Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Read Online Free PDF Page A

continued across the green.
    â€œI know!” I sighed rapturously in return.
    â€œDisgusting,” Ashling muttered. I didn’t know what planet she was from. That boy may have been many things, but “disgusting” was not one of them. I floated six inches off the ground the rest of the way to the costume shack.
    After reminding us to show up promptly at nine for training the following morning, Maddie hurried off to the education offices to coordinate some last-minute camp details. The costume shack really was a shack. The stout older woman ruling the domain pulled Suze back into an area so crammed with clothes, you could hardly see the door, leaving me and Ashling in a waiting area containing one folding metal chair and a
Camden Crier
from February ’02. Ashling took the chair. I picked up what I gathered was the local newspaper.
    A few minutes later Suze was done, and the costume lady pulled Ashling back into her lair. I flipped through the
Crier,
skimming an article about the school board fudging standardized testing results. Fifteen minutes of flipping later, Ashling returned and it was my turn.
    Within, it was even more stuffed with clothes than I’d thought.
    â€œFirst things first.” The lady tossed a polo shirt at me. “Here.”
    I held it up. It was enormous. “Do you, um, have a small?”
    â€œThat is the small.”
    â€œFan-tastic.” Now I had an attractive shirtdress. Okay, that’s a lie—I had a shirtdress.
    â€œLet’s get you kitted up.” The costume lady started bustling around, simultaneously stripping me and collecting garments: wool stockings that tied above my knees; a loose-fitting shift, which looked like a linen nightgown; a not-so-loose set of stays, which was like a pointy-ended tube top with boning and made my torso look like an ice cream cone with two scoops on top; and three different petticoats. I had on more clothes in my underwear in the eighteenth century than I did fully dressed in the twenty-first.
    I took an experimental breath. My lungs pushed against the stiff boning of the stays, but I could breathe. Sort of. I was actually lucky, because for American women, late eighteenth-century stays were more like bras than nineteenth-century corsets—their primary purpose was support, not waist minimization. Stays encouraged good posture (definitely no slouching in my future), and supported and lifted the bosom. And my stays were succeeding a bit too well on that front. With each breath, I was half afraid my boobs would just break free—because the stays were flattening out my torso, my boobs had nowhere to go but up. And up they went. I tugged my shift to make sure it was extra secure.
    â€œAnd the dress . . . How’s this?” She held up what looked like a brown burlap sack.
    â€œDo you have anything a little more . . . saucy?” Saucy enough to seduce a Squaddie, maybe.
    â€œI’ll . . . check.” She raised an eyebrow. “Honey, you know you’re gonna be scrubbing pots, not doing the minuet.”
    â€œI know,” I agreed, “but they’re just so beautiful.” I looked longingly at the rows of dresses above my head.
    That did the trick. I’d somehow flipped a switch and turned her from a troll into my new best friend. “Let me rustle up some options.” She beamed.
    She returned with a linsey-woolsey sapphire-blue day dress, another in striped sky-blue poplin, and my favorite, a pink confection with little white flowers that had an underskirt in contrasting colors that peeked through. I clapped in delight.
    â€œI love them!” I squealed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
    â€œYou are so very welcome, dear,” she replied. “If you want, even though we’re not supposed to do this, you can come in anytime and switch them out for new ones.” She winked conspiratorially.
    â€œNo!” I gasped in joyous