Emily is a NYC-based writer and my best friend. We both grew up on 86th street, west of Central Park, two blocks away from one another. For as long as I can remember, Emily has always had a natural elegance about her — as early as first grade, she caught my eye, and compelled me to march on up to her and ask if she’d be my friend (she said yes). In 5th grade, she had the wherewithal to take me aside and, gently but resolutely, tell me I needed to start wearing a bra. Apparently I was too busy trying to figure out how to make her 38-sized shoes fit my 36-size foot to notice my conspicuous nipples poking their bulbous heads through my white Petit Bateaus.

We’ve both helped each other grow, Emily and I. In fact, it was Emily who helped foster my kleptomaniac tendencies as a kid.

Growing up, Emily had the best clothes and a closet that came only in second to her mom’s (third if you’re counting her grandma). To prom, I wore her stunning beaded dress from Scoop; to high school graduation, her white, Edwardian-style Ya-Ya dress; and for my first day of classes at college, I wore another white lacy number of hers. It wouldn’t even be a stretch to say Emily pioneered the (revived) polaroid trend à la early 2000s; she started taking polaroids, scanning them onto her computer against a solid-colored backdrop, and then uploading them to Facebook like six years before everyone else did. If she were an emoji, she’d be the dancing lady in a red dress. (I could also mention that she won “Best Dressed” for our high school superlatives, but I’d rather not.)

After everything we’ve been through, an homage to her wardrobe is really the least I could do.