought casseroles when I was sick, braided my hair before school, and told my father that I needed a woman in the house.

Then the wedding was over.

The casseroles stopped.

The braids disappeared.

And the woman who had promised to help raise me began keeping a list of everything she believed I owed her.

My father never saw most of it. He spent long days at the mill, leaving before sunrise and returning after dinner. Renata made certain the house looked perfect whenever he came home.

She also made certain I looked difficult.

By the time I realized what she was doing, Blair had learned to play the same game.

Now, standing in front of my ruined dress, I felt something inside me crack.

"Why do you hate me so much?"" I asked.

For the first time, Renata's smile faltered.

Then she stepped closer.

"Because you keep mistaking your father's guilt for love.""

The words struck harder than the scissors.

Blair stopped laughing.

Renata watched my face carefully, enjoying the moment she saw the sentence land.

"Your mother is dead," she continued.

"And your father feels bad about it. That's why he spoils you. It doesn't mean you're special.""

I slapped her.

The sound echoed through the dressing room.

Blair gasped.

Renata touched her cheek slowly, as if she couldn't quite believe I'd dared to do it.

Then her expression changed.

"You little—"

She grabbed the ruined gown, crumpled the satin against her chest, and marched toward the linen closet.

I followed her.

"Where are you taking it?""

She didn't answer.

In the corner stood a deep plastic bin filled with dark blue liquid. Ruth, our housekeeper, used the pre-treatment solution to strip stains from embroidered tablecloths before sending them to the cleaner.

It smelled like wet pennies and chemicals.

Renata dropped my gown into it.

The satin disappeared beneath the surface.

"No!"" I lunged forward.

Blair caught my arm.

"Don't touch her, you psycho!""

I twisted free, but the gown had already begun soaking up the liquid. The pale blue turned navy. The embroidery darkened. The skirt sank slowly beneath the surface.

Renata rested one hand on the rim of the bin.

"There," she said.

"Problem solved.""

Blair burst out laughing.

I stood frozen, staring at the place where my dress had vanished.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Heavy boots.

A familiar rhythm.

My father appeared in the doorway wearing his work shirt, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, sawdust clinging to his shoulders.

He looked at me first.

Then the bin.

Then Renata's hand resting on its rim.

"What's going on?"" he asked.

Nobody answered.

His eyes moved to the empty hook behind me.

"Where's the dress I bought my daughter?""

Renata opened her mouth.

Dad lifted one hand.

"Don't.""

It was the quietest word he'd spoken all day.

And somehow, it was the most frightening.

He walked past us toward the tall wardrobe in the back corner. The one Renata kept locked, despite the fact that the house belonged to him.

He pulled a brass key from his pocket.

Renata's face went white.

"Daniel, don't you dare.""

Dad opened the wardrobe.

Inside hung two gowns.

Renata's long gray dress, the one she'd bragged about for a month.

And Blair's designer gown, the one she'd ordered from a catalogue and shown off to everyone at school.

Dad removed both.

"What are you doing?"" Blair demanded.

He carried them to the bin.

Renata rushed forward.

"Those are ours!""

Dad dropped the dresses into the blue liquid.

Splash.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then he raised his right hand.

A small flame appeared above his fingertip, steady and bright, as though a match had been lit in the center of the room.

Blair stumbled backward.

Renata's lips parted.

"D-Daniel?""

My father flicked his fingers.

The flame fell into the bin.

A rush of fire rose from the liquid, blue at its base and orange at the edges. It consumed the three gowns in seconds, curling the satin into blackened ribbons.

Renata screamed.

Blair began crying.

"We need those tonight!"" they shouted together.

Dad watched the last of the fire die.

"If my daughter doesn't get to go," he said, "neither do you.""

Then he took my arm.

"Get in the car, sweetheart. I have one stop to make before the dance.""

I followed him out.

Behind us, Renata stood beside the ruined gowns, shaking with fury.

But as we reached the staircase, I heard her say something that made my father stop.

"You can't keep her from finding out what her mother did.""

His grip tightened around my arm.