BRACKISH

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Casey and her college friends were ashamed of shopping. Smart girls who read books weren’t supposed to be materialistic (her fellow economics majors pegged consumers as mollified idiots, and as for religion they invoked Marx’s phrase the opiate of the masses), and although female intellects cleverly discussed sensuality and tactility in art, smart women were not supposed to like culling or gathering more dresses.

But Casey knew well from having been on both sides of the counter that even bookish girls liked to go to shops and be thrilled by red tweed skirt or black cloche. And equally true was that smart girls wanted to be beautiful in the way beautiful girls wanted to be smart. Size fourteen bibliophiles could love clothes as much as size two heiresses who shopped to fill their time. Everyone scrounged for an identity defined by objects.

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