Chapter Text
It was sprung on me by my mother at around 9am rather rudely that I would be chauffeured at 10am to the fanciest dress selling place in our town. I do lack dresses, and in fact lack many clothes of any sort, because I don’t really feel required to do much clothes shopping – it bores me, funnily enough; it should seem as if I am out of place in my family, coming from the richest and most pretentious people in the county. I suppose the proper reason why I don’t need to think about fashion is because I haven’t got many friends. Or any.
The dress I need is for the “debutante ball” which is happening in four days time, on Sunday night. I mean, is it really necessary to still have these things? It’s the 21st century. And I’m certainly not polite enough to be a debutante. If I wore fashion, I would reflect my personality in it. Except I just wear plain white t-shirts, and stiff jeans which don’t compliment my body in any way. And I’m not allowed to use Instagram for more than 10 minutes a day, otherwise I run the risk of rotting and infecting my mind with “silliness”. That means I can’t even get inspiration from fashion influencers.
I won’t lie, though, I’m not some kind of rebel to my family. Although I’m not a fan of wearing dresses, or using a chauffeur to get me anywhere, I still do enjoy the privacy of my life. I guess being homeschooled all of my life made me enjoy the company of my own thoughts, and reading a lot of philosophy books in the library in the East Wing of my abode.
“Minjeong!” my mother calls from downstairs. It’s 9:30, and I still haven’t fully gotten out of bed.
“Coming!” I yell back, putting on my slippers and meeting her in the dining hall, where breakfast is already set out on the table. It’s a bowl of fruit with a small cream jug for me to use.
I sit at the table and sparingly drizzle the cream, as I know my mother would flip if I put the whole lot. I won’t fit in a dress then.
I chew on three strawberries at a time, and look at my mother across the table, who has a rather disgusted grimace pressed onto her face like a tattoo.
“I can walk myself to the dress shop.” I say loudly, yet still muffled by the food in my mouth.
She gasps. “Close that mouth! And I will not abide by it.”
People I meet (I rarely meet people) tend to think that I’ve got a posh accent, but compared to my mother, I’m practically a peasant.
I leave half of the bowl empty to show that I’m full, and swallow what’s in my mouth. “It’s a ten minute walk.”
“But the street! You could get hit.”
I scowl a little and mumble. “I’m not that delicate.”
“You’re as delicate as my original Henry VIII china mug.”
“Comparing me to a mug? How lovely.” I scoff.
She stands up abruptly. “If you want to walk, so be it. But Anthony will not pick you up.”
“Anthony can have a well earned rest.” And with that, I leave the room, ascend the flight of stairs back up to my room and pick out a white button up shirt and black jeans. The one thing I happen to be blessed with in terms of fashion is the abundance of jewellery in my room, except I’m not really a fan of wearing jewellery. I don’t really want to stand out.
…
I use the maps on my phone. Although it’s only a 10 minute walk, I haven’t actually been there before, and I rarely go out on my own, so I kind of have to use it.
I walk through Deer Park and occasionally stop to admire the scenery, before reminding myself that I’m on an oh so “strict” schedule for 10am.
I reach the street where the dress boutique “Mamba Atelier” resides, and start walking down it. Feeling confident, I put my phone away. Although as the object leaves my hands for my pocket and all I can feel is the wind on my palms, I begin to pick at my nails and skin, tension in my shoulders. I feel like I’m standing out, so I drop my arms to my sides and walk normally. However then, I catch myself biting my lips and I soon enough realise that I can’t go a second in this atmosphere without fidgeting, the nerves reaching my stomach.
So I work with the wind and allow it to blow in my face, hiding me from the public eye. But the feeling of hair in my face gets too much and I start pushing it my ears rapidly, and much to my disdain, the strands keep coming back.
The more I fight them, the more annoyed I get, and it starts annoying me to the point that I-
Bump into a stranger.
She turns around, a taller girl who looks like she might be only one year older than me.
“Gosh I am so… sorry…” I say, my gums almost bleeding at the intensity of my biting.
She keeps a stern look on her face as she looks me up and down. But once I look her up and down, admiring her outfit, her expression softens and she even smiles at me.
“Are you interested in my clothes?”
“W-what?” I stutter, catching her raising her eyebrow at me. “No… I’ve just never seen anything like it.”
I look at her outfit again: a plain mint green t-shirt, long chain jewellery with what looks like handmade wooden pendants, casual worn-down grey jeans with a rusted metal belt, the plain cap on her head, and the well-loved pair of birkenstocks on her feet. I shouldn’t be this surprised over what should seem to be a normal outfit, but the colour and expression in the clothes is what gets me.
“I made the necklaces and belt. The rest is shared with my siblings.”
I drop my jaw. “Your siblings let you borrow their items? My sister would flip.”
She raises her eyebrow again. “Well we don’t really have a choice. If we’re lucky, we hit the thrift for new stuff.” She inspects my reaction. “What? There’s a lot of things you can do with the same t-shirt.”
“Thrift shop? Why would you go there?”
“Oh, so you’re a snob, is that right?” She laughs mockingly, but I shake my head vigorously so that she doesn’t get the wrong idea.
“No, no! I’m just used to staying inside.”
“Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about the public, clearly.” she says, her brummie accent coming through a bit more. So she’s from Birmingham, then.
“Birmingham, then?” I question, as we walk together down the street.
“Sevenoaks.” she replies, monotone.
“But you sound like you're from Birmingham.”
“No, you just sound like you’re from Sevenoaks.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I suppose I’ve never really thought about it. What is the Sevenoaks’ accent meant to sound like? I always thought it was just posh, but maybe some people just grow into different things.
We reach the Mamba Atelier, and I stop. “This is my stop.” I say, pointing at the shop and all of the elaborate, ridiculous dresses on display. She narrows her eyes at me before breaking into laughter. “It wasn’t my idea!”
“Well, I hope we cross paths again, princess.” she sniggers, before walking off.
“Wait!” I shout, without hesitation, reaching my hand out. “You didn’t tell me your name!”
She turns around momentarily. “Do I need a name?” she says mysteriously, before smirking and walking off again.
I drop my hand back to my side and mumble my own name, which doesn’t settle right on my tongue. It’s as if I’d never used the name before, never called myself it. So maybe she’s right. Maybe we don’t need names. I look back up at the boutique and grunt, before stepping inside and facing my shit.
…
For the whole dress fitting, I thought about the mysterious black haired girl with the mint tee.
The assistant tried a brown dress which made me look like a gaggle of geese, a pink dress which had the same effect but with flamingos, and a blue dress which frankly pissed me off so much that I intentionally left a small rip in the back without informing the parlour owner.
Now I’m sat in the back of the parlour, trying to settle the debate on which dress to choose. The only problem is that they are all awfully dreadful, and I can’t just say I’m not going to the ball.
The debutante thing isn’t as bad as it sounds; it’s rather rewarding actually, for networking and being helpful to the community, but it just feels so backwards for some reason. Why should we have to celebrate personal maturity in a ghastly dress, and inevitably end up with a suitor, even though they state that it’s not the primary purpose? I can’t imagine myself finding a suitor. I think I’d be more masculine than him.
I gaze around the shop one last time before standing up and saying my farewell to the shopkeeper.
“Well. I might just try the next shop.”
“Everything’s closed, ma'am." the owner says, apologetically.
“What?” I open my mouth to question why, but my eye catches on a dress, squeezed between two white ones.
My body moves without command, and plucks the clothing from the hanger. My eyes roam over the dress in my hands; not too extravagant, yet it stands out in its own way. The dress is mint coloured, the same shade which the mysterious girl from earlier had been wearing.
“I’ll take this.”
“Are you sure you don’t want something more… debutante?”
“Does it make me any less of a lady?” I raise my eyebrow and the shopkeeper, concerned, takes the dress immediately from me and heads to the desk for checkout.
…
The walk back through Deer Park is pleasant. The breeze feels crisper, and for the first time in my life, I feel that a fashion purchase has fulfilled me. Even if I don’t like wearing dresses, it’s the mint which caught my eye. Perhaps I could find a way to style it like the girl.
“What did you end up picking out?” says a voice from behind me. I turn around instantly, as if I had known this person all my life.
I can’t hide the grin on my face. “Were you following me?”
“I was following the wind. You just happened to be there.”
“Do you spend a lot of time outside?”
The girl nods. “Yeah. I live on a farm just south of here.”
I giggle. “Got any pets?”
“If chickens count, then yes,” she says, smiling back. She hadn’t looked down at my outfit again since meeting me, which is interesting, as it was all I had been doing.
“How come you haven’t checked out my outfit? You seem like the type who likes fashion.”
She flips her cap backwards and smiles plainly. “You calling this fashion?”
“Fashion is clothing, isn’t it?”
“Fashion is clothing, my god,” she says, barely audible as she keels over with laughter, I smack her gently. “Fashion is expression.”
“Expression?”
“Take one look up and down at me again, and tell me what you see.”
I nod and look her up and down. Her clothes told me a lot from a first glance.
“I see someone who’s adventurous. Could be open to a few hikes.” I say.
She points to her birkenstocks. “With these sandals? You’ve got a lot of learning to do.”
“You told me that earlier!”
“Well I’m saying it again, ‘cause it’s true.”
With that, she turns around again and begins walking south. She walks slowly, clearly expecting me to follow, and as much as I want to, the sadness is evident on my face. The girl looks back at me and she can tell from my eyes that I’m unable to come with her, and that I’ve got to make it home.
“Winter.”
“What do you mean, ‘winter’?” I ask, confused. It’s summertime. Is that her name?
“You look like a Winter.”
“But my names—“
“I don’t care what your name is. Winter suits you.”
I cough. “Can you at least tell me yours?”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t—“ As the words leave my mouth, she gestures to her outfit once more, giving me time to think of a name for her. Minty? Sandal? Jean? “Karina.” I blurt out. I don’t know where it came from, but it surprisingly works. She seems taken aback by the name, and stays silent for a moment.
“…Karina” she repeats back, softly, before smiling and walking off within a tick of a clock.
…
I lay the minty dress on my bed, repeating back the name she gave me. Winter, Winter, Winter. It’s rather cute. But I don’t think it’s super fitting, as someone who likes to believe that they are quite a bubbly and charismatic person. But it is what it is. I like it, oddly.
The dress looks even better after the second encounter with the mysterious girl, or rather, Karina, and I marvel at the fantastical colour difference between my white duvet and the item of clothing.
I was so used to calling myself that name that I hadn’t even noticed my actual name being called from downstairs. Minjeong, Winter, Minjeong, Winter. I frown and smile consecutively at the names. I naturally seem more drawn to the name given by an intriguing stranger rather than the one given at birth.
But I still have to respond to it, so I oblige and head downstairs.
I greet my mother.
“I trust that you made a decision?”
“Yes, mother.” I say, still smiling giddily. The look on her face is gentle, sweet.
“Oh… my child is enjoying her life as a lady!” As if.
“Aha, well I’m not technically one yet…” Just four days.
“It can’t happen quick enough!” she squeals, coming over to hug me, which I awkwardly receive, boxily wrapping my left arm around her waist and patting her bony back.
I take the chance to flee from her gushing and head down to the library.
I wonder what books Karina reads, if she does, and what kind of opinions she has on different philosophies. Interested, I pick out my favourite books from lots of different genres, and slim my choices down to just five books. I feel a little obsessed with this girl, it’s nothing I’ve ever felt before. So with the books, I rush upstairs two flights back to my room and pick a bag to stuff the books in. I don’t have her number, so I will just have to trust that I can find her tomorrow. If my mother lets me out.
Next, I open my closet, and inspect the abundancy of clothes in there. Abundancy of monotone clothing, that is. And I try to picture her outfit in my head, as I pick out the nearest possible items in relation to hers. I end up with a bright yellow t-shirt, a pair of black jeans and a sun hat.
When I lay it out on my bed, it doesn’t look so good. But perhaps it’ll look better on me tomorrow?
Fashion is expression, as she said.