Sonia popped him on the leg. “Oh, please. You act like we’re a bunch of sots,” she complained lightheartedly, and then continued talking about all the fun we’d have together. I faced the front and sank deeper into my seat. Anything that put Max, Gina, Gray, and me together without Trent sounded more like torture than camping. Max sent an apology through the rearview mirror.
The outlet-mall scurry was unbelievable. My anxiety compounded as we searched for a parking place and maxed out as Mom beeped the door locks. The airport trip had been a hill of social anxiety; this was a mountain. Tourists were everywhere.
Mom put her arm around my shoulder. “You’re pale, kiddo.”
“I know.” Pale isn’t always a color; it’s that hollow-cheeked feeling.
“You need a Gatorade before we start this?” she asked.
Sugar and electrolytes sounded like a plan.
“If you’re going to wear sleeves, you have to stay hydrated,” she said in my ear.
I nodded and took cash for the vending machine. If Sonia and Max thought my behavior was off, neither of them judged me. Max joined me for a drink, and when we tossed our bottles, he held out his hand.
Sometimes a hand is an anchor. His held me to the world.
In his raspy voice, he asked, “You okay?”
I shouldered off a tear. “Who in their right mind is scared of an outlet mall?”
He pointed at a half-dozen minivans in the parking lot with men sitting in the front seats. “All those dudes.”
His joke broke through my stiffness.
We were holding hands. His hands were different from Gray’s. Less callused, longer.
I was different when I was attached to him.
I was better.
Don’t screw this up, I told myself.
Mom and Sonia walked out of a shoe store and joined us. I wasn’t sure what our moms thought about us holding hands, but they didn’t embarrass us. Sonia said, “I thought we’d start in PacSun,” and Max said, “Let’s go.”
Four stores and three shopping bags later, I’d successfully maneuvered around trying anything on. I picked something out; Mom swiped her card. The American teenage dream at work. We were on jeans now, and they required a fitting room. I hadn’t bought pants over the past year, even though everything I had was too big on me. Weight loss had been a problem. My thighs and calves were muscled, but I’d trimmed down at least a size in my waist, probably two.
My fear of the fitting room had amped from uncomfortable to panic attack the last time Mom tried this shopping thing with me. Rationally, I could go in an enclosed space, try on pants, and come back out fully dressed. Irrationally, the anxiety raised my heart rate, and I felt barred in by expectations. People watched fitting rooms like runways.
Max squeezed my hand again. “We’re almost done.”
“I hate being on display.”
“Should I pitch a fit?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I need to do this.”
Mom put four pairs of jeans over my shoulder and escorted me to the back of the store. Just as I released Max’s hand, Gina opened a stall door and walked out.
“Sadie.” She followed our hands up Max’s long body to a face she thought she recognized.
I watched her gasp, watched her knees nearly buckle. “Oh my God.” She clutched her chest as if she was having a heart attack and vaulted backward into the attendant, who bumped into a rack of clothes. Both the attendant and the rack nosedived into the floor. An explosion of clothes and headbands and socks and scarfs followed. Eight stall mirrors showed Gina’s surprise and tackle from every angle.
“Oh shit. Oh shit,” said the young store attendant. She dropped several more hangers full of clothes trying to find her balance.
“I’m sorry,” Gina said.
Sonia and I flanked Gina while Max and Mom helped the attendant right the rack and retrieve the clothes from across the fitting room floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Gina repeated.
Whether it was to the attendant or to Max, I couldn’t tell. The attendant waved her off as if she’d had quite enough Gina Adler in her day.