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told by an aunt that I looked like a Puerto Rican—an obvious compliment, yet those in my family seemed to think otherwise. My first experience of high fashion came at first Communion, when I was actually
required
to wear not only a dress with layers and layers of frothy white lace, but an actual
crown
made of shiny fake pearls. From the crown cascaded a motherfucking
veil
. Never again would I be so thrilled to be part of the Catholic Church! I persuaded the powers that be to allow me to visit Benson’s Animal Farm, a scrubby petting zoo with attendant low-rent carnival rides, in this outfit, which I told people all day long made me feel like a princess. Nobody liked the scrim of dust I’d kicked up over that once pristinely white lace hem, or the way my veil got mangled on the roller coaster. My family seemed to have an unhealthy fashion philosophy—while it probably
is
the most important thing on earth, the only art form we all participate in every single day of our lives, they thought it should never be taken so seriously.
    In sixth grade, the slutty eighties were in full swing, and MTV was beaming images of Missing Persons’ Dale Bozzio wearing see-through miniature plastic outfits. I was in love with her, and in love with my boobalicious Barbies, and in love with allthe sexy ladies I was stealing glimpses of on cable TV. One day, my godmother took me shopping at the Salvation Army. All the women in my family love
the Salvation Army, half because everyone is broke and half because they have antiquing in their blood. They have an eye for snagging the luxury items unrecognized as such by Army management and given a ridiculously low price tag. I was not looking for anything so refined on this particular trip with my godmother, but more something Dale Bozzio would approve of. I quickly became obsessed with a pair of high-heeled clogs that I found in a bin of jumbled shoes. My godmother (who had married a Mormon and converted) squinted at the incredibly high wooden heel.
    â€œWell,” she said uneasily, “I guess you can play dress-up in them.”
    At home, my godmother sat in the kitchen with Mom drinking cups of decaffeinated tea while I assembled my Most Awesome Outfit Ever: my new skyscraper clogs plus a flirty bright-red miniskirt plus my pièce de résistance—a red-and-white-striped tube top. Not the type of tube top that wraps around your ribs, mind you, but a bandeau-style tube top, the smallest tube, which wrapped around my smallest, nonexistent boobs. Any of my Barbies would have looked excellent in this getup, as would any new-wave pop star on MTV, or any sexy hitchhiker on an episode of
CHiPs
.
    â€œI’m going out!” I yelled casually to my mother and went to slip out the front door.
    â€œCome say good-bye to your godmother,” my mother hollered back. Or,
Come say good-bye to ya gawdmutha
.
    I wobbled into the kitchen. I bent down from my new height to give my gawdmutha a kiss. I acted like it was no big whoop that I was dressed like a sluttier version of Jodie Foster in
Taxi Driver
.
    â€œOh no,” my mother said. “You’re not goin’ out like that. Someone’s gonna grab you.”
    â€œVirginia, I only bought those for her to play dress-up in,” my godmother defended herself.
    I
was
playing dress-up. I just wanted to play it outside. On the street. Where a cute boy might see me and be dumbstruck by how
awesome
I looked and fall in love with me so my life could finally start. Even though I looked like a PSA for the exploitation of underage girls, I actually had no idea there was anything inappropriate about my outfit. I just thought I looked really, really cool.
    This blind spot would haunt me throughout my life. I always had a difficult time determining what outfits were appropriate for what situations, and this difficulty produced a frustration I could only relieve with rebellion. My petty little life in Chelsea, Massachusetts,