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Sylvia's news that her and Donnie were indeed going to the Homecoming dancen was met with mixed emotion.  Carolyn groaned and Mitzi grinned and almost hopped like a kid.

While the moms went into the kitchen to discuss this, Sylvia could feel Smith in the distance.  Mind if I tag along on the shopping trip?

Uh, okay.  This is where we talk about boundaries.  Dressing rooms are off limits.

Sylvia is telepathically silent for a moment, thinking that over.  She's touched.  And she wonders momentarily what Mitzi and Carolyn would think about this.

I wasn't anywhere near calling you a child molester.  But I've been to Mentano, and I've seen a fair number of open hospital gowns.  She flashes to his neighbor, an Alzheimer's patient toodling down the hall in his walker while wearing his shriveled, hairy Sunday best.  I figured privacy was not a big issue there.

I stopped noticing.  It's like the urine smell, eventually you don't notice it.

Mitzi burts from the kitchen and grabs her purse, "Come on hun, we've got to go if we're going to get this done."  She's beaming with pride that she obviously came out on top of whatever discussion was had. 

A moment later Carolyn comes out of the kitchen and gives Sylvia a kiss on the forehead.  "Better get going."  she says with a smile.

"Bye, Momda."  Sylvia gives Carolyn a hug, still fiercely attached to her parents even at fourteen.  "If we see anything for you, we'll bring it home.  Pink chiffon, flowers and lace, right?"  She has a cheeky grin on her face.

A few minutes later Mitzi and Sylvia are zipping into the city.  "I know a shop, they might be abe to do what we need.  Then we need to get shoes.  I wonder if we can get a hair appointment for Saturday ir if everyone in town will be booked?"

She seems into this.  These are the kinds of disasters she equipped to handle.

"I was thinking something simple, Mom.  A long skirt, maybe that tank top you knitted, with some flowers or something on it.  It doesn't have to be fancy."


This is Mom's super power.  She's good at taking care of people, making things for them, that kind of thing.  She used to be a beauty queen.  Her mom would put her through all kinds of hell getting her hair done and her dresses made.  She had to walk a certain way and talk a certain way and wave to people like Queen Elizabeth.  And one day Mom decided she didn't want to be cookie-cutter perfect anymore.  She wanted to be an individual.  And since then she's been individualizing everything she can get her hands on.  That's how Momda explains it, anyway.

Less than a half hour later they're in a small shop in the city.  Mitzi and the owner, a round woman in her sixties, hug and Mitzi lays out the situation.

"Oh, I'm not sure.  My arthritis has been acting up lately.  I don't think I could get it done in time"  The woman's comment seems to make Mitzi's mood fall.

"Ethel, I'm sorry.  Maybe there's something I can do."

"No dear, it's me who should apologize, it's just this bad timing."

Go take her hands in yours.  Tell her you hope she feels better.  Just keep holding her hands for a minute or so.

Sylvia goes to Ethel and tenderly, awkwardly takes her hands.  "I hope you feel better," she says with earnest sincerity, wondering how she's going to hold this woman's hands for a minute without its turning weird.  "My gymnastics coach used to say that almost anything could be made better with, like, hot and cold towels.  She had this system.  Warm on the part that hurt and cold on the opposite part.  She said, when you loosened a muscle with heat, you had to tighten its mate with cold.  She was really into balance, I guess.  Feng shui, yin-yang, all that stuff."  She begins to run out of patter but continues to hold Ethel's hands in hers, a meek smile on her face.

There is nothing happening, and then Sylvia can feel it.  A subtle feeling like the moving of sand under your feet as you walk.  Ethel's hands warm slightly, and she looks down at them, then back up to Sylvia's eyes.  She almost speaks, but a thought from Smith stops her.

It's alright.  There's nothing to be afraid of.  Just forget about it, and feel better.

Ethel takes her hands from Sylvia's and flexes them, staring at them like they were something strange and new.  She makes fists over and over, and them smiles.  This time she takes Sylvia's hands, a few tears welling up in her eyes.  She silently mouths a thank you.

"Well, for such a dear girl I should at least try."  Ethel says, "It's her first high school dance, she needs to look her best."

For the next half hour there are measurements and talk of color and fabric.  Ethel seems to be an energized woman, and Mitzi cathes the fever as the two of them make a plan.

So, looks like you're gonna get a dress.  Make sure you get a picture of you in it with Donnie.  Just a snapshot will do, they don't like us to have framed pictures.

Sylvia can't say, "You're welcome."  It wasn't her.  But her mind chases the implications.

I have to ask you a weird question, she thinks as Mitzi and Ethel turn her and measure her and hold swatches up to her face, but you know, with the haircut and all, are you the Second Coming?  Is this the end of the world?  'Cause I haven't been going to church, and I'd have a lot of cramming to do before the final exam.
 
So, looks like you're gonna get a dress.  Make sure you get a picture of you in it with Donnie.  Just a snapshot will do, they don't like us to have framed pictures.
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Definitely.  Thank you.

Psychic surgery.  A very undetectable way to kill someone.  I never thought to use it to fix anything, until now.


Anytime.

That's huge, she says as gleaming, supple silk rolls off of the bolts in Ethel's shop.  You could really help people.  I mean, really help people.  How do you know what to do?

Is it like psychokinesis?  You're pushing cells around?  How fine is your control?  The questions roll out of her high-school-journalist mind.