My mother toyed with her cellphone. It was none of my business, but I couldn’t help seeing the message she wrote to my father. Looking at something for 2K. It’s a — But then she backspaced the whole message and shoved her phone into her bag. “Anything we could compare this with?”

Rachel looked stung. “What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s… n-nice. Beautiful, really.” She dropped her voice, as though it was possible to miss a sound in that ten-by-ten room. “Just maybe, uh, let’s see something in a lower price range?”

If I hadn’t been modeling a dress I didn’t yet own, I would’ve escaped that claustrophobic basement right then. My homeostasis had gone wonky, and I was sweating like steaming bread in a bag.

“Oh, the price.” Rachel shrugged. “Look, I could show you other dresses, but you know how it goes. You find the perfect piece, it’s a pity to compromise for a hundred dollars up or down.”

Like a hundred dollars down would make a difference!

“No, Pessy?” Rachel asked.

It hit me then. Rachel had snagged Pessy onto her team, and my mother was outnumbered. In the pit of my stomach, I knew I’d be wearing this dress to my vort Sunday night.

Pessy and Co. nodded sagely, murmuring “stunning” and “beautiful,” as though it was the dress’s beauty we were debating. Pessy patted her daughter’s back. “Trust Malkie. She knows.” She certainly looked like she would know, if ombre wigs and tinkling bangles were any indication.

Malkie chuckled. Then she contorted her chin, her face the picture of wisdom, rubbed her palms elegantly and declared, “A kallah has to look good.”

And with those words, she clinched the fate, of that dress, and of many more dresses to come.

***

The morning after my vort, I slipped my diamond ring onto my finger — yes, you do wear your diamond ring to work throughout your engagement; Rule #27 in A Kallah’s Guide to a Balabatish Engagement, by Know-It-All Sister Bracha Vogel — and flew downstairs, into the heart of an epic gown-color debate.

“Teal is in,” Gitty huffed.

“Right,” said Bracha. “It’s in now, and in five years you’ll look back at the pictures and roll your eyes.”

Gitty rolled her eyes.

At the counter, my father was chain-coffee-drinking. He didn’t look like he was in a hurry to go anywhere. Lately he never looked hurried. Who needed a travel agent these days? Instead he drank coffee.

My mother, wisely tuned out of the color war, was flipping through the Community Weekly. I leaned over her shoulder. “Hey, Shoe Square is running a sale this week, 35% off storewide.” My toes tingled. “Should we meet there on my lunch break?”

“I guess. Call me when you leave.”

She glanced at my father. He twisted his lips and turned back to his coffee.

I mumbled birchos hashachar while preparing lunch, regretting the lack of time for a proper Shacharis. I should’ve woken up earlier. There was so much to ask for now, as a kallah. Maybe I’d squeeze in Minchah on my lunch break — no, we were going to Shoe Square then. Who ever realized how busy kallahs are? And oh my, sheitels!

“We need to make sheitel appointments!”

Bracha looked up. “I hope you’re using Dena Schon. She does magic with kallos. You could tell if Dena cut a wig from a mile away.”

Rule #28.

Turned out, only summer shoes were on sale. We looked at Shabbos shoes instead. I tried on about ten ugly pairs before the saleslady materialized. “Need help?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you carry anything else for, like, elegant Shabbos and simchos?”

“What, heels? No, no, not here.” She laughed. “You need Stuart Weitzman. Kallos only get Stuart Weitzman. Everyone knows that.”

Wonderful, so now I felt stupid for not knowing such a basic rule.

The saleslady was right. I loved so many pairs I couldn’t make up my mind.

“Take two,” she suggested. “You’ll need a basic black, and then get either a light gray or this goldy kind of color. They go with everything.”

I hobbled over to a mirror with a black shoe on my right foot and a gold one on my left. “What do you think, Ma?”

“What are you going to tell Tatty?”

I sighed. Stuart Weitzman shoes were stunning — with correspondingly stunning prices. My father would never get it.

In the end, we bought the black pair. “A kallah has to look good,” the saleslady concluded.

***

When I got home from Dena Schon, I locked myself into my bedroom and burst into tears.

But I didn’t have the luxury of crying for long.

“Open the door! I need the blow dryer!”

“Whhrgaawaww.”

Gitty was pounding the door off the hinges “Hello, Faigy! I’m going to miss Baila’s chuppah! Could you, like, OPEN THE DOOR?”

I choked my sobs down and slipped the blow dryer out the door, just as my father passed and spied my cherry nose.

Lovely. I blushed like a maniac.

Bless him; my father left me to cry in peace. When I finally shuffled out of my hideout, he was waiting for me. “Wanna come along to Kosher Supreme?”

I dragged my feet outside after him, and what do you know? My mother was in the car, waiting for us. What a neat trick.

The second the doors closed, my father started. “Mommy says you got upset at the sheitelmacher?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know a single kallah who only got two sheitels.”

“I told you we could buy three, if we work with a less expensive line,” my mother said softly.

“Cheap wigs are garbage! I’ll need to buy new ones in a year! It’s a total waste of money.” Ugh, tears. It was totally embarrassing for a kallah to cry in front of her parents. Whatever number rule that was.

“They’re not garbage. I’m wearing my wig for five years and it’s still serving me well.”

“I hope you’re getting a new one for my wedding.”

My mother sighed.

“Look, Faigy,” my father said. “You know we want to get you the best of everything. A kallah deserves it.”

A kallah has to look good.

“You also have to understand that the stores aren’t closing November 14.”

Stale argument. I didn’t say anything, but I wanted to kick and scream and point out that, honestly, Mimi Margolis was getting four wigs, and that my parents’ very own dear daughter-in-law Shaindy had gotten three Shevy’s, and there was no way in the whole wide world that I was walking down to the chuppah with just two. Or three Purim ones, thank you.

I knew my mother understood. It was only my father who got so… frustrating all the time.

“We can’t deprive her, Chaim. You don’t want her feeling inferior around her friends.”

I probably wasn’t meant to hear that, because my mother murmured it, but I was so glad she was defending me.

“Deprive? You know how much a wig costs?”

My mother sighed. “We’ll figure it out.”

I hated when my parents discussed finances in front of me.

“Why can’t we buy a third one eventually, after the wedding?” my father asked.

I sat tensely, waiting for my mother to stick up for me. Instead, she whipped out her cell phone to text my father. Err.

My father read her message, took a deep breath and gave a tiny nod.

“Okay. You’ll get three sheitels.” He turned around and flashed me a huge, fake smile. “Happy?”

I wasn’t, although I couldn’t figure out why.

“And… everything will be okay, Faigy,” he added, in a really strange voice. “Enjoy your kallah–hood and don’t worry about a thing.”

Huh?

***

My mother has a gazillion friends, but I’d never heard a word about Chava.

“She’s a doll and has great taste,” my mother claimed. “We’ll meet her in Coats of Class.”

I googled Chava in my brain and came up blank. “A classmate?”

“No, no, she just loooves shopping.”

A personal shopper for a new coat, not bad!

Honestly, Chava didn’t look the way I expected a personal shopper to look. I was a bit disappointed, but really, who cared?

“You don’t want black, right?” Chava asked sweetly.

Points for that. Unless my mother had clued her in. Last year’s Shabbos coat was black, totally and completely, with nothing to it. There was nothing really wrong with it, but it was boring. Yet there weren’t many non-black options to choose from. I was starting to get this queasy feeling that I was being a brat and should probably be happy with last year’s coat when I saw it. “Oh, my goodness, look at this!”

Chava parroted my gasp. “Wow.”

The coat was a dream; off-white wool with gold buttons, gorgeously A-lined and fashionably collarless.

“Won’t you be cold without a collar?” my mother wondered.

“We’ll get a warm scarf. I love it!”

I found my size and slipped the coat on. As I wove my left hand through the sleeve, the tag caught in my watch. I fumbled to detach it, but the tag was… what?

I looked closely, because surely I hadn’t seen right. $1,200?!

Heat flooded me, the added warmth of the coat making me perspire. Was it the lack of collar that had thrown my mother off — or had she seen the price tag?

Chava and my mother gushed over how beautiful I looked.

“Like a model!” Chava exclaimed.

I forced myself to smile, avoiding eye contact with the girl in the mirror. My father’s words echoed in my ears like a thousand mocking voices. Don’t worry about a thing.

Somewhere in the corner of the mirror where my eyes were hiding, I saw Chava eyeing a different coat. “How about this one?” she asked casually.

I checked the tag before examining the style of the coat. $350.

Okay, deep breath. I picked the coat off the rack and studied it. Gray herringbone, three-quarter length. Nice. Like, decent. I saw my mother glance at the price tag. I could almost touch her relief.

I switched into the herringbone coat and moved over to the mirror.

No. Not happening. The coat did nothing to my face, nothing to my figure. It was shapeless, somehow.

Chava pinched her chin. “It’s a stunning coat. Maybe try a size down.”

It didn’t help. The fit was awful and the collar was way oversized.

“Let’s go with this,” Chava said. “It’s the fit that’s throwing you off. You’ll take it to a good seamstress and it’ll look stunning.”

My mother nodded along eagerly. I stared at them. This coat looked ugly on me. Were they blind? Where was Chava’s “great taste?”

And then, the most practiced, syrupy “ahem-ahem-ahem” tickled my ears. “Need help?”

I could’ve guessed that the teeth behind those words would be perfectly aligned and snow white. “We’re just… looking around,” I answered vaguely.

“Oh, please, this is not for you.” Saleslady shuddered. “Nice,” she exclaimed. “I see you’re looking at that Armani. Good taste!”

Chava was whispering something to my mother, but she stopped when she saw me looking. Somehow, I found myself wearing the $1,200 coat again, now with an additional admirer. Crunch time.

Say it. Just say it and get it done. I mouthed along the words as Saleslady chanted them, along with the palm-rubbing pantomime: “A kallah has to look good.”

Chava nodded.

My mother nodded.

And I nodded too.

Chava and my mother headed to the checkout counter, and I followed. The coat was draped over Chava’s arm like an exquisite role of fabric. I loved the coat, right? Right, of course! I chuckled grimly, thinking how Pfeiffer-ish it made me look.

“Faigy, go outside to the car and tell Tatty we’re done here and I’m coming in a minute.”

I left the store and got into the car.

“So, did you find a coat?” my father asked.

I nodded, like a robot.

“Like it?”

I begged enthusiasm into my voice. “It’s stunning.”

“Great! I’m happy for you.”

I wanted to thank him, but my tongue was dry. When my mother got into the car, I held my breath, waiting for my father to rant about the price.

He didn’t.

***

Bracha was evidently impressed by the way I was mastering all the Rules. A lot of it was Chava’s credit. She had kallah-shopping figured out to a science.

I liked Chava. She was fun and patient, and sniffed out the most incredible bargains. My mother stopped having heart attacks in stores, and maybe my father’s travel agency was doing a little better, I couldn’t know. My parents were never the type to discuss such stuff with the kids. Either way, I was getting vibes that, as my father had told me, there really was no need to worry. Shopping was actually fun!

I was getting ready for Mimi Margolis’s wedding when my mother walked into my room.

“I spoke to the mechateniste again about the apartment on Elliot Street. She likes it, you like it, Naftali likes it. Looks like we’re ready to sign the lease by the end of the week.”

My stomach flipped. “I guess.” Gosh, this was really real.

For Mimi’s wedding, I wore my silver-and-blue vort dress. Mimi’s like my sister, after all. “How do I look?” I asked my mother on my way out.

My mother grabbed my hands and started dancing. “You look a dream! Come on, we need to practice!”

We laughed and danced, and I gave her a quick hug before dashing out. Kallah-hood was such a special time.

The next morning, my toes were full of blisters and I was literally sleepwalking, which is why it made sense that I totally forgot — my birthday!

But my mechutanim hadn’t forgotten.

Funny, how 18 birthdays had passed with at most a cake, and suddenly, the day I was born became a legal holiday. My gift waited on the kitchen table. I gawked when I saw it: a magnificent blue Tory Burch bag. There was a card attached; formal birthday wishes and an invitation for dinner.

A birthday, Pfeiffer style.

My mother was waiting to see my reaction. I wanted to gush and squeal happily, but there was a tear backup in my throat. All I could think of was the dumb Silverman pen I had bought Naftali for his birthday three weeks before.

***

“If anyone asks what I do for a living, I’m going to say I’m the family chauffer,” my father griped when he dropped us off in front of Luxury Linen Sunday afternoon.

Linen shopping was considerably less exciting than clothing shopping. I basically nodded along with everything Chava and my mother said. By the time we were done, I was hungry, tired, and indifferent to the matter of pleated versus gathered bed skirts.

My mother sent me to buy something to eat while she reviewed our order with the saleslady. I hurried outside, only to discover that, gosh, it was pouring. I turned right back to get my mother’s umbrella.

Inside, Chava and my mother were bent over papers at a table, the saleslady at their side tapping away on her calculator. I was about to interrupt when I heard Chava talking.

“So the 60 percent covered by Ezer l’Kallah comes out to $1,320. Then there’s the store’s collaboration discount of 20 percent which is $440. So our balance is $440, right?”

I froze.

I stared at the saleslady as she punched numbers on her calculator again and nodded. Then my mother took out her wallet.

“Just… make sure there’s no invoice coming along with the order, okay?” my mother said hesitantly. “We don’t want her to feel different from any other kallah…”

“Yes, yes, of course. Your daughter won’t suspect a thing. We do this all the time.”

Sixty percent covered by Ezer l’Kallah? All the—what?

A crash of thunder rattled through the raindrops, and I didn’t hear, didn’t want to hear, my mother’s response. My feet seemed to have more sense than my brain, and they led me out of the store, quickly, quickly, right into the downpour, where my hair immediately frizzed up, and I didn’t realize, didn’t care. I ran through the rain, just ran and ran, gulping madly. I ran away from Luxury Linen and away from my gorgeous off-white Shabbos coat that was chasing me, gold buttons gleaming wickedly and laughing, along with thousands of skirts and sweaters and Stuart Weitzman shoes and Rachel Greene.

The rain fell quicker, sharper, drenching my clothes, and I heard screaming through the thunder, “Nebach, poor girl, sheifeleh…” And louder still, snapping in my ears, “A kallah has to look good.”

Because nobody got married with two sheitels, nobody, nobody, nobody.

I wasn’t crying, just gulping wet air and panting. A couple hurried past me, umbrellas battling wind, and I looked up, and it was Mimi! Mimi Margolis, Mimi Zaffir! Her beautifully curled shaitel drooped over her face like wilting grass, and my eyes immediately flew down to her feet, and sure enough, she was wearing her Hunter rain boots, the ones we had shopped for together.

Ezer l’Kallah. Sixty percent.

I ran away from her.

And from Chava, my mother’s “good friend” who “loooooved” shopping.

It was only when I finally arrived home, sloshing through the house and into the room I shared with my sisters that I remembered: Only a week earlier, I had made an $18 donation to a “very important cause.”

Ezer l’Kallah.

***

The next morning at 7:20, I was sitting on our back porch, a siddur in my hands.

Before I opened the siddur, I whispered a short tefillah of my own, for Hashem to help me daven well, because I didn’t even know what to daven for. After that, I just davened, slowly, saying words without focusing on anything in particular. It felt good, to just say those words, and by the time I finished, I felt a certain calm, like, uplifted, sort of.

I had to sneak out of the house from our side entrance, so that nobody would interrogate me about the huge bag I was schlepping along to work. I parked the bag under my desk until my lunch break and then scurried off with it, like it was a load of incriminating evidence.

Which it was.

Coats of Class was full. Tough luck. I tried to keep my shoulders straight and not look at anybody as I walked up to the counter.

“Are you paying?” the checkout girl asked.

“Uh… actually, no. I want to return a coat.”

“When did you buy it?”

“Around a month ago.”

“Sorry, we only take returns for one week. After that we offer a store credit.”

Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Yikes.

I shushed the voice in my head that argued, See? It’s bashert for you to have it, and swallowed. “Is it… uh, maybe I could talk to your manager?”

The girl shrugged. “Okay.”

The manager turned out to be the store owner, Mrs. Jacob, and she didn’t look overly intimidating. “What’s the problem?”

“I… we bought this coat a month ago. I love it, really. But I want to return it.” I lowered my eyes. “It’s… um… I didn’t know…”

“Shatnez?”

“No, no no, it’s just… Ezer l’Kallah,” I blurted. “I had no idea!”

Although I kept my eyes on everything but Mrs. Jacob, I could feel her registering my words and pressing her lips together.

“Please,” she said. “Take it home and enjoy it.”

“No!” I cried, then looked around to make sure nobody had heard. “Just…take it back. I don’t want it. I have a coat, a perfectly good coat.”

I think Mrs. Jacob was about to pat my arm, but I quickly stepped back to prevent that from happening. “My dear,” she said, “Ezer l’Kallah helps so many kallos. We’re proud to be a participating store. You really don’t have to feel bad.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said quietly, firmly. Then I handed her the bag. “Please take care to credit them.”

Mrs. Jacob looked torn, but she nodded. “Come get the share your mother paid.”

It was as though the weight of the coat lifted from my heart. I saw my reflection in the store window when I left, the reflection of a kallah that, as Bracha could attest, always looked good.

Mind you, once Bracha would finally compromise on black-and-white gowns with teal accents, I should have a talk with her. Teach her a thing or two. That before looking good, a kallah should feel good.

Rule #1.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 527)