Page 84 of Fade into You
Uh-oh. “Like what?”
“I dunno, drive around, grab some fries. Fuck, I haven’t been to the mall in goddamn ages.” All normal, alcohol-free activities. I take a relieved breath.
“The mall, really? Are we mall people?”
“We’re mall people adjacent. Get your shit kickers on. If you’re good, we’ll hit Hot Topic and I’ll buy you a new dog collar or whatever you badasses are wearing for jewelry these days.”
When Mack was in high school, she was the shit. We’re talking valedictorian track, Gap sweaters, and Forever 21 gear all rolled up into the perfect person everyone loved to love. I had yet to become in any way alternative and imitated her every move. Until everything changed. But today I see that old Mack, ready to stuff our faces with mall food and make up stories about the people walking by, and look around for perfect purchases with whatever cash she’d scrabbled together.
“Okay, fuck precalc,” I say, knowing I’ll finish it during study hall tomorrow. Today’s looking to be a good day. I hold up my keys and head to the car, Mack in tow.
Me driving, she makes her presence known, ignoring all my CDs and popping in Britney Spears.
“Oh my gawwwwd, Mack, this is so fucking baaaad!”
She opens the window and turns it up, cold air blasting in and ruffling her long blond hair, nature’s blow dryer. “Get off your high horse, Jessamine! She’s awesome.”
“Wasn’t she a freaking Mouseketeer?”
“So was your precious Christina Aguilera.”
“I’m a mild Aguilera fan.”
“Well, get on the Britney train, bitch!”
She turns it up and sings along loudly, and for a second I get rolled up into it and sing as well, our eyes catching in the mutual moment of fun, leading to laughter and even higher volume. She turns it all the way to eleven.
When I pull into the Eastway Mall parking lot and cut the engine, the buzz in my ears is the pleasant familiarity of a live show. Mack cranks up the window and locks her door, and we walk toward the big entrance, some crazy seventies insignia of a sun meant to look like it’s blowing wind or something, but Mack always said it was about to suck a dick.
“Happy BJ, sun!” she calls out on cue as we walk in.
In the past, the place used to be packed, full of shoppers enjoying a commercial wonderland, two levels of shops looking down on a massive ice-skating rink on the ground floor. Today, we see the Ice Escapades running lessons in different areas of the rink, the cold air drifting up to knock against the heating system. Half the shops are running clearance sales, and I know the mall has fallen on hard times. At least there’s a Spencer’s, sowe can go to the back area and giggle at all the dick favors they carry for bridal showers. Wonder if they make vagina straws for lesbian bridal showers. Probably not, since queer marriage isn’t even legal.
Mack guides us through a couple of hours of window shopping, until I demand crappy food-court grub and we hit the Great Steak & Potato Company and Orange Julius and stuff ourselves. It’s like I’ve kicked back into 1991 and she’s picking me up from my own Ice Escapades lesson, where I’ve busted ass for the past hour, and she’s treating me to the frozen orange juice and cream that is the wonder of Orange Julius and telling me how great I did before Mom and Dad pick us both up.
We wander back to the balcony overlooking the rink, and she’s quiet. I can tell she’s thinking of something. That cold devil in me thinks it’s jumping. I get ready to grab her.
“Jessa?”
“Yeah, Mack?”
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
At first I think she’s dipping back into depression, but I catch her eyes for a second and they aren’t full of that deep emptiness that accompanies her lows. It’s more like regret.
“For what?” I look away, the skaters loop around the rink, someone in a sparkly skating dress leans into a turn, her head whipping around faster than her body to prevent dizziness.
“For not being there. I know things have been shitty, and I’m a part of that.” She picks at her fingernails, not looking at me, either.
“It’s not your fault, you’re—”
“Sick.” She cuts me off.
We lean on the banister watching, the sounds of skate blades cutting into ice providing a beat to our awkward interlude.
“I want to get better. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do.”
“Then take your meds.”
