Sunday morning, the doorbell rang.

  I walked over in socks, hair a wild tangle of curls, expecting a package for the upstairs neighbor or someone trying to sell me religion. A delivery guy in a beanie held out a tablet.

  “Sinclair?” he asked. “Got a box needs a signature.”

  I scribbled my name and took the box. It was heavier than it looked, white cardboard with NORTHBRIDGE ACADEMY on the side in muted green. My heart did that rabbit thing.

  “Mom!” I called, I already knew she’d want to see this. She appeared from the bedroom in sweatpants and a sleep-creased shirt, hair in a lopsided knot.

  “What is it?” she asked, even though the logo was answer enough.

  We carried it to the table and opened it together. Inside, nestled in tissue paper like the contents were breakable, were uniform pieces: two navy blazers with the crest on the pocket in silver, a stack of white and light-blue button-downs, a couple of sweaters in navy and gray, ties in school colors.

  Under that: navy and gray plaid skirts. And, folded just as neatly, two pairs of tailored navy pants..

  Mom exhaled. “Wow,” she said again, like she was running out of adjectives. She picked up a blazer, smoothing the crest with her thumb. “This is…nice. Like, really nice.”

  I lifted one of the skirts by the hanger. The fabric was soft, not cheap, pleats crisp. It also set off every alarm in my brain.

  “Do I…have to wear this?” I asked. “Like, all the time?”

  “There are pants,” Mom said, already checking the packing list. “Blazers, button-downs, sweaters, skirts, slacks…” She glanced up. “You can choose. As long as you meet ‘dress code standards.’” She made little air quotes.

  Relief washed through me so fast my knees felt weak. “Good,” I said. “Because I am not a skirt girl.”

  “You’d look cute,” she said automatically, then seemed to hear herself. “But you don’t have to. Pants it is. We’ll hem them if we need to.”

  I held the blazer up in front of me, the crest over where my heart would be. The weight of it settled on my shoulders even without my arms in the sleeves.

  Mom wasn’t done with the box.

  “Try it on,” she said, too casually. Which meant she’d been waiting to say it since we slit the tape.

  “Now?” I asked. “It’s Sunday. I’m in pajamas.”

  “All the more reason,” she said, already lifting up a white button-down and a pair of slacks. “We need to know if anything has to go back. Or be hemmed. Or…” She trailed off, holding the shirt up to my shoulders, eyes narrowing in measurement mode. “Just try it on, Di.”

  I groaned for form’s sake. “You know fashion shows are a human rights violation?”

  “‘I’m your mother; indulge me,” she shot back.

  I almost said something biting, but she didn’t deserve that so I took the clothes instead. “Fine. But no pictures.”

  “No promises.”

  I changed in my room, peeling off my T-shirt and tugging on the button-down. The fabric was strange—crisp but soft, like it was bipolar. The pants slid on without a fight, snug at the waist but not digging, length hitting just above my shoes. I expected them to be too long. They weren’t. Of course.

  I walked back into the living room feeling like I was wearing a costume.

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  Mom’s face did a full light-up. “Oh,” she said. Just that. “Look at you.”

  I rolled my eyes and did a slow, awkward turn. “Behold. I am now someone who knows what an endowment is.”

  She snorted. “You look…grown,” she said. “In a good way. Turn around again.”

  I did, hammy this time, putting one hand on my hip like a catalog model and immediately cracking up at myself. Mom laughed too, hand over her mouth.

  “Blazer,” she said, business again. She held it out like it was something holy.

  I slid my arms in. The lining was smooth and cool. The shoulders sat right where they were supposed to, not too wide, not pinching. Mom stepped forward and smoothed the lapels, fingers brushing the crest over my chest.

  “Fits,” she said softly. “Perfectly.”

  “That’s…unnerving,” I said. “They didn’t ask for my measurements. Did they microchip me at the door?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “They probably have your height and weight from school records. They can estimate.”

  “Yeah, well, next thing you know there’ll be a little camera in the crest.” I pointed at the emblem. “All hail our benevolent overlords.”

  She laughed, but there was a tiny flicker in her eyes that said the Big Brother joke hit a little close. “If they’re spying on us, they’re going to be very bored,” she said. “Now, try a skirt. Just once. For me.”

  I groaned again, louder. “You said I didn’t have to.”

  “You don’t,” she said. “I just want to see.” She softened it with a smile. “Please?”

  She very rarely pulled the “please” card on things that weren’t life or death. I took the hanger with exaggerated suffering. “If I trip and die, I’m haunting the admissions office.”

  “That’s fair.”

  The skirt felt…wrong coming out of the box. Too soft, too swishy. I changed in my room again, shimmying the waistband into place. The hem hit just above my knees. I tugged it down, then up, then settled on somewhere in between that didn’t make me look like I was in the wrong decade.

  When I stepped out, Mom actually clapped once. “Look at you,” she said, again. “You could be on the brochure.”

  “I feel like I stole someone else’s legs,” I grumbled, but it was hard not to smile. The skirt did this subtle sway when I walked, like my hips had been invited to the conversation.

  “Spin,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Di.”

  I sighed dramatically and did a fast, embarrassed twirl. The skirt flared just enough. I almost laughed at the sensation and bit it back, then it escaped anyway.

  “See?” she said, triumphant. “Not so bad.”

  “I still prefer pants,” I said. “But…okay, it’s not like instant death.”

  “We can mix it up,” she said. “Pants most days. Skirt when you feel like scaring the boys.”

  “I think the monsters are scarier than any boy at that school,” I muttered under my breath, but she was already digging back into the box.

  Sweater over shirt, blazer over sweater, tie loosely knotted, then half-resigned, half-amused attempts at tightening it in the mirror while Mom made “tsk” noises and showed me how to do it properly. We discovered the sleeves were exactly the right length, the waistband didn’t gap, the shoes they’d sent (polished, boring black flats) actually fit and were only a little uncomfortable.

  “It’s like they ran a heist on my closet,” I said, looking at myself full-length. “And then improved everything.”

  “Take the compliment,” Mom said, snapping a photo on her phone before I could protest. “For once in your life, take the win.”

  “Delete that,” I said.

  “I will do no such thing. This is going on my…personal wall.” She caught herself before saying “Facebook,” because we both knew that would be social suicide. “I won’t post it,” she added. “But I need something to look at when you’re off being fancy.”

  We did another round in just the sweater and slacks, which I liked better—less armor, more me. By the end of it, my initial annoyance had worn off. We were both laughing at stupid little things—how the tie made me look like I was about to tell someone they were fired, how the blazer felt like wearing someone else’s confidence, how the skirt swished like it had its own agenda.

  When I finally changed back into my old jeans and T-shirt, the pile of blue and grey on the bed looked smaller, less like a threat and more like a set of tools.

  Mom hung everything in my closet, quietly muttering about getting rid of some of my old things. Back in the living room she gathered up the tissue paper, and folded the empty cardboard box flat with precise motions. “Everything looks tailored,” she said, half impressed, half suspicious.

  “Big Brother is very efficient,” I said, flopping onto the couch. “Next week they’ll probably mail us the correct groceries without asking.”

  “If they figure out how much milk we actually go through,” she said dryly, “maybe I’ll let them.”

  I laughed, then went quiet, watching the way she smoothed the cardboard one more time before setting it aside.

  “New school,” Mom said quietly. “New clothes. Same kid. Don’t let them make you feel like you have to be someone else to deserve it.”

  Too late, I thought, but I nodded.