I peek at the price tag. “Seventy-five,” I say weakly. Mommy purses her lips, but nods and I run to the dressing room
“I hate it.”
Mommy sighs and blows a sheitel hair out of her face. “Okay. So, what do you like?”
An image of the dress Atara just bought for her brother’s bar mitzvah pops into my mind.
“I don’t know! Dresses. Things. Stuff. Just not that,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the skirt in Mommy’s hand.
“Oh. Well, thank you for being so specific.”
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