APPRAISAL by Sam Corradetti
I’m the ripped jeans and dirty flip-flops type. Vaselined lips, no eye liner. Zip-up hoodies and flannels looted from my father’s closet keep me mostly covered, worn loose enough to capture the coveted sirs and young mans while I navigate crowds at the deli counter. Weddings, however, mean dresses. As a bridesmaid, I am spared the search for some tolerable combination of lace, sequins, tulle, fringe, satin. Every detail of dress, hairstyle, jewels, shoes, nails, lip gloss, panties, and—ugh—strapless bra has been mapped out for me. The other bridesmaids crowd me, brandishing mascara wands and crimpers and elastics and hairspray and soft-tipped pencils of assorted colors and sizes. They clap and whistle and say how pretty I look, how feminine. Acceptable. Free of sirs.I now resemble Woman: a value bestowed on me in a currency whose conversions I cannot calculate. In a treasure chest with busted drawbolts, I am a counterfeit doubloon that these other Women have rinsed half-clean in a tidepool and hurriedly priced at face value. I allow them this delusion; I know my worth. My markings may be faked, but I am still true gold. One day the ocean’s salt will grind my surface smooth enough to reflect fistfuls of sunlight into their eyes.