“The mommy you want to take you doesn’t exist,” Leah hissed, suddenly brutal. “Mommy will not dress you fit to be seen, baby. Her taste is gone”
“I am not going shopping with my mother for Yom Tov!” Leah shrieked.
She was standing in her bedroom next to a chair heaped with a strange mix of clothing for a 12th-grade Bais Yaakov girl — a pleated school skirt, a black slinky, assorted leggings and T-shirts, and a Shabbos dress.
From her own bed, where she was quietly sketching a copy of a small print, Devora popped a bubble of gum and tilted her head to the side.
“The whole class was arguing about clothes shopping with your mother versus with friends. Around mine and Dina’s desk. Not. One. Person. Thought about my mother! And these are my ‘friends.’ ” Leah screeched the last word, then collapsed onto her bed, throwing two pillows at her sister, hard.
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