“Yeah… what a surprise,” Miriam managed. What are the chances? Of course I’d bump into Pessie in this kind of store

Miriam fingered the smooth leather of the crossbody bag, feeling the delicate ridges of pink. She flipped the tag. Her eyes roved wildly for a price, heart in her throat all the while; once she would lay eyes on that forbidding number, her air-castles would surely scatter in a puff.

They exploded softly a moment later, doing away with all her dreams. Three hundred fifty dollars.

Ugh. For a bag.

Yet in some wondrous way, while she was gasping at prices and slowly losing hope of ever being remotely in style, everybody else was pulling it off. How? Miriam wondered. How did they shell out all that money on bags and shoes and tiny gold pendants? Like Pessie Rothman, for instance — her parents weren’t exactly rolling in dough, yet she stood at the tippety-top of the Unofficial Bnos Bais Yaakov Tenth-grade Trendsetting and Style Awareness Committee. Always perfectly dressed in something fresh and pretty, and always — always — with that casual emblem unfailingly stitched onto some random corner.

Miriam wandered aimlessly through the glossy aisles, hands swishing across silky shirts and creamy cashmere. Despairingly, she flicked through a rack of cable-knits in vibrant shades. Deceptively nerdy, she thought darkly to herself. If not for that jumping little horse-rider in the corner.

“Hey, Miriam!”

She started, jerking back from the sweaters.

“Great meeting you here!” Pessie Rothman said, stepping into view.

“Yeah… what a surprise,” Miriam managed. What are the chances? Of course I’d bump into Pessie in this kind of store.