Tanaka, the tailor, made me a gown from emerald green silk shantung, raw and rough in places, smooth and delicate in others. When I walk into the masquerade ball a week later, held in the Museum of Fine Art’s undamaged ballroom, the dress fits me like a second skin, the skirt ragged and long with knots up and down the bustled train, the bodice snug and slightly asymmetrical, the effect body-hugging and slightly cleavage-creating just above the soft-shoe shuffle of my heart. I’ve worn ball gowns my whole life, but never enjoyed it much. Usually it’s like I’m playing dress-up, pretending to be older and ending up just feeling like a fraud, or when I was much younger, pretending to be a fairy princess. But this time, in this dress, I feel like . . . me. Not like a fraud. Not too young. Tonight I’m a version of myself I can live with. Maybe it’s the mask I’m wearing. This time it’s silver, the corners sharpening toward my temples into cat-eye points. My hair is in an artfully messy, voluminous pile on top of my head.
