Faith Restored

When you live in a world where people take you for granted, speak to you condescendingly, and more often than not simply forget you ... it's hard to have a little faith in humanity. Or at least, that's what Ms. Evelyn said when she offered me tea.

Earlier that day, Ms. Evelyn had gone out on her daily walk to get the newspaper at the end of her very old and cracked driveway. She sweltered under the stifling Georgia heat and regretted donning her thick bathrobe; even if it is her favorite one because of the embroidered blue and green flowers.

As she bent down to pick up her newspaper, her foot gave out from under her and she lost her shoe. Ms. Evelyn screamed as she fell and gasped, thinking she had broken her already fragile hip. She felt the familiar and embarrassing trickle down her legs. Her elbow scraped the ground, her glasses fell off her head, and her bathrobe slipped off her shoulder. A small gash on her elbow dripped blood onto the concrete and she stared as a car drove by her.

"Maybe he was going too fast... Maybe he didn't see me..."

Ms. Evelyn despaired as the time passed and car after car passed her fallen form. Her bright blue robe was not hard to miss amidst the drab grey concrete. Minute by minute, more beads of sweat collected on her brow as the midday sun beat mercilessly on her aching body.

She could see her neighbors sitting on their front porch but could not call out to them. Her voice would not come but she wondered if, just maybe, they were ignoring her.

One car after another, the misery and pain began to set in. Despair and a headache set in as a white pick-up truck and a red mini-van passed her fallen form. Would no one stop for her?

But... wait. Wasn't that the same pick-up truck and mini-van again? Relief washed over her when the cars pulled over and doors began to open.

A man and his daughter.

A woman and her son.

"They stopped for me... They're asking me if I'm ok... They're helping me up"


"I'm ok, I bent down to pick up my newspaper and my foot must have gone out from under me. No, no, nothing's broken. Oh no, nonononono I'd rather not call anyone. My daughter's busy at work, I don't want to bother her."

Ms. Evelyn was so glad to have someone talk to her, notice her, and just touch her hand. She couldn't remember the last time any person had been so considerate. A registered nurse and her strong son. A sensitive man and his caring daughter.

"Such a lovely girl, is she stooping down to place my shoe back on my foot. She didn't have to do that. I feel so bad for getting blood on her hands. God must have sent these kind folks to me, what would have happened? Why did no one else stop for me?"

"Do you know that I make this walk every day? Just to get the paper."

The young ones helped her to the door; the strong man lifted her into her favorite chair; the nurse and the young girl cleaned up her bloodied elbow and hands. Could they tell she had soiled herself in her fear?

Would they leave her so soon?

"Young lady, would you like some tea? would you like to hear what happened before you found me? Would you like to know how you restored my faith in humanity?"

Magic Ruined

A child's first trip to Disney World should be a magical experience full of wonderful memories and new adventures. An adult's nth trip to Disney World should still be a magical experience that brings out the happiness and peace of the inner child. I'm sorry to say neither was the case for my Fourth of July Disney experience. I was hoping to see Magic Kingdom through the eyes of a 6 year-old girl on her first trip to the most magical place on earth, but was instead appalled at the entire experience.

Waking up a dreaming Alexandra at 5 a.m. did not go as expected when she kicked my stomach and punched my arm in protest to being awakened. She grumbled and rolled over, trying desperately to go back to sleep as I tried to yank the bedsheets away from her vice-like grip. Desperate, I dressed her and brushed her hair while she was still asleep. I even put her shoes on and proceeded to get myself ready. When I accidentally dropped my toothbrush in the bathroom, I apparently made enough noise to wake up the sleepy Alexandra.

Once awake, she scarfed down her breakfast of choice: cookies and creme Pop Tarts and Sunny D. Was that a comment on her mother's parenting style? No, not at all, why would you think that?

As tough as it was to wake her up, it was even harder to get her into the car because she kept forgetting items. Alexandra cannot ride in the car without one specific pink blanket and three specific stuffed animals. She fell asleep almost immediately when the car started and did not fight me during the hour-long car ride to Magic Kingdom. 

I wish her parents had slowed down the car so Alex could have seen the entrance gate to Magic Kingdom, but her sleepy eyes hadn't opened yet and she missed it. She did, however, catch the giant Donald Duck statue and wondered why he was there. I learned that morning that Alexandra had not only never been to Magic Kingdom but had not seen any Disney movies except for Cars and Tangled. The child had no clue what to expect or what the stories behind the park's attractions were or who half the characters trying to hug her were or why there was a giant castle and parades.

I thought that was enough and tried to give a rundown of what was happening so she could have more fun. I tried to slow down so she could look around at the buildings and parts of the park which were obviously grabbing her attention. The buildings in Adventureland are a cross between the bazaar in Aladdin and the pirate world of Jack Sparrow. I was entranced and Alex was so excited to take in all the details, but her mother and father kept walking faster and faster, pulling her along so she wouldn't get lost in the crowd. Why? 

We had all day to explore the park and they were so paranoid about little Alexandra getting lost in the crowd - but she wouldn't have gotten lost if they hadn't been running from place to place without enjoying the experience of Magic Kingdom. Alexandra didn't even get to explore Fantasyland's replicated French architecture from Beauty and the Beast or the little cabin-like shops straight out of Snow White.

I'm glad I was there to take care of Alexandra because her parents refused to get on most rides and little Alexandra would have missed out on spinning teacups and racing cars and roller coasters and magic carpet riding and haunted mansions and jungle cruises and target practice with Buzz Lightyear. Standing in lines and eating mickey mouse waffles while Pooh and his friend hug you are part of the experience. An experience that Alexandra will probably never revisit as long as she lives with her family.

I only say this because after having a magical day with me and waiting in line for It's A Small World After All - it began to downpour and thunderstorm. The day was apparently ruined, at least according to Alexandra's easily upset mother who saw nothing but the negative in that day. But Alexandra and I were having a grand time in the rain and waiting inside a gift shop. I even bought her first pair of Minnie Mouse ears. She wore them for the rest of the week.

So with a "ruined" day, we went to wait in line for Space Mountain. Because of the thunderstorm, the Fast Pass machines were down and we had to wait in line for over three hours. Thankfully, Alexandra was asleep in my arms for most of it and her older brother was busy reading his book. Three hours of listening to Alexandra's parents complain and bumping into the couple making out in front of us. Three hours of aching feet and the dead weight of a six year-old child.

Snaking up to the front of the line, Alexandra woke up just in time to find out (yet again) she was tall enough for the ride and get inside her rocket. She is measured three or four times at every ride because she is exactly 44 inches tall but deceptively small. She was so happy to get going and throughout the entire ride I heard her excited screams and giggles of terrified delight. Whooshing and whipping around corners while the stars and constellations whizzed past us, Alexandra and I screamed in joy. Space Mountain is my favorite ride and I was ecstatic to share the magic of it with Alexandra. As the ride comes to a stop, she bounces in her seat and squeals "again! Again, Ana, again!!!"

Her mother put a stop to the "nonsense" by dragging Alexandra out of her seat and rushing to the exit of the park, mumbling and raving about never coming back to the park again because she had had such a horrible experience. Alexandra's mother sat through the incredibly spectacular Fourth of July fireworks begrudgingly, smoking cigarette after cigarette, nervous eyes darting around, impatient to get back in the car and leave the "horrible" place. I don't think we were in the same park at all.

For the next few days, Alexandra couldn't stop talking about Magic Kingdom to every person she met asked me to relive the memories, begged to look at the pictures on my camera, and pleaded to rent The Little Mermaid or Cinderella. Likewise, her mother couldn't stop complaining about Magic Kingdom to every person she met for the rest of the week. I do hope she changes her mind and doesn't ruin the rest of Alexandra's magical and innocent childhood or any more theme parks with her negative attitude and nicotine-induced paranoia.

Sometimes, I really wish I could take kids away from incompetent parents and fix their childhoods. If I could, I'd have a house filled with all the children from my neighborhood and many more that I meet in stores. Some people... should not be parents. And some people should not be allowed to ruin magic for children.

Climbing to the Top ... Well ... Almost

As the sun finished his climb up the sky and high noon heat hit my bared shoulders, I led my siblings and my over-excited dog into the car for a field trip to Kennesaw Mountain. While it took a while to herd my parents into the car, Phoebe rushed excitedly around the compact insides of our minivan and climbed all over my legs, leaving scratches and hair on every surface she touched. As the car started, she quieted down and sat patiently (whining) while trying to look through the window.

With ever passing car, Phoebe tried her hardest to "escape" and find new people to scratch her belly. She whined as if it was some malicious intent on our side that kept her from sniffing the blurring magnolias, oaks, birches, and pines. My mom tried to calm her, but Phoebe only took her kindness as a welcome to join my mom in the front seat.

Ignoring everything, my father kept driving and turned up the radio to drown out Phoebe's whining. Song after song, my sister and I belted the lyrics to the tunes on the radio; we shared funny faces and even cajoled our brother into an odd rendition of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," a rendition which garnered funny looks from our parents. Phoebe, on the other hand, did not care for singing as she was only trying to escape into the fields of grass just outside the parking lot of Kennesaw Mountain.

Phoebe leapt out of the car once the door opened and the leash nearly slipped out of my hands as she scrambled to sniff the feet of a toddler waddling by on the sidewalk. The toddler giggled in glee and allowed Phoebe to enthusiastically lick his face. Suddenly, both Phoebe and the toddler were shocked still as a cannon went off in the distance. It would appear that we had chosen the annual celebration of the Battle of Kennesaw as our family outing day.

Enthralled by the cannons and volunteers in Confederate uniforms, my brother veered off the trail and walked straight into a reenacted campsite where a lovely woman in a layered hoop-skirt and bonnet was washing clothes in a bucket and another hoop-skirted southern lady was cooking rice and salted pork in a big pot over a fire for the tired soldiers. Some women even offered us tea they had just brewed outside. My sister even let down her guard to enjoy looking at the lovely lace gloves and shawl a woman was wearing. My father and I were driven toward the muskets by our shared love of antique guns. My mother laughed and took pictures to commemorate the impromptu dive into history.

The Union soldiers also had a camp and showed my brother how to clean shoes properly. Their tents were cleaner and they had a small band. Two drums and a few unknown wind instruments played various songs for our enjoyment but were interrupted by their instinctive need to pet Phoebe. Soon after, the Union soldiers marched in formation and put on a brief show of marching and haphazardly throwing their muskets into the air. They needed more practice... or maybe they were trying to be historically accurate.

When the over-heated soldiers took a break from fawning over Phoebe, we finally took off in the direction of the trail to begin our much-awaited trek up to the top of the mountain. That is, we tried. Until my father's still-recovering knees began to give out, so he turned around and told us to keep walking. My mom and I walked ahead, deeper into the surrounding oaks and pines; we took comfort in the shadows of the canopy of leaves. Five minutes into our walk up to the top of the mountain, my mom's cell phone begins to ring and my father's voice booms and crackles from the little speakers. The Confederate soldiers are putting on a cannon show.

My brother had never seen cannon fire so we began to turn around in order to head to the Confederate camp. That is, we tried. Until my sister began throwing a temper tantrum about "this isn't hiking" and "exercise is supposed to be continuous and I just want to walk up the mountain" and "we never get to do what I want because no one asks for my opinion" and "we took so long to get in the car and all I want to do is hike."

So my mother offers to stay with her and hike. Which, of course, my sister defiantly turns down and decides to punish herself by saying she'll just go and watch the cannons. Having irritated every one of us with her tantrum, she huffs and tantrums her way over to the Confederate camp. Stomping on the dirt path, she created small puffy clouds around her feet and scared off a few chipmunks. We all sat on the soft grass to enjoy the history lesson and cannon show.

The Confederate soldiers line up behind their cannons and begin to prime the cannon and loading it with powder. The other soldier held the cannons to prevent some of the recoil, but, even with their help, the cannons would roll back at least six feet with every firing shot. When the "General" shouts "fire!" his soldier light their weapons and the cannons boom. The ground shakes and a cloud of smoke lingers over the air, the smell of ignited gunpowder mixes with the smell of burning coal back at the Confederate campsite. When the smoke cleared and the show was over, we all stood up to go hiking again. That is, we tried.

My sister does not want to. After her irritating tantrum, she has decided she does not feel like walking now. Of course, of course. My father talks her into walking for a little while. Smiles on every face, except for a scowl on my sister's face, we once again take comfort under a canopy shade and enjoy the beautiful trees ascending to touch the sky. My brother stomps through the woods, snickering as he breaks sticks with his feet and stopping to look at the interesting rock formations. I indulge in the simple pleasure of looking through the trees and searching for wildlife. Butterflies and chipmunks abound while a doe leaps over a fallen oak. The hole in the canopy is easy to spot as the bright blinding light shines through a large round opening.

After ten minutes of semi-peace, my brother begins to complain because his feet are tired and my sister chimes in about her aching legs. He's thirsty. She's hungry. My dad's knees aren't ready for this hike. This last one I can understand, so they begin the trek down the mountain for water and shade. My mother and I keep walking up the hill, passing tourist groups speaking a myriad of languages and serious hikers in their lycra, until we reach a beautiful lookout spot.

My camera did not do the view any justice. From this spot between the trees, we could see every building in the Atlanta skyline outlined against a clear blue sky. The King and Queen, the Bank of America Plaza and SunTrust Plaza, and the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All surrounded by lush green foliage. It's odd how man often forgets that nature was here before us and that it is all around us - even in a city like Atlanta. The city has lush green on every side and mountains are seen in the distance, but whilst in the city, one cannot help but feel that city is all there is to the world.

It had only been ten minutes and we had in no way reached the top of the mountain, but we resigned ourselves to joining the rest of the family. We didn't want to keep them waiting, so we began the trek down the path. We passed the same tourist groups, still speaking their myriad languages, and different hikers and runners, still in their tight lycra outfits. Two emperor butterflies later, we arrived at the bottom of the mountain to find that not only were the soldiers gone by so was our car.

One phone call revealed the family to be at KFC buying lunch for the hungry children. We waited for their return and I mourned the passing of a strange hiking day. My sister was in the car, in a jovial mood, and when pressed for a reason for her new mood... she replied simply and succinctly.

"Chicken."

So there we have it, folks. When your child gives you a hard time and throws at tantrum at age thirteen, all you have to do is give them some chicken.

Special Eyes

Eyes, in their mirror-like qualities and telling signals, are curious parts of the human body. Expanding or shrinking pupils in the presence or absence of light or stimuli. Widening or squinting eyelids in surprise and joy or suspicion and anger. Quickening or slowing blinks; a sudden clarification or a slow glazing over; eyes are truly amazing and curious parts of our bodies.

Some eyes are more special than others.

Some eyes are not simply brown: they are Dove dark chocolate brown. Once, they had flecks of golden honey or fool's gold. Without losing any of their sweetness, those dark chocolate eyes lost their honey flecks.

Those irises, dark and inviting, contrast the blinding white of the sclera and the creamy white skin of the eyelids and cheeks. Eyelids lined with delicate, long, ebony eyelashes that belong on a China doll.

These are the eyes of a boy.

These eyes peer inquisitively at me from behind corrective glasses, a little too early in the morning. Smiling, they ask me to play or they beg for breakfast.

Sometimes, they spy and track my movements from behind a book they should be reading. Reflected in a mirror, they squeal in joy at tickling hands or funny faces when they should be concentrating on brushing teeth.

Clear and attentive, they stare in fascination at new flora or fauna on a hike through the wilderness of our backyard. They light up when "Life Is A Highway" comes on the radio as we dance in the kitchen while making dinner.

Erratic and concentrated, they race across the screen as Mario struggles towards the finish line and (undoubtedly) fails to rescue Princess Peach yet again. They curse silently when Mario dies at the hands of a pesky red shell.

Glazed over and hazy like frosted glass, they vegetate in front of the tv and watch the black screen when it is much too early to be awake. The squint and pull a DS screen closer and closer, desperate to win.

Chocolate pebbles that sparkle and shine as they chase me around the front lawn and grin maliciously when they catch me around the back porch.

When sleepy, those usually vivacious eyes become dull. Eyelashes slow their butterfly kisses and the eyelids that seem to be perpetually widening squint as blood vessels become visible. Those tired eyes swell and close: pretending not to be sleepy, fighting their weariness. Darkened eyelids cover eyes that are finally still and doll-eyelashes finally rest motionless on smiling cheeks.

My doll, my brother - the little man.

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part IV)

***names changed, you know the drill***     

  

  I rarely venture to the mall on my own because I do not have a car to drive to the mall. Because I generally do not need frivolous things that are not within walking-distance. Because it is exponentially more fun to have a friend with me. But sometimes, I venture to the mall on my own at the expense of a tired bus-driver who thinks it is dangerous for a young woman to be alone in Columbia buses.

          I tend to enter through the food court, humming made-up songs with lyrics about the people I see. It is very interesting to people-watch in solidarity, as I am prone to do when alone, and I take mental notes of the hipster lumberjacks and the grandiose air of a stylish elderly woman carrying a chihuahua in the palm on her hand. I sit alone, eyes intensely focused on the young children riding the merry-go-round as I reminisce about my childhood and wonder what grandiose dreams these children will shatter in order to “make ends meet” in their future. A few cat calls and one “go on ahead with yo’ bad self, gurl” later, I get up and enter the book store. I am lonely in my need to have stimulating conversation so I reach for the companionship of a new friend with pages of secrets unopened. Settled down in a cozy corner of the floor, I laugh or cry appropriately as my new friend divulges new stories. This might be a fleeting fling or a life-long romance, I’m never sure until I’m torn from my friend by a need to leave the book store. 

          I admit that I walk around the mall distractedly, ambling from store to store, and try on every item of clothing that catches my eye. Every fancy dress and sparkly shirt I don’t need, every pair of shoes I can’t afford, every pair of pants or shorts that I would never wear, and every skirt short enough to be a belt. I do not buy anything and instead spend half an hour playing with a baby named Cody in the pet store. Eight-month-old Cody was looking to pet the same Fox Terrier I wanted to play with and became more interested in my hair than the dog, so I spent half an hour playing peek-a-boo and I-got-your-nosey with stranger’s baby on the floor of a pet store. 

        Once Cody’s over-protective mother decided to leave the store with the “dangerous” pet dander, I wandered into David’s Bridal where Courtney, an eager consultant, helped me pick between various gown styles for my imaginary June wedding. Courtney was eager to plan a wedding and needed to fill a quota, so we lied to the system and stuck it to the man by planning an extravagant June wedding to fulfill every princess’s fantasy. Apparently, I’m going to wear a empire-waisted gown and my bridesmaids will wear aquamarine blue dresses in various styles to fit their body-types; I will also have have white lilies and aquamarine blue tulips in my bouquet and as part of the centerpieces. David’s Bridal will e-mail me every day from now on. As I leave the store and a satisfied Courtney, I wander back to the food court for a chocolate ice-cream cone - my secret indulgence.

          I wait for the bus, having bought nothing but lunch and ice-cream. I am satisfied with my day of people-watching and the new acquaintances I made, but I regret not buying the novel that was ultimately the highlight of my day because he provided better conversation than anyone I ran into at the mall. I return to my room and sit in nothing but the comfort of my robe, attempting productivity and homework until someone knocks on my door. “Who is it?” I half-yell to the shadow I see under my door. “It’s me, woman, let me in! And put some clothes on,” Elizabeth says. My robe does not count as clothes, but I open the door just the same. This is my room, my rules. No clothes.

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part III)

***names changed for the purposes of super secrecy***

When I go to the mall with Amber, my daddy drives me to meet her at the mall midway between our houses. Her mother drives her and we call each other on the phone to share the car ride with each other and our parents. My dad picks on us, calls us girly, and laughs knowing he’s glad we’re not doing something stupid or dangerous. Her mom smokes silently and sings Lady Gaga’s “Love Game” in a monotone with a straight face because she doesn’t know what the song means. Our parents drop us off by the food court because it is the most recognizable place to pick up children and perfectly responsible 19-year -olds. With cars out of sight, we give each other a kiss on each cheek, hug, and squeal in our excitement to be together.

          Holding hands comfortably, we stroll leisurely through the mall. We don’t need anything in particular; Amber and I are here for time together and what better place for two non-girly girls to spend girly time together and reconnect? We stop in the accessory shops and try on funky oversized glasses, taking pictures of every moment. As we browse the “old southern lady church hat” collection, we recount our lives to each other: the play I missed, the steady boyfriend she’s never met, the various “sex-ventures” with girls (and a few boys) I never heard about, and school. While putting on elbow-length movie star white gloves, fake-pearls, and tiaras, we reminisce about our high school years: the swim meet where we met when she sat on my lap thinking I was a chair, exploring the deserted school at midnight after an all-day play rehearsal, and going to the museum of art during finals week where we met one of our teachers playing hookie. 

          As we leave the accessory shop, we drag and pull each other to the pet store, squealing at puppies and flirting with the handsome tattooed worker who thinks we’re dating. We just look sooooo much like a lesbian couple, we get that a lot when we go out together in public - but that doesn’t stop us from holding hands and skipping past the stereotypers. We find a photo-booth and squeeze into it; she sits on my lap as we display an array of funny faces followed by an ungraceful tumbling out of the booth. Amber looks at the strip of pictures and shakes her head.

          “How does your chest manage to be the focus of every picture... it’s like a plumber’s butt-crack is on your chest!”

          Holding hands and skipping, Amber and I head directly for the mattress section and pretend to be buying for our nonexistent apartment so the salesman leaves us alone. Having dismissed him and knowing we’re alone, we begin bouncing and jumping on the mattresses, giggling madly until I try to take a picture and Amber falls off of our mattress and onto the next one. Laughing as the salesman tries to reprimand us, we run away to the clothing section where glittery fashion mistakes await us. 

          Giggles and shouts of “you look so ridiculous” follow sequined shirt-dresses that jingle when we move. I get stuck in a shirt and, while trying to take it off, I flash Amber and she giggles in her attempts to help me. This isn’t the first time, but she still stares at her smaller bosom in feigned comical jealousy and giggles at our silliness while snapping pictures of me struggling like a flipped-over turtle. In sensible heels, we try on wedding gowns and prom dresses in a large dressing room, which to our delight has multiple mirrors. Amber and I are the same size so we share dresses, except for the ones that refuse to cover my chest. Those dresses are only for her and she looks like a model. Picture after picture, we strike poses like Madonna and Heidi Klum. A little bit after we begin to model Victoria’s Secret merchandise like Gisele, the pictures stop and the giggling intensifies as we realize our ridiculousness when we fail to properly put on said merchandise. Overstuffed cups and frills are not for us.

          Our parents are summoned and we wait, holding hands and doing what we do best: singing Disney songs a capella and doing all the voices (and instruments). My dad arrives first and we wait for her mom to arrive before going our separate ways for the next 4 or 5 months. Amber kisses each cheek once and then holds me at arm’s-length as if to say something very important. She clears her throat and says solemnly: “Ana, please keep your clothes on.” I laugh at her hilarious attempt at reprimanding me for my supposed nudist-tendencies. “I wear them when necessary, isn’t that enough for you?”

Let's Go to the Mall (Adventures Part II)

***names have been changed, you know the deal***

          When Becky and I go to the mall, my small Caucasian friend lets out her inner mad black woman while she drives: incompetent drivers on the road beware her temper. I laugh as she curses at a small elderly man who forgot to signal his left turn. Country music softly crooning out of the speakers, we do not dance or converse but instead take turns monologuing about what ever may have recently vexed us: her boyfriend, her mother, her job, her teachers, her father, her assignments, and my Physics homework. Mostly, I listen and we never get to my Physics homework, it’s not like I really want to talk about Physics.

          Becky parks at the nearest parking space to the entrance because she doesn’t like to walk too far. We always enter through the food court because she likes to preview her next possible meal even though she is going to order the same thing she always orders. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke. We are here on a general quest for “something cute” because Becky’s tired of t-shirts and jeans. We browse every clothing store: JC Penney, Sears, Wet Seal, Rue 21, Forever 21, American Eagle, Aerospostale, Hollister, and Victoria’s Secret (because she’s tired of what she wears underneath her t-shirts and jeans). At the first store, Becky over-scrutinizes every shirt she comes across in her self-consciousness as I gather a stunningly large pile of possible, more mature, and stylish outfits for her - as well as outlandish glittery shirts and the prom dresses. ALL the prom dresses. We share a dressing room, past any kind of uncomfortable modesty, and try on everything, especially the things we should never buy.

          Corsets and impossible heels lead to what are supposed to be burlesque shows in the dressing room, scaring small children who poke their head under the dressing room door. Constricting contraptions with straps, zippers, buttons, and way too much glitter lead to grumbles of “help me get into this thing” which eventually lead up to shouts of “get me out of this!!!” Prom dresses make for impromptu runway shows in the dressing room area, Becky twirling like a clumsy ballerina or princess. She’ll always pretend to be mad that something she likes doesn’t fit her body but fits me well. Becky’s not actually pretending. 

        We take pictures in the dressing room, posing individually in front of the mirror and make goofy faces in our serious formal gowns. After an hour or two, we leave the first store with two shirts for her and walk to more and more stores. Never touching and with a few steps between us, we carry her new wardrobe and my new shirt to the food court in comfortable silence as we are about to feast on food court delicacies. Pizza and breadsticks with a Coke for her and Chinese for me. As we recount the shenanigans of the day, she browses through the day’s pictures and deletes the unflattering ones of her.

          As we leave the mall, we drive in near silence while country music croons softly out of the speakers, glad to not be pressured to hold up meaningless small-talk in our comfortable silence. Arriving back on campus, we walk up the stairs to her room. I’m ahead of Becky and carrying the heavy bags. She opens the door and we plop down on her bed as she rants once more about her vexing life. Thirty-minutes later, I leave her room to do homework with a brief awkward hug and a shy “bye, see you later.” Our friend Andrea has overheard the sound of doors and she flings open her door, yelling “put some clothes on!!!” I turn around in surprise and respond “I did put on clothes!”

Let's Go To The Mall (Adventures Part I)

     *** 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!!”