She especially has to say that I look skinny to me because she’s tall and thin and is a dead ringer for Halle Berry and I’m short and not thin and not a dead ringer for anyone. Yes, Vanessa is tall and thin and gorgeous and she is still my best friend. I really think that says a lot about my character, don’t you think?

“Vanessa’s right,” my mom says, now clearly tipsy from downing my entire glass of champagne in two gulps. “All of these dresses are made for skinny, anorexic girls. We Miller girls have curves. Let’s get out of here.”

“Let’s have a bite to eat before we go to our next appointment,” I say to my mother as I take the empty champagne glass from her hand.

“May I ask where you’re going next?” the salesperson asks as my mother and I retreat to our dressing rooms to change back into our own clothing.

“Monique deVouvray,” Vanessa says and I can practically hear, from inside my dressing room, the salesperson’s mouth dropping to the ground. I look up and see Vanessa trying to pretend that she doesn’t notice, as if she goes to the most exclusive dress designer in the world every day, but I can see the edges of her mouth fighting back a tiny smile. Reason number 432 why Vanessa is such a great friend—she hates this mean salesperson as much as I do for asking me if I was planning to lose weight all morning, while my mother, the size six, fit into every dress in the showroom perfectly. (Salesperson: “What a figure! Did you use to dance?” Me: “I took ballet and tap until I was twelve.” Salesperson: “I meant your mother.” My mother: “Well, I do love to cha-cha!”)

“Yes, our appointment at Monique’s,” my mother says with a slight French accent, trying to stand up without teetering over. “We really must go.”