enthusiastically, before suddenly finding herself distracted. “Oh, look, a cute dress.”
“Was it just you guys, or did some of his other friends go, too?” I ask two stores and twelve dresses later.
“Um…oh, this is nice.” She hands me a blue faux cashmere scarf to run my fingers across. “I don’t know. It was Ryan and me. Jesse, Ryan’s best friend, and Monica, his girlfriend. And another couple—I can’t remember their names. Oh, and his cousin Jared, who still doesn’t have a date to homecoming.”
“Well, tell him good luck with that,” I respond dryly.
“You know”—she gives me a look—“Jared is actually pretty cute.”
“Like Ryan’s cute?” I chuckle under my breath.
“Ryan is cute.” She gives me a dirty look.
“If that’s your type,” I mutter.
“He is my type,” she says, snatching up several pretty thongs from an underwear table.
“Uh-huh,” I say in a tone that really says whatever, retard. And suddenly, my blood is rushing to my face, turning my cheeks red. I can feel myself gearing up for a knock-down, drag-out fight when suddenly she says, “I’m going to pay for this. If you want to stay here and live in a box all your life, feel free.” She stomps off, leaving me pissed off and alone next to a case of padded pink polka-dot push-up bras. And the only thing I can think is: I would have preferred a full-fledged fight. It’s a lot fairer than a hit and run.
“you’re doing it again,” marisol whispers underneath her breath.
On the escalator in Macy’s, Marisol decides we’re back on speaking terms.
“What?” I hate when she refers to me as if I can’t hear her. “What am I doing again?”
“You know,” Marisol waves her arm across the span of the escalator. “That weird thing you do when you take like two steps forward and one step back.”
That weird thing that she is referring to is the game that I play with escalators. It’s like a ritual for me. I can’t get on an escalator without doing it. Marisol swears it’s my version of an obsessive-compulsive disorder. But I’ve given it a lot of thought lately, and I think it’s more like an affirmation of life. In life, you take strides forward, but you always take a few steps back. But in the end, if you take more steps forward than backward, you’re making progress. It also calms my nerves. I try to explain this to Marisol, but she’s not buying it.
“Sounds like the best excuse you could think of since the last time we went on an escalator,” she tells me.
Which is true. But so what? I’ll ride the escalator the way that I ride the escalator. After all, she has her quirks. So what if I’ve got twenty?
“You know what?” Marisol says when I finally reach the top.
“What?”
“I just realized that you started doing that when we were ten. And that,” she mutters under her breath, “is very interesting.”
As we walk down the aisle, I run my fingers over all the different fabrics. The seasons are supposedly changing and so are the fabrics. Some are cool, some thick and fuzzy, others plain itchy.
“I can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving.” Marisol points at a holiday advertisement. “I have to figure out what to buy for Ryan, like, soon because Hanukkah is in three weeks and it’s crazy—it’s, like, eight days long. Do I give him eight small gifts or do I give him one good one?”
“You’re, like, giving each other gifts now?”
“Well…” She gives me an irritated look. “Yeah.”
“Well…” To keep the peace, I adjust my voice so that it’s not so sarcastic. “Unless he’s giving you eight gifts for Christmas, I’m pretty sure you should just get him one.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
We reach the formal wear department, and, just as I thought, we’re surrounded by tacky dresses. It’s like stepping into Britney Spears’s closet. This is what the excitement is all about?
“So.” Marisol ruffles through a rack of puke-brown
“Was it just you guys, or did some of his other friends go, too?” I ask two stores and twelve dresses later.
“Um…oh, this is nice.” She hands me a blue faux cashmere scarf to run my fingers across. “I don’t know. It was Ryan and me. Jesse, Ryan’s best friend, and Monica, his girlfriend. And another couple—I can’t remember their names. Oh, and his cousin Jared, who still doesn’t have a date to homecoming.”
“Well, tell him good luck with that,” I respond dryly.
“You know”—she gives me a look—“Jared is actually pretty cute.”
“Like Ryan’s cute?” I chuckle under my breath.
“Ryan is cute.” She gives me a dirty look.
“If that’s your type,” I mutter.
“He is my type,” she says, snatching up several pretty thongs from an underwear table.
“Uh-huh,” I say in a tone that really says whatever, retard. And suddenly, my blood is rushing to my face, turning my cheeks red. I can feel myself gearing up for a knock-down, drag-out fight when suddenly she says, “I’m going to pay for this. If you want to stay here and live in a box all your life, feel free.” She stomps off, leaving me pissed off and alone next to a case of padded pink polka-dot push-up bras. And the only thing I can think is: I would have preferred a full-fledged fight. It’s a lot fairer than a hit and run.
“you’re doing it again,” marisol whispers underneath her breath.
On the escalator in Macy’s, Marisol decides we’re back on speaking terms.
“What?” I hate when she refers to me as if I can’t hear her. “What am I doing again?”
“You know,” Marisol waves her arm across the span of the escalator. “That weird thing you do when you take like two steps forward and one step back.”
That weird thing that she is referring to is the game that I play with escalators. It’s like a ritual for me. I can’t get on an escalator without doing it. Marisol swears it’s my version of an obsessive-compulsive disorder. But I’ve given it a lot of thought lately, and I think it’s more like an affirmation of life. In life, you take strides forward, but you always take a few steps back. But in the end, if you take more steps forward than backward, you’re making progress. It also calms my nerves. I try to explain this to Marisol, but she’s not buying it.
“Sounds like the best excuse you could think of since the last time we went on an escalator,” she tells me.
Which is true. But so what? I’ll ride the escalator the way that I ride the escalator. After all, she has her quirks. So what if I’ve got twenty?
“You know what?” Marisol says when I finally reach the top.
“What?”
“I just realized that you started doing that when we were ten. And that,” she mutters under her breath, “is very interesting.”
As we walk down the aisle, I run my fingers over all the different fabrics. The seasons are supposedly changing and so are the fabrics. Some are cool, some thick and fuzzy, others plain itchy.
“I can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving.” Marisol points at a holiday advertisement. “I have to figure out what to buy for Ryan, like, soon because Hanukkah is in three weeks and it’s crazy—it’s, like, eight days long. Do I give him eight small gifts or do I give him one good one?”
“You’re, like, giving each other gifts now?”
“Well…” She gives me an irritated look. “Yeah.”
“Well…” To keep the peace, I adjust my voice so that it’s not so sarcastic. “Unless he’s giving you eight gifts for Christmas, I’m pretty sure you should just get him one.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
We reach the formal wear department, and, just as I thought, we’re surrounded by tacky dresses. It’s like stepping into Britney Spears’s closet. This is what the excitement is all about?
“So.” Marisol ruffles through a rack of puke-brown
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