The Perfect Skirt, by MysteryMinx
The trek to the uniform store involves a long train ride and an even longer hike to an old abandoned warehouse. Surely this formidable cement labyrinth, with dark hallways and cryptic doors couldn't be the uniform store! I call the store to double check: "Yes, this is the right place," the saleslady reassures me, "We're in 4F-2."
"Okay, thanks. I'll be there soon."
"By the way," she adds, "What school do you attend?"
Crap! I don't know any local schools. And I can't tell this lady that I want a pleated skirt so that someone else can flip it up and smack my bottom... "Well, you see," I stammer, "I sort of need it for a costume party." Oh god, I can't believe I said that! A costume party! I hang up before she can ask me anymore embarrassing questions and set off to find the store.
I'm expecting to find racks of pleated skirts in every imaginable color, style, and size as I open the heavy door to 4F-2. Instead, I'm standing in a large empty room all by myself. A tall, middle-aged saleslady appears and I repeat my story: that I need a pleated skirt for a costume party.
"Really. Is that so?" She raises an eyebrow and peers down at me.
"Y-yes," I stammer, my eyes focused on a spot on the floor. "It's for my... sorority?"
"Right," she says curtly, "Wait here. I need to discuss this with the manager."
I can hear women giggling from the other room. My palms are sweaty and my stomach is in knots. A younger saleslady comes out and takes my measurements. "I'm in a sorority too," she giggles, "Which one are you in?"
Suddenly there's a lump in my throat and I can't find my voice. I don't know the names of any sororities! Maybe I can fake it with Greek letters. "Sigma Pi," I choke. She disappears. More giggling.
A door opens and the giggling stops. I hear the distinctive clack of hard soled shoes on linoleum. Precise, metered steps. Clack. Clack. I wring my hands together and try to look busy. Clack. Clack. Clack. A tall man enters the room and approaches me. I can tell he's been working. Clack. My eyes nervously scan the floor. Clack.
"You're not in a sorority," he puts his index finger under my chin and tilts my head up so our eyes meet. "Are you?" It's more a statement than a question.
I try to look down, but he keeps his finger firmly under my chin. I feel small and little. I close my eyes. "Not exactly," I murmur.
"I know why you're here," he says.
I look up at him in disbelief. He grabs me by the ear and brings his face so close to mine our noses almost touch. "And I'm going to take care of that..."