But then a miraculous thing happened. After three racks of clothes, my hands stopped shaking. I stopped feeling determined and fell into a rhythm, growing absorbed with the oddly meditative act of assessing clothes. I just simply searched for . . . well, for something I liked, something of my choice.
Pretty soon, I’d amassed an armful of outfits and sought the dressing rooms. Previous experience shopping with my momma meant I knew where they were and that they were unlocked. I chose the dressing room farthest down the hall and locked the door behind me.
And then, for the first time in my life, I tried on clothes that I’d picked out. At first, the experience was incredibly bizarre and I didn’t know what to think of the image before me. It was me, but it wasn’t the Banana Cake Queen. The Banana Cake Queen didn’t wear a maroon and white flannel tunic with leggings.
She also didn’t wear a sapphire-blue sweater dress that hugged her body.
She also didn’t wear a white T-shirt and dark skinny jeans.
Nor did she wear a fitted—and awesome—black dress, with a scoop neck, capped sleeves, and a band of black lace at the hemline.
But apparently Jennifer Sylvester did. Because after an hour trying on clothes, I bought myself four new outfits.
And then, drunk on determining my own destiny, I decided I was hungry. Furthermore, I decided I would eat something delicious rather than save my appetite for one of my father’s joyless dinners.
Carrying two bags full of new clothes, I walked to the Garrison Meat and Cheese Emporium. I had a soft spot for cheese steak sandwiches and my father’s militant food practices meant such artery-clogging delectableness was never allowed in the house.
I walked past the men’s section, the cosmetics counter, the shoe department, and into the central concourse. East City mall was the closest mall to Green Valley, so unsurprisingly I recognized several people on my way to the Emporium. Equally unsurprising, no one greeted me. But a few folks gave me odd looks and double takes, as though either my appearance or my presence was confusing.
The Emporium was just off a modest food court in the center of the mall. Garrison Bradly—the owner—had set up three small tables at the front of the shop where customers could eat sandwiches or snack on their popular cheese platters.
I spotted Garrison Jr. behind the meat cutting counter helping a woman I didn’t recognize. I plucked a number from the countertop ticket dispenser and waited my turn, counting four other people milling about waiting to be served.
One of these people was Scotia Simmons, local gossip, all around unpleasant person, and good friend of my mother’s. I gave Scotia a wide berth, trying to look as natural as possible, not because I was worried she’d talk to me, but because I didn’t particularly want her to call my momma and share my whereabouts.
So I loitered next to the fancy condiments and feigned interest in the ingredients while I people-watched. Garrison Jr.—who was now about fifteen—had grown taller since I saw him last. I knew he’d joined the football team because my daddy told us so over dinner. But I also knew he preferred books to sports and was frequently hiding in a corner of the local library devouring fantasy novels.
Scotia was on the phone with her daughter, Darlene—former head cheerleader at my father’s high school, now attending Vanderbilt for graduate school—and was lamenting the fact that Mrs. Beverton, our local choir director, hadn’t been waxing her upper lip since last May.
“She’s grown a full mustache, Darlene.” Scotia tsked, speaking louder than was strictly necessary. “The poor woman looks like a weasel. Enough already without the whiskers, bless her heart.”
I pressed my lips together in an unhappy line. Mrs. Beverton was a kind woman and didn’t deserve to have her physical attributes discussed uncharitably in such a public place.
Still, I stared unseeingly at the mustard label and attempted to fade into the scenery. I was in yellow, standing next to the mustard display, and was the Banana Cake Queen. I was basically invisible.
Eventually, all the customers in front of me were served. I was relieved when Scotia walked off toward the checkout, seemingly unaware of my presence, and it was my turn.
“Number thirty-six.” Garrison Jr. updated the number on the display behind him as he called out my ticket.
I stepped forward and motioned to the bread on top of the counter. “Could I have a small cheese steak with extra cheese?”
“Sure thing.” Garrison Jr. retrieved a medium-sized loaf of French bread while I rolled my paper ticket between my fingers and waited.
But before he’d cut the roll in half, Scotia appeared at my side and called to the teenager, “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want this turkey breast. Instead I think I’ll have the honey baked ham. And maybe also some of that Swiss cheese.”
Garrison Jr. turned to Scotia and promptly resembled a deer caught in headlights as he attempted to simultaneously stare at us both.
“Uh. . .”