Yolanda’s smile was legend. It was sunshine and rainbows, sure, but it was sword and shield too. Sometimes it came easy; other times it required determination and grit.

No-one can hold all the world’s crazy at arm’s length every minute, and Lord knows, life can sneak up on you like a hungry cheetah in the savanna. Even Yolanda’s smile faltered, occasionally, but it was never gone for long. She wouldn’t let it go.

Strangers couldn’t help but react to that smile. Most couldn’t resist smiling back. Arch Stevens, on his way to the mall’s big Peach Store to try, one last time, to get his supposedly genius phone to work, was one of those. His resting face had a sad cast, but when Yolanda smiled at him, his eyes sparkled and he smiled back without reservation.

Cora Albemarle, too. She’d just gotten her nails done, which normally relaxed her. But she’d been having a tough week, and she was worried sick about her son, who was lost in a world of video games and online chats that seemed to steal a piece of his innocence, every day. Yolanda’s smile was a touch of warmth when Cora’s soul was chilled, and she smiled back, too, even if it was maybe a bit wistful.

Tony Siciliano smiled back, as he headed to the big box store at the end of the mall — the one where he knew he could get work boots cheap. So did Anika Winslow, pushing her rambunctious toddler in the stroller with the wheel that always pulled to the right, and Trey Buchanan behind the counter at the pastry shop. Sissy Frankenweiler, Johnny Stull, Duke Demaris . . . they all smiled. Maybe it lasted, and maybe it didn’t, but Yolanda’s smile touched every one of them.

Not everyone smiled back. No, sir. Some of the young bucks, prowling the mall in groups? They’d react, sure enough. But they might look away, or pretend not to see her. Yolanda wasn’t the prettiest girl, not by the standards of her culture. The planes of her face were too flat, her hair was too dark, and her body just would not surrender an ounce of fat. The bucks knew in their bones that a girl’s smile was an invitation – you couldn’t convince them it wasn’t! – but in Yolanda’s case, the invitation wasn’t welcome.

She knew their type, though. Knew they’d look away, and why, and yes, it hurt. How could it not? She had a young woman’s dreams, the kind common to most young women anywhere, though naturally the contours of those dreams were shaped by the time and place where she lived.

But she just smiled at them all, each and every blessed one of them. Partly in challenge, maybe — daring them to look at her — to see her — to meet simple kindness with a bit of humanity. Mostly, though, it was just Yolanda’s determination not to let anyone steal her joy.

“It’ll come for you, child,” her momma had warned her. “Life’ll knock you down, beat you up, stomp all over you and flick whatever’s left off its big, ugly shoe. It’ll happen, sure as I’m standin’ here. Don’t you flinch! And don’t you waste your life moanin’ and groanin’ about how unfair it all is! That won’t help you none. Find your joy, and don’t let nobody take it from you!”

So Yolanda smiled, even though Marcellus was one of the guys who looked away. She knew him from classes, and they talked sometimes. Had a laugh, now and then. She’d have given him an extra special smile, if he hadn’t looked away. Maybe even a wave and a cheerful “hi!”

But she knew the rules, same as anyone at PGTB High. Marcellus was nice, and he was popular— just not so popular that he could say who was fire and who’d be iced. When he was out with a group of guys, it wouldn’t do for him to be friendly with a low-status girl. A girl without the looks or the body, whose only attribute was a smile that felt like summertime in the high corn.

Oh, he could have stolen her heart, Marcellus could. For a kiss and a smile, as her momma might have said, she’d have been his. He didn’t see it, poor fool, but that was his loss. He couldn’t steal her joy.

She wouldn’t let him.

She did her shopping — it was more of a window-shopping day — smiling at the world, and mostly getting smiles in return. A tune was running through her head. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard it before, but she liked it. It had a bit of bounce to it. A bit of her joy. Who knows? Maybe it was her song, hers alone. Maybe she’d composed it in her own, determined heart.

But like I say, life does throw the off-speed pitches just when you’ve committed your swing to a fastball. Out of the corner of her eye, Yolanda saw a dress that stopped her hard, cold, and sudden. Her internal soundtrack jiddered, like one of those old LP’s when some thoughtless soul hits the arm that holds the needle, sending it skipping across the vinyl.

Such a dress, it was! The palest pink, almost like the very first hints of dawn on a spring morning. She didn’t have to touch the fabric to know that it was light as a cloud and smooth as the skating rink downtown, just after Jimmy Jaylon finished up with the Zamboni. Floor-length, with a soft, folded neck, feathery capped sleeves and a tailored waist. It was the dress for an angel, beautiful and elegant and timeless.

Yolanda’s smile flickered, then went out altogether. Against her iron will, a single tear forced itself through the lashes of her left eye.

Then another.

Arch Stevens saw her as he was walking back towards where he’d parked, feeling no better for the technician’s assurance that there wasn’t actually anything wrong with his phone. He immediately forgot about his frustrating inability to keep up with rapidly changing communications technology, though, when he saw that the girl whose smile had so brightened his day was now in tears.

He approached cautiously, nonetheless. Arch knew he was a big man, and had learned over time that women and girls tended to see him as threatening. He stopped five feet from her, and easily within her field of vision. “Are you okay?”

Yolanda had seen him approach, of course. She always tried to be joyful and open, but like every girl over a certain age, she instinctively did a split-second threat evaluation of any male that came within range. While Arch thought of himself as large, Yolanda simply saw an older guy, still tall but no longer big. Pepper and salt hair, hound-dog eyes. Bit of an old-guy gut. Loose buttoned-down shirt that had fit better in other days.

No threat.

She wanted to smile. Willed herself to smile, and that was almost always enough. But his question, and the genuine concern with which he voiced it, undid her. She said, “I’m okay,” but her tears said otherwise.

He fished in his back pocket, then awkwardly handed her a square of white cotton fabric.

“What is it?”

That brought a chuckle. “Think of it as a reusable Kleenex – but I promise, I’ve never used it.”

She decided her initial assessment was right – the old guy was harmless. And, he was being nice. She took the handkerchief and tried dabbing her eyes. The cloth wasn’t nearly as absorbent as Kleenex. “If you’ve never used it, why do you carry it around?”

“That’d be on account of my pappy, I guess.” He smiled, remembering. “He told me a gentleman should always carry a handkerchief, just in case. I guess it’s kind of gone out of fashion.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Thanks, Mr. . . ?”

“Just call me Arch. Everyone does. What’s your name?”

“Yolanda.”

“Yolanda, you gave me the nicest smile when I walked by earlier. So I had to stop when I saw you crying. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She tried the smile again. It wasn’t much of one, yet. “I”m good, honest. That dress, there . . . it just caught me by surprise, know what I mean?”

“It’s lovely.” But he kept his eyes fixed on the girl in front of him rather than looking over at the display.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “And I’d just love to wear something like that.”

“Too expensive?”

“Prob’ly, but that don’t matter. I could never wear a dress like that, even if I had more money than that Musk guy. That color, on my skin? And . . . well . . . that was made for someone, you know . . . skinny. Tall and skinny, with pale skin and a long neck and perfect hair.” She shook her head. “I’m grateful for everything I’ve got; I really am. But I just can’t help wishing I had the body that dress was made for.”

Arch saw the pain in her eyes that she tried so hard to keep back and couldn’t help but raise a hand to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I understand.”

“Thanks.” Her smile had an unusual hint of ruefulness. “But it’s not something a guy would ever get, not really. For guys, clothes are just clothes. Shirt, pants, shoes, and boom, you’re ready to go. For a girl, a dress like that – it’s like a fairy tale, or I don’t know . . . a superhero cape or something. If you can wear that, you can do anything. Anything at all!”

“I know.” He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I make a point of not looking at that dress.”

Yolanda looked at the old guy, trying to make sense of what he was saying. It sounded crazy, and her threat assessment jumped from ‘no’ to ‘okay, this is weird.’ “You . . . want to wear that dress?”

“No.” The sadness in his eyes deepened as he felt her rising distrust. “But I wish I had the body that dress was made for. Just like you.”

Yolanda wasn’t raised in a sheltered environment, and she’d certainly heard of trans people. There was even a guy at school that people thought was trans – a gentle, bookish boy with soft features, who always blushed and looked away when she smiled at him. Arch didn’t look anything like him, though. “Are you, like . . . ?”

She didn’t finish the question, afraid that the guy would take offense. Maybe she’d misunderstood him, after all. And most guys would go ballistic if someone accused them of being trans.

“Don’t ask me for labels,” he said, understanding her unfinished question. “I’ve just always had a girl inside. That’s all.”

Yolanda was good at listening, and she listened hard to what he was saying – and not just his words. “That girl inside, seems like she makes you sad.”

“Some,” he admitted. “Mostly because she can’t come out. I can’t live that life.”

He was older, and her momma had taught her to respect her elders, but what he said went against everything she’d been taught. Against the core of who she was. She couldn’t help shaking her head. “You can’t live like that, Arch. You gotta find your joy. You gotta!”

“That’s not so easy,” he explained. “Keep her in and I’m her jailer; let her free, and I’m an outcast. I’d hurt people, too – people like my late wife’s family.”

“So, maybe that’s not your joy,” she said, undeterred. “Maybe your joy is just being you. Being a sweet guy with a girl inside. Nothin’ wrong with that, and lots that’s good.”

He chuckled. “I admire your optimism.”

“I’m serious! Now you listen. I been standing here crying like a kicked puppy for five minutes, and no-one paid me any mind. They just walked on by, you know? You didn’t. So why’s that not special?”

“They might not have seen you crying,” Arch said. “I only noticed because I remembered your smile.”

She shook her head. “You think you’re the only person I smiled at today?”

“It felt that way.” He surprised himself by saying, “You have a pretty amazing smile.”

“I know. But I bet I’d smiled at half the people who walked by me, just now. You’re the only one who saw me. So I say that’s special. You should rejoice in that.”

“What’s your joy?” Arch asked, intrigued. “Where does that smile of yours come from?”

“I got lots to be joyful about! There’s my momma, just for starters. She’s just the most amazing person in the whole wide world, and she’s all mine, you know? I got a good school, and friends, and a good house with my own bedroom! An’ I’m healthy, like, all the time. I see people here, they struggle to move sometimes. Got walkers, or wheelchairs. Now I get frustrated, like I was just now, ’cuz I can’t seem to lose weight. My momma says our family was built for famine – we get some fat and we hold onto it for dear life! But I can move, you know? I exercise plenty, and I love to run. I’m not breaking any records, but I feel such joy when I run!”

As she spoke, her smile returned in full force, and to its full wattage.

“You know,” Arch said thoughtfully. “I’ve known girls who could wear that dress and look perfect. I bet you have, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” she agreed.

He brought the point home. “They didn’t have your joy, though.”

“I hadn’t thought about that before, but . . . you’re right! Now, how crazy is that?”

“Human,” he said gently. “Just human. . . . You’ll be alright, now?”

“I will.”

“Then I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”

She stepped closer and offered his handkerchief. “Thanks for . . . this.”

“You keep it.” He smiled. “Just in case something else surprises you.”

“But isn’t a gentleman s’posed to have one?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve got more somewhere. Besides, I’ve never quite mastered the ‘gentleman’ thing.”

“Maybe not, I guess.” Surprising both herself and Arch, she stepped close and gave the old man a heartfelt hug. “But you’re great, just as you are. Find your joy!”

Gently, softly, he kissed the crown of her head, then let her go.

He made his way back to his car, and before long he was in traffic, finding his way to the house where he lived alone. There were chores to be done and bills to pay. The lawn needed mowing, and he’d promised his neighbor he’d help replace the busted toilet in his downstairs bathroom. Life, in short, went on, as life tends to do.

But a touch of joy was in his heart, and whenever he lost it, all he had to do was remember Yolanda’s smile.

– The end

Author’s note: I would like to thank Andrea Lena DiMaggio — writer, artist, and dear friend, both for giving the story a Beta read, and for designing the cover art. ’Drea, you are a wonder and an inspiration!

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.