She turned, liking the view from behind, it was at least one place she had curves, in the soft rounded cheeks of her bottom. From the side, if she exaggerated and stuck her chest out, she could imagine her breasts were fuller and rounder instead of the barely emerging nodes they really were. She looked at the dress in her hands again, glancing at the tag inside. Versace. She slid it up the long length of her thin frame, moving her hair out of the way so she could tie it, gasping at the feel of it against her skin.

She piled her hair up on top of her head, admiring herself. The dress was too long and the front simply hung on her-her nascent breasts did nothing to fill it. When she turned, she giggled, seeing the crack of her butt appearing above the back of the dress. It shimmered and shined deliciously when she moved.

She danced, sylphlike, her reedy arms stretched above her head, swaying willowy, back and forth, pursing her lips, widening her eyes at the mirror. Irene had hundreds of these dresses, and she wore them out every weekend. Darla felt suddenly very jealous. Her daddy, who she only saw a few times a month at the most, spent hours with the woman who filled these dresses. Who filled this dress.

What’s he ever given me ? Darla fingered the heart-shaped locket she’d had since she was little, the one thing her father had left behind. She sometimes imagined she had captured his real heart in it, keeping it like a secret from anyone else. Closing her eyes, she began to dance again, holding her father’s heart in her hand.

What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man hold you, press you against him, kiss you? She closed her eyes and imagined dancing with a boy-