A little before noon I arrive for work at Xtabay, a vintage clothing store in my neighborhood, and go to the bar next door to get the key. My main source of income has dried up for an unknown number of weeks, but by chance, Liz, Xtabay’s proprietress, needed someone to work weekends. I lug the sale rack out to front of the store, put out the sandwich board, light a few scented candles, and cue up the Brazilian music.

The first customers of the day are a high school girl and her father who drove in from a farming community west of town to find a dress for the girl’s homecoming dance. She looks about fifteen, wears jeans, a fleece hoodie, and glasses, and has her hair pulled back severely. No makeup. When I ask her what sort of dress she has in mind, she’s vague. “Oh, something fun. You know, semi-formal. Maybe something bright.” She flips through the racks while her father waits patiently by the door. I see her fingering silk, décolleté cocktail dresses, trying on the idea of womanhood. I think she’d be happy with the lilies and musk of Narciso Rodriguez…

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