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suitcase. Especially when you’re going to Paris, France. I had no idea how I could possibly do it in twenty-nine minutes.
    I ran home, which is only two blocks away. When I got there I pulled out a suitcase—my mom’s, because I don’t exactly have my own luggage. I do have some duffel baggy kind of things, but to go to Paris, I thought I should at least have an actual suitcase. Not that it was the suitcase I would have picked for Paris. It’s made of this pink carpet-bag fabric. But it was big. Then I proceeded to pull absolutely every piece of clothing out of my closet. No exaggeration. Every single thing. Then I just grabbed and tossed. Here are a few of the things I took:
    Everything I own that is black.
    A Miracle Bra. Not that I have anything to apologize for in that department, thank you, but every girl can use a little help now and then.
    A teeny tiny thong. Just in case an appropriate occasion presented itself.
    Every hopelessly ripped, shredded-at-the-heels pair of jeans I have ever refused to throw away no matter what my mom said.
    The most perfect little black Dolce & Gabbana skirt and top, which Celestine gave me. Celestine is my best friend from college, and she lives in Paris. I need to tell you considerably more about her. But first let me finish about my packing.
    A fiercely painful pair of Stephane Kélian pumps. Also from Celestine.
    All told, I packed enough clothes for a week. Or two. I had no reason to think anybody would need me in Paris for that long. But I could hope, couldn’t I? Let’s face it: If somebody offered you the chance to get out of Kirland, even for a day, you’d grab it. If you got the chance to stay away longer than you planned, you would. If staying away longer meant, oh, forever? Sign me up. And that’s if I was going just anyplace. But Paris? Oh, please let it be forever.
    I also took a copy of my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. Actually I packed that in my carry-on. Which I guess to the uninitiated might look like a small duffel baggy kind of thing. I figured I’d better reread the paper. Because that was why Elliot Schiffter was flying me to Paris.
    And, of course, I packed my Grandma’s dress: wrapped up in white acid-free tissue paper, folded very gently, and surrounded by a protective wall of Tampax boxes and Stayfree packages—which I packed for that express purpose.
    Looking at the dress, all wrapped and protected in my mom’s suitcase, I wondered if I would ever have the nerve to wear it.
    I suppose I should make this clear: I had never worn it. Ever.
    I didn’t even know if it fit. Sure, I had held it up in front of me, lots of times. It looked like it would fit. But I never put it on. The thought of me wearing Grandma’s dress has always seemed . . . how do I say this? . . . almost sacrilegious. Like if you were invited to a Christmas party and somebody offered to let you wear the Shroud of Turin, you wouldn’t, would you?
    Okay maybe that is not a perfect comparison. But you get the idea.
    So the fact that I was packing my own personal Shroud of Turin and taking it with me to Paris was somewhat terrifying. At the same time, though, it was . . . inspiring. Liberating.
    You read the part of my paper about the transformative powers I believed the dress must have had to be able to turn my small-town Grandma into a sophisticated, enchanting, dangerous woman of the world. Even though the dress was almost eighty years old, it still felt pretty powerful to me. Maybe the dress wasn’t the Shroud of Turin after all. Maybe it was a magic wand—not a fairy godmother’s, but my very own Grandma’s. And if I was lucky, it might have enough magical powers left to transform me, too.

7
    J ust as I zipped the suitcase shut, a car horn honked.
    I looked out the front window. A big black Lincoln Town Car was outside. I stuffed the screenplay into my carry-on duffel baggy, together with my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. I grabbed the suitcase and the duffel, and ran for the