Free Great by Sara Benincasa Page A

above her ankles. She wore lavender-and-white saddle shoes and lacy white ankle socks. It was one of those outfits that was completely weird and would’ve gotten her laughed out of school if she’d tried it in Chicago, but it made sense on some fancy style blog. The post read:
    As if I even need to tell you this is Vivienne Westwood! The asymmetrical collar should’ve given it away, loves. The best 18th birthday present I could’ve asked for was a new box of Viv for—and you know I’ll always be honest with you about this—free, free, free! So yes, they wanted me to blog about it, and yes, I’m doing it, but only because it is actually this fabulous. For those of you who’ve been accusing me of sporting too many high-fashion freebies lately: I thrifted the shoes, socks, and the blouse with the incredible lace collar. And you can’t see my makeup (anonymity is the spice of blogging, angel faces), but it’s cheapy-cheap stuff from the drugstore. Just so you know I’m still your down-to-earth fashionista! All my love, Jacinta.
    And there, at the bottom, was her beautiful signature.
    â€œI like what she’s doing,” my mother said a little dreamily. “Her branding is fantastic. A mix of high-end and DIY. Aspirational yet accessible. Fresh.” I could tell my mother was going into one of her marketing term fits, when she stops speaking like a human and starts spouting terms that she and her business associates throw around.
    â€œAnd of course,” Mom added, “I love the lavender. It’s not my style, but it’s very young and now. Oh, darling, I’m so thrilled she’s invited you to her party! You are going, aren’t you?” Through the kitchen window behind her, the Ferris wheel suddenly lit up with a dazzling panoply of twinkling white lights. It seemed party time was drawing nigh.
    Maybe it was the almost pathetic look of hope in my mother’s expression. Maybe it was my natural curiosity about this fabu fashion goddess next door. More likely it was the fact that I’ve always loved carnivals. Whatever the reason, I found myself saying, “You know what? I am gonna go.” My mother followed me upstairs, jabbering all the way.
    â€œNow, don’t wear all black like you did yesterday,” she said. “My God, you looked like you were going to a punk-rock funeral. Let me see what you’ve packed.” Uneasily, I let her go through my suitcase. As she combed through T-shirt after T-shirt, she heaved several disappointed sighs in a row.
    â€œDo you possess anything that doesn’t have a cartoon character, a band, or a snotty saying on the front?” she asked, holding up one of my favorites, a green shirt that read, “I’m a big fan of your work.”
    â€œNot that I’m aware of,” I said.
    She opened her eyes wide and met my gaze with a steely determination. “I knew something like this would come up eventually,” she said, straining to remain calm. “So you know what I did, dear? I stocked up on some Marc Jacobs basics, just for you.”
    I groaned. “I hate when you shop for me,” I said.
    â€œIt’s for your own good,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed downstairs to get the bags. “You dress like you’re mentally unstable. You’re seventeen years old, Naomi. It’s time to start dressing like a woman, not an angry child.” In a flash, she was back upstairs with her bags.
    â€œAt least it’s not Lilly Pulitzer,” I said, and my mother blanched. Lilly Pulitzer dresses look like the most boring person in the world barfed on some fabric and fashioned it into a frock. When I was a kid, my mother was a Lilly Pulitzer devotee until some socialite whose event she was catering told her she ought to change into her real dress before the guests arrived. (I’m not kidding—this actually happened.) Ever since then, Mom has