Aura turned this way and that in the mirror, looking at herself shrewdly. A few fashion magazines lay on her bunk, opened to pages any adult would consider to mature to her. Not that she cared what they thought. Her faded lettings and the tiger shirt she was wearing were what she’d been given–she’d hardly ever been able to pick her own clothes. And now something needed to be done about it. She was seven, not three!
The last lady she had seen donating clothes had literally said to the social worker, “I know they’re not great clothes, my kids won’t wear them, but I know the kids here are just grateful to have something new. Besides, those without don’t have much of a choice.” She may as well have said “beggars can’t be choosers.”
But there were other problems now. She didn’t want another day when the older bullies picked on her, or the old man at the park leered at her, or made comments about the young kids when the adults couldn’t hear. Well, she’d show them a thing or two. But she needed to look older first.
The woman in the magazine was White, and thin, and blonde. She couldn’t be those things, but she could get makeup, and a miniskirt, and whatever kind of top that was, with all the straps. She just had to figure out where, somewhere no one would miss them.