The shirt was a soft denim, the kind you feel compelled to rub against your cheek.  It was light blue, with mother-of-pearl snaps instead of buttons and, on the back, an embroidered dragon with open wings in threads of green and red.  My best friend had given it to me when I told her how much I liked it.  

The summer I turned 19, I was in the Hamptons at my friend’s house.  Her older sister, who I will call Sis, was a stylist to the stars. She was climbing to the height of her career, hanging out with the likes of Shannen Doherty and Sarah Michelle Gellar. 

“We are going to a party tonight,” my friend said.

I thought, I will wear my shirt tied at my waist, maybe with a white skirt.  

“My sister said we have to help set up though,” she said.

When we arrived at the party location, Sis pointed to a deck surrounding a glistening pool. “Take this bucket of corn and go shuck it over there,” she said.

We did as we were told.  I had an older sister, too, but mine was nice.

We went back to my friend’s house to clean up before getting dressed for the party because we had gotten all sweaty with the corn operation.

I put on my blue denim shirt, arranged my hair, and applied clear lip gloss.  The person having the party was some kind of supermodel, blonde and perfect, with a sports car in her garage.  The party was on the deck; the pool was lit up blue.  My friend and I stuck together, mingling with no one, trying to fit in.    

Then Sis approached me. “That’s my shirt!” she yelled. “Take it off!” 

I thought she was going to tear it off me. She pulled my friend to the side and badgered her.  My friend came to me and said, “You have to give her the shirt.  She’s the one who gave it to me.”  

“What will I wear?” I whispered, feeling like I was going to cry.  Everyone was looking, and Sis was still yelling at our backs, her arms gesticulating.  

A white Hanes T-shirt was shoved into my hands, and I went inside to change.  

The song “Cruel Summer” played over the speakers. Glamourous people swayed and held cocktails I didn’t know the names of.  

Back on the deck, I looked over the banister at the fancy car in the garage and felt lower than low, the Hanes shirt swallowing me up and billowing in the breeze.

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