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?”