“Great.” I don’t want to attribute too much crap to Jenna, or my mom might call her mom to see if everything’s okay. Our moms were never that close because Mrs. Tanner always had a really stressful job and now she’s CEO of a company in Wisconsin. I don’t think my mom has even spoken to her since they left, and that’s how I’d like to keep it.
We pull up to the thrift store, which is an enormous warehouse with a floor-to-ceiling glass storefront where mannequins are displayed, dressed for weddings and business meetings. I always get the urge to sneak into the display and spice them up a bit, with crazy hats and jewelry and glasses and scarves—all the things I would never be brave enough to wear myself.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” says Mom. “Unless you want my help.”
“That’s okay.” I quickly scramble out of the car and head inside. It’s better this way, without her cringing at everything I choose. I bypass the women’s clothes and head straight for the men’s size-large sweaters that offer the most coverage in the least puke-worthy colors. No lilac. No coral.
Boyfriend sweaters are always in style. Right? Hallie Bryce wears them sometimes with just leggings and ballet flats. And her amazing legs, of course.
I find a gray cardigan I can at least pretend I might wear with the neon outfit. It hangs down almost as far as the skirt does. And, oooh, cashmere. Score!
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see another text from Jenna.
Never mind.
She “needed” me for, like, ten minutes? I jam the phone back in my pocket and return to the rack, choosing two more sweaters—a navy-blue crewneck and another in olive green. I hug the three sweaters on their hangers to my chest and start for the checkout. Altogether, they’ll cost me less than fifteen dollars. I’m tempted to text Jenna because she loves oversized sweaters, too. She’d definitely be jealous of the gray cashmere. But, never mind.
My phone buzzes again and I don’t want to look at it. I tell myself, Don’t even think about looking at it. So, of course, I look at it.
Wanted your opinion on this outfit.
There’s another “. . .” bubble beneath it so I wait, staring at the phone. Jenna knows I’m the wrong person to ask about clothes, especially if she wants to look cute. I’m pretty sure that’s not really why she texted me. The next comment comes through:
Jossie and Tiff picked it out.
I stare at the cute names of the girls who have replaced me in Jenna’s life. Then a photo comes through, featuring Jenna with Supercutegirl and Supercuteothergirl, aka Jossie and Tiff. Seeing her with them feels like sandpaper on a brush burn. They are posing like a trio of sexy anime warriors. But what really gets me is what they’re wearing—which is pretty much the same outfit my mom just bought me: Black tops (all slightly different), and neon skirts. Jenna’s is bright pink. Supercutegirl’s is neon yellow, and Supercuteothergirl’s is electric blue. They’ve also got clunky platform sandals on, with black-and-white patterned socks.
I barely recognize her. Especially when she texts:
Tristan loves it, so I’m all good.
Jenna never used to care what boys thought of her clothes. She’d be more likely to wear something the guys would not consider hot on purpose. And the matchy-matchy with friends? She used to roll her eyes when girls came to school like that. She’d say, “Can they not dress themselves?”
It’s like she’s transformed herself into an entirely different person.
I shove the phone in my back pocket and stumble through the shoe selection, not even wanting shoes. But there’s a clunky pair of black platform sandals similar to the ones Jenna and her new friends are wearing, and they call out to me. It’s as if they’re teasing me, taunting: You can’t wear these! You’re not cool enough! I hook my finger through the straps and carry them toward the register.
The checkout line goes past a special display of items for Halloween. It’s mostly kids’ stuff—giant footed pajamas that look like lions or bears or dragons. But there are wigs, too. All colors. They start calling to me, too.
I pick up purple and orange ones, kind of nestle them together atop each other. It looks like the Photoshop hair I drew on myself in the East 48 picture.
A sign on the Halloween table reads “Everything $3.” I take the wigs. A plastic bin offers sunglasses for $1.50 each. I sift through them and pluck a pair of cat-eye-shaped lenses with thick white rims, and a pair of those X-ray-vision glasses with the red-and-white swirly eyes. I snatch up three more pairs, plus a fistful of bracelets from a huge bowl that says they’re twenty-five cents each. My arms are loaded to the point where I can’t carry any more.
I’m nervous taking my haul up to the counter, because I’m always nervous at checkout counters. Sometimes the clerks are chatty, and I don’t want to explain why I’m buying chunky sandals, two colorful wigs, five pairs of crazy sunglasses, and a dozen bracelets in addition to my usual boring sweaters. I’m not entirely sure myself, except that I’m tired of being me. I want to be someone else and I’m not sure living vicariously—or vicuriously—is going to cut it anymore.
The clerk barely acknowledges my presence, so I needn’t have worried. She simply rings up my total, shoves everything in a bag, collects my money, and says, “Next.”
I sit on a bench outside to wait for Mom, and carefully arrange my $43.75 worth of purchases so the weirdness is hidden beneath the sweaters.
Kind of like what I do every single day of my life.
When we get home, I run up to my room, shoo Kat out, and lock the door. I gather my hair into a blob and try to cram it all inside the purple wig, but it’s sticking out everywhere and looks like I have a massive growth on top of my head. I rummage in my sock drawer for a pair of panty hose I’ve never worn, and cut off part of one leg to fashion a skullcap. Once I’ve got my hair all smoothed and tucked inside, I try to put both wigs on at once—orange first, then purple on top. They look ridiculous, like a furry double-decker ice cream cone.
I take them off and study the colorful blobs of hair until I figure out how to make them look the way I’m imagining them in my mind. Then I get to work, carefully cutting strips from the orange wig and gluing them to the scalp of the purple one, like extensions. After a while it starts to look like the hair I drew on my picture in Photoshop, except now with real (fake) hair.
I’m so engrossed in my creation that I barely register my mom calling me for dinner. I attach a last strip of orange hair to the purple wig and carefully stash it in my closet, resting atop a boot so the glue can dry without all the hair getting matted together.
Dad walks in the front door as I come down the hall from my room.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He looks tired.
“Hey, Dad.” We walk into the kitchen and sit down as Mom puts out the food.
“Good day?” he says, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate and passing the bowl to me.
“It was okay.”
“We went shopping,” says Mom, implying that we did this together. “You should model your new outfit for your father.”
“Do I have to?” I shoot Dad a pleading look.