“What’s this?” Daphne asked, tugging a white windbreaker with black trim out of another box.
“My tennis team jacket!” I cried with delight, touching the nylon warm-up lovingly. “From college. Look, I was team captain!” I showed her the black script on the right sleeve: kt. capt.
Daphne turned the jacket around and showed Bay the large black letters embroidered in an arc across the back.
Bay scoffed. “You were the Terriers?”
“Woof,” said Daphne. It was their turn to crack up.
Then Regina was shouting, “Found it,” and there it was. A little wrinkled, a little faded, but there it was. My beautiful lacy, ruffly, peachy-pink Gunne Sax prom dress with its satin sash and high collar.
“It’s a freakin’ turtleneck!” cried Bay, laughing to the point of tears.
“Did you go to prom in a limo?” Regina joked. “Or a Conestoga wagon?”
Daphne took pity on me. “I like it,” she said. “It’s . . . vintage!”
I frowned. “Did you just call me vintage?”
“I called the dress vintage,” Daphne clarified, her eyes dancing. “I called you old.”
“Very funny!” I snatched the dress away and folded it neatly before returning it to the box.
“You saved everything,” Regina remarked, pulling out a handful of chunky plastic cartridges. “Do the eight-track police know about your stash?”
“Okay,” said Bay, “before we come across your Charlie’s Angels fan club membership, I’m out of here.”