A Good Sister is a Great Friend

School pictures were like final exams for your face. They went on your permanent record.

Back when good cameras were rare and film unpredictable, a “professional” school picture was the most reliable barometer of who you were and what you wore, albeit a stiff formal portrait version of yourself.

Your school picture outfit was fussed over as much as, if not more than, your first day of school outfit. One made a first impression. The other made a lasting one. These photos would be taped to the refrigerator by parents, framed for the mantel by grandparents and, most importantly, collected and traded like baseball cards with friends.

Ninth grade was my first year in civilian clothes. I’d spent the previous eight years in uniform at the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. The public junior high produced an actual yearbook. Pictures of the top dogs (aka ninth-grade students) appeared much larger than those of the lowly pups. Our every ounce of cool would be on full display and carefully scrutinized.

Clothes may not make the man but they surely influenced the mercurial moods and imagination of my early-girly adolescence. In a mini-dress and flats with my hair pulled into two high pony tails on either side of my head like cocker spaniel dog ears, I felt as chic as a London Mod. If I paired a fake football jersey from the mall with cords, I was all fun and sporty like my four brothers. A few years later, I'd wear my first head-to-toe black outfit to see The New York Dolls perform at the Minnesota State Fair. And yes, that most cool of the cool bands really did perform at the fair between the stalls of 4-H prize-winning pigs and the neon lit ferris wheel in 1974! But back in ninth grade, the only people I knew who wore black were nuns and mourners.

I went with a sophisticated beige corduroy dress with short sleeves and decorative gold buttons. I don’t remember where I got it, but it was definitely a hand-me-down. New outfits were so rare that I recall everyone I ever bought, where I bought it, or if my mom sewed it for me. But second-hand clothes could come from my sister, a cousin, or a neighbor.

That morning, I looked in the mirror and felt the crew-neck dress needed a little something. My sister had the perfect scarf. She’d bought it with her own money. I knew better than to ask to borrow it because she would definitely say no. Rather, she would say, “NO!” The thing was, my sister attended the public high school and left the house each morning a good fifteen minutes before me. And she was later coming home. I wasn’t evil. I just recognized a good fashion opportunity.

I sneaked it out of the house, tied it around my neck at school, and graciously deflected every compliment with the socially required response, “This old thing? I’ve had it forever!” The entire day, I worried myself sick. I was convinced a Jan-versus-Marcia Brady Bunch comedic tragedy would ensue and the scarf would be lost, torn, stolen, or fall in a mud puddle. Maybe even before my picture time slot. But somehow, I managed a big smiley “Cheese!” for the camera wearing the swank accessory and successfully returned the scarf to my sister’s top drawer, undiscovered.

I felt very double-O-seven-ish about the whole thing.

Weeks later, our packets of glossy pictures were delivered to the school. I felt pretty good. My eyes were open. There was no visible spinach between my teeth. I couldn’t wait to show my big sister.

Clearly, I hadn’t thought this through.

She hit the roof. I tried to convince her (and myself) that she had in fact given me permission to borrow her scarf but we couldn’t remember the details of the transaction because it was so very long ago. She wasn’t buying it. Ultimately, I threw myself at her mercy, begging forgiveness, claiming to be contrite while alternately pointing out that I’d worn the beloved accessory and returned it in such perfect condition she’d never even known if not for the picture.

She forgave me. Eventually.

I was a terrible little sister but a stylish one.