“Okay, grown-ups, don’t move!”
This command came from a 12-year-old girl who had pushed through the screen door that separated a house from its wide front porch. She struck a dramatic attitude, barring the way for the half-dozen or so adults who were sitting in wicker chairs sipping cocktails.
There didn’t seem to be any danger of anyone moving, but the girl had her arms up, just in case. She giggled.
“Do we have to stay completely still?”
“You can move around a little but just stay in your seats.”
“Ah,” said the girl’s father, with a deep sigh that bespoke resignation, weariness and perhaps the tiniest hint of secret pride. “Another show.”
“Not just any show,” said the girl, “A fashion show!”
“Hooray, I love fashion shows!” enthused a visiting mother. She put down her drink and clapped.
A 15-year-old boy emerged from the house, made his sluggish way to a wicker bench and collapsed as completely as if someone had cut his strings. “I’m not in the show,” said his voice from somewhere in the heap. “I’m a judge.”
Soft, salty breezes blew in from the ocean as the adults waited, their faces turned towards the screen door. There was an immense amount of shuffling and whispering inside; green-room nerves and last minute prep, no doubt.
Laughter tumbled out, followed by an 11-year-old Pygmalion vision in silver and her giggling 10-year-old stylist.
“For my first creation,” said the giggler, “may I present this angelic outfit for evening. It has wings!”
The audience applauded as the vision shuffled forward and made an unsteady turn to display the full majesty of her costume. This consisted of overlapping items of silver and gray atop a band of spangled macrame that narrowed at the ankles.
“Oh, that’s clever,” murmured one of the spectators, snapping an iPhone picture of the scene. “I remember that scarf.”
Next came a mortified teenage girl wearing floor-length pink pleated chiffon and a blond wig a la Norman Bates. Her 12-year-old stylist, another chortler, covered her embarrassment by wrestling her mannequin into poses.
“This attractive gown,” gasped the stylist, accidentally dislodging the terrible wig and laughing all the harder, “is suitable for teatime!”
Semicollapsing with the giddiness of the spotlight, this duo disappeared back into the house just as a third mannequin-and-designer combo came out. In marked contrast, this pair had the finesse of seasoned professionals.
“A lovely dress for afternoon,” drawled the 12-year-old designer, raising a graceful arm. Her model, a regal and composed 14-year-old in a puffy sleeved lace number, glided towards the adults and performed a practiced turn.
“Very nice!” and “Tres chic!” and “That was a great show, thank you so much!” said the grown-ups. They spoke in the hearty concluding tones of people who have been happy to indulge their little darlings for a while but who are now ready to return to their cocktails and adult conversation.
One of the women rose to replenish the cheese plate. She found her passage barred.
“Oh, we’re not done,” said the girl who had announced the show in the first place. “That was just the beginning. Each stylist has many more outfits to show you!”
The adults exchanged wry smiles. Oh very well. The show-giving phase, goofy and sometimes tedious as it may be, doesn’t last forever. They’d miss it when it was gone.
“Great!” they agreed.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
