*** All names have been changed for protection of my friend's dignities***
When Elizabeth and I go to the mall, she speeds enthusiastically and we boom and bounce the music out of the speakers. We blast thumping beats and dance through the journey like the fools we are - until an attractive man drives by. Then, we stop and pretend to be normal, hoping to appear attractive. As soon as he drives off, we resume our shenanigans: fist pumping, singing the wrong lyrics, and bouncing in our seats. She likes to let me think that I’m allowed to control the music, but I let her choose because I know she likes to be in control. Besides, with our similar taste in music, she is hard-pressed to find a song I don’t like. We talk convivially on and off about relationships, music, school, and family.
Once we arrive at the mall, we park at the closest possible spot to a street light because she likes to be able to find her car and she is a stickler for safety. We stop in the food court at least once and always for Americanized Chinese cuisine. We are at the mall for one specific item, but we browse every store that catches our fleeting attention. We arrive at Barnes and Noble and browse every shelf for 43 minutes before arriving at our destination: the little black books. Our communal small black leather journal in hand, we walk through the abandoned mall making up stories for why stores went out of business.
We pass an abandoned pizza shop and make our way behind the counter: I climb awkwardly over the wide counter while Elizabeth finds the swinging door and lets herself in with ease and grace only to trip over her own foot. Tip-toeing and whispering too loudly to be in any way sneaky, we slither into the dark kitchen and use our cell phones as flashlights. Elizabeth whispers “do you think it was always this dirty back here?” I laugh and I walk ahead of her, ever the adventurous one, and she takes advantage of the moment to grasp my shoulder suddenly. Two blood-curling shrieks and a “Elizabeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth!!!!!” later, we laugh our way out of the kitchen and over the counter, humming the Mission Impossible theme as we sneak past the security guard who is now on a wild goose chase after the “hooligans.”
Once we’re no longer at risk for being arrested for trespassing and forced into mall-jail, Elizabeth walks comfortably near me, arm brushing mine, talking excitedly and candidly.
We ride every elevator, pretending to get stuck and dying from loneliness and failed classes.
We come across a hurricane simulator and in a burst of immaturity, Elizabeth pays the $2 and we are subject to 100 mile per hour winds. Elizabeth takes a picture to commemorate the moment as our hair flails wildly and we make silly faces. Elizabeth obsessively check to see if the picture is blurry and luckily the picture receives her approval.
“Wow, your breasts look fantastic. We are gonna crop those puppies out!”
We come across the abandoned Belk and try on adult-sized animal-themed hooded towels clearly meant for children. More pictures are taken to be approved by Elizabeth and we amble among the knick-knacks, pretending to showcase them like Vanna White and hiding from employees behind ominous black curtains clearly marked “employees only.” In coming out from behind the curtains, Elizabeth pretends she is a model bursting through onto a catwalk. I only let my head show, pretending to be Harry Potter from that scene where he first learns about his Invisibility Cloak. We laugh and leave Belk, heading toward the car.
We drive away, hours later, with the small black leather journal. We arrive in her room to do homework, buckling down to Organic Chemistry and Physics for me and Human Development for her. The Lion King for the both of us. I leave her room well past my bed-time, with a hug and the daily brief but friendly (read: loud) reminder: “Put some clothes on!!!” I laugh, wondering if what I’m wearing doesn’t count as clothes, and give my usual response as I skip down the hallway: “I put them on just for you!!”
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