Politics and Pantaloons

"I don't have any clothes." I wail and collapse onto the bright red sofa.

Mom, hands on hips, cocks her head and gives me the stink eye. "Really?" She waits a beat as my siblings, sensing a row, stop what they're doing to watch. "What about the new cordurory pants?"

She can't be serious. I cannot show up at school in bright burgundy, wide wale pants or any of that other gold and orange crap she insisted I have for the school year. Slouching lower, I glare back and heave a sigh. "I hate them."

"Is that so?"

I nod, and hold my breath until she leaves the room. My sisters return to their game. Five minutes later, Mom marches back and drops a load of clothes on the table. Still angry, I ignore her.

"So," she says in a voice that promises retribution, "who wants this shirt?"

My head snaps up. "That's mine." Outraged, I leap to my feet and make a grab for my favorite t-shirt.

She snatches it out of reach. "Not so fast," she tosses the shirt to Jinxso, who is dancing in delight. "According to you," her grin is feral, "your clothing is unacceptable."

My lip curls down as I stare in disbelief. Beamer smirks and Brat paws through my belongings. MINE. I want to howl. Turning on my heel, I run from the room, slam my bedroom door and fling myself across the bed. I sob.

They laugh, and it takes two weeks to reclaim my clothes from the laundry.