"Would the young lady like to see something with a pearl?"
"I'd love to," I say.
The voice I use isn't mine. It's what Gem calls "vaguely posh"; meant to convey a childhood at British boarding schools interrupted by a transatlantic move to New England that almost, but not entirely, eliminated my accent. It's a lot to get across in three words and I don't think I nailed it, but the man behind the counter smiles kindly.
"Sixteen is an important birthday," he says.
I couldn't agree more, which is why I spent mine in my friend Hannah's hot tub with Nick Sheridan and a flask of tequila. But now is not the time to share that recollection, so I just smile demurely as Gem says, "A special day for my special girl."
Gem's accent is impeccable.
She sounds like a BBC presenter and looks like a twenty-first-century version of the grandmother on Downton Abbey. I barely recognized her when she came to pick me up, and couldn't stop stealing glances at her transformation during the drive to the Prudential Center in Back Bay. Gem's coarse steel-gray hair is concealed beneath a silvery chignon. She's decked out in an elegant blue suit that would fit in at a royal wedding, and she's done some kind of makeup magic that's tamed her leathery skin into soft, powdery lines.
I don't recognize myself, either, when I glance into the mirror behind the counter. I'm a buttery blond, for one thing, and I'm wearing a blouse-and-skirt combo that looks expensive, even though I'm sure it's not. The nonprescription tortoiseshell glasses I have on are so cute that I might make them a permanent part of my wardrobe. Gem and I are cosplaying the kind of people who swan into Bennington & Main to celebrate birthdays with expensive jewelry, and we are pulling it off.
"Something like this?" the sales associate asks, holding up a delicate rose-gold ring with a single gray pearl. It's exactly the kind of ring a wealthy, indulgent grandmother would buy, and even though Gem is none of those things, she gives a regal nod of approval.
"Try it on, Sophie," she says. I slip it onto my right index finger and hold out my hand, admiring the subtle shine. Not my style at all, but perfect for Sophie Hicks-Hartwell. That's my getting-into-character name, which I picked not only because it, too, sounds vaguely posh, but because it's the name of a girl whose Instagram identity was stolen in a twisted true crime story that I devoured recently on my favorite podcast. A little inside joke that even Gem didn't catch.