***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!”
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