The teen disco was on Chestnut Street, the part of downtown that sold 10k gold doorknocker earrings and Fila sweatsuits. The mannequins in the women’s clothing store windows wore pastel polyester suits, much like the one I wore that Easter Sunday. Mama told me the cuff on the wide leg pants was fashionable, but the suit was cheap. No lining, bad material, and fake pockets. I was thirteen, too young to know.

As Mama was driving my fifteen-year-old sister, Patrice, and me to the disco, I suddenly panicked. “Mama, stop!”

She slowed her ’83 Datsun, and turned slightly: “What’s wrong, Nina?”

“Can you drop us off here?”

“Sure, walk the last two blocks. But be out front of the venue at six. On the dot! Show me your dimes. Come on. You need ‘em for pay phones.”

Patrice produced three dimes from her sweatsuit jacket. “Good girl. Have fun, and stay with your sister. I mean it.”

Mama winked then slipped me five dollars to enter the Best Dressed contest. She drove off after we reached the corner.

That’s when Patrice took off. “Come on, Nina, keep up! That ugly suit is slowing you down!”

As I rounded the corner, I saw a long line that stretched halfway down the block. In it were teens wearing Fila sweat suits, Lee Jeans and gold jewelry. My heart dropped. 

When I found my sister waiting with her two friends, I told her to gimme a dime so I could call Mama.

She looked me up and down and smiled. “She’s not home. Oh, you’re gonna tell Daddy to tell her to come get you cause you don’t want to go no more. It’s the ugly suit. I told you! No dime for you, because if you have to go, then I have to go.”

“I’m not moving till I get a dime from someone.”

“Suit yourself, little sister.” 

Patrice and her friends moved with the line while I stayed put. Twenty minutes later, I was in the same spot when my sister came back for me.

“Oh my God, Nina!” She pulled off my blazer and tied it around her waist. Then she told me we’d switch pants when we got inside. I’d have to turn down the elastic waistband once to make her pants fit. Her friend Tierra would lend me her headband and do my eye makeup. 

“Happy?”

I was happy. But did not show it until she promised not to leave me during the party. 

At 5:45, they announced the winner for the best outfit. When they said Patrice Young, my sister began jumping up and down. How did she win fifty dollars wearing my cheap pink suit?

When asked how she did it, she told me she could’ve won wearing a trash bag. It’s confidence that wins contests, not outfits. When we got home, she rewound El Debarge’s “You Wear it Well” over and over again on the boombox in our room. 

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Nia Crawford has taught college writing for over 20 years. In 2016, Nia won first place in the Tuckson Health Connections Healing Stories contest for her memoir “The Light’s Not the Same.” She’s also a licensed real estate agent and a real estate investor.