I didn’t blame the small children or the adults. My clothes were obviously a costume because of their anachronism as well as their thick durability. They had a peculiar odor, like Ms. Lottie had sent them back in time for authenticity and they’d returned with a scent of Brylcreem and tomato aspic. Seeing me roaming the mall alone was like running into Snow White buying a pack of crackers and a fountain drink in an Orlando gas station.I did, however, blame the teenagers who snickered behind their hands and didn’t bother to keep quiet. I had never fit in with them, not in this costume, not in my everyday one, not before I’d started wearing one. I was an anachronism no matter what I wore, an expert on a sixteenth-century instrument nobody wanted. I’d thought I could enjoy this job. Instead I’d been sexually harassed by one dead rockabilly, and I’d developed a hopeless crush on the son of another.I wasn’t supposed to have a crush at age eighteen. Crushes were for little girls without the maturity and confidence to ask for what they wanted, and without the strength to pursue it anyway if they were denied.
