She hated shopping, stores full of people, self-absorbed, vain, spending money they didn’t have on things that really had no value. She preferred second hand, vintage treasures that she recycled into her style.

Elevator music that grated on her nerves. She wore her earbuds from the moment she left her room at home until she returned to its safety. Her mother scowled at her over racks of ‘nice’ clothes and kept up a steady stream of babble anyway.

The dressing room was a refuge. Pulling out her favorite book, she read in the corner. Mother paraded outfit after outfit in front of the mirror while daughter slumped over her book.

Its heroine was a stubborn and wise teenager who, in the tragic end, sacrifices herself for her true love. Reading that end, with its heartfelt prose and violin string lines, right there on that dressing room floor, made her tears flow freely.

Embarrassed, she wiped a them, only to pull away black stained fingers. Without tissues, she ducked her head beelining for the bathroom.