I remember what she told me about following some guy to Sherman. It seems weird, that someone so self-possessed and secure would mold herself around a guy like that.
She holds up a swingy red dress. “What do you think?”
“Cute.” I browse idly, but there’s nothing much in the store for me. All this quirky vintage stuff, with its bright colors and patterns, is made for the other cool, artsy girls digging through bins of fedoras and trying on ’50s-style circle skirts. I watch them, curious: a foreign tribe with their wing-tipped eyeliner and oceans of self-confidence.
“What size are you?” LuAnn eyeballs me, then checks the label in the dress. “This should fit. Here, try it. Ooh, and these too.” She plucks a matador’s blouse and pencil skirt from a heap nearby and holds them out to me.
I shake my head vigorously. “No, I’m good.”
“But they’ll look great on you!”
“No,” I say again, shoving my hands in my pockets so she can’t fill them. “Thanks, but it’s just not my style.”
“So, what is?” LuAnn pauses. “This normal thing you’ve got going on? No offense, kid, but it doesn’t say anything about who you are.”
“Maybe that’s the point.” I shrug, getting defensive. I know my style has always been pretty, well, understated, but it suits me just fine. “Maybe I don’t want to play dress-up just to stand out in the crowd.”
“Okaay,” LuAnn backs off. “Have it your way. Be boring.” She grins, as if to tell me she’s only kidding. “But I still think you’d look fabulous with a whole prewar look going on, lashings of red lipstick and pin-curled hair.”
“Right,” I reply dryly. “Well, you’ll just have to do it up for the both of us.”
Arms laden with bags — all of them LuAnn’s — we head to meet Aiko in the record store. It’s full of older, bearded men and younger guys in Sonic Youth T-shirts and horn-rimmed glasses, but we find her in the back, flipping through old vinyl and humming along to The Smiths.
She takes in the sight of LuAnn’s bounty and laughs. “Wow, you guys really went to town.”
“It’s all mine.” LuAnn drops her load on the ground and I follow suit, creating a great heap of packages that still somehow came to less than a hundred bucks. “I did my best, but she wouldn’t let me try a thing.”
“Smart girl.” Aiko applauds me. “I gave in once, and she had me dolled up like a mod girl from 1962.”
“And she looked amazing,” LuAnn adds before turning her attention to a bargain bin of battered old CDs.
“So, you like The Smiths?” I ask Aiko. The cases hit each other with a rhythmic clacking sound as I methodically flip through the stands.
“Hate them,” she replies cheerfully. “Overwrought pretension for teenage boys who think that just because they’re old and British, it makes up for all that emo self-indulgence.”
“But this album is a classic!” I protest, shocked.
“And?” She shrugs, seemingly unconcerned by the musical sacrilege she’s just committed. Aiko sees my expression and laughs. “Just because people say something’s great, it doesn’t mean you have to agree, not if you don’t actually enjoy it.”
“Well, it’s not that I enjoy them,” I admit, because seriously, those aren’t the most uplifting songs in the world. “But still, there are some things you should listen to. You know, like reading great literature or watching classic films. You just should.”
“Why?” LuAnn looks up.
“Because!” I splutter. The question of why has never come into it for me, but now I scramble for an answer. “Even if you don’t like them, they’re still important.”
“Says who?”
“People!”
LuAnn laughs. “Easy there, kid. I’m not saying you can’t be into that stuff if you genuinely like it. I just mean, your argument kind of dooms us to spend all this time on books and movies and music that we don’t actually like.”
“She’s right,” Aiko adds, her arms full of vinyl selections. “What was that book you were talking to me about the other day? That Russian one you’ve been reading forever.”
“Crime and Punishment.” I gape at them. “You can’t tell me that’s not a great book.”
“Great with a capital G great?” Aiko asks, head tilted to watch me. “Or great because you found it moving, and inspiring, and it made your life better somehow?”
I don’t answer for a moment. Sure, Dostoyevsky is no picnic, but he’s not supposed to be! And yes, I spent the better part of a year trying and failing and trying again to finish that lump of a book because it was so unbearably dense and depressing, but that’s not the point.
“Isn’t Garrett the one who introduced you to this stuff?” LuAnn asks meaningfully, before I can answer. “Maybe you just think it’s great because he said it was?”
I tense. “So, you’re saying I’m just some sheep, doing everything he says? Gee, thanks.”
“Sadie,” Aiko says, trying to placate me, “we’re just trying to help.”
“How is this helping, to say I’m some pathetic girl with no mind of my own?”
“You know that’s not what we mean.” LuAnn puts down her CDs. “But it sounds like this guy has been the center of your entire universe for way too long. Believe me, I’ve been there! That’s why I just want you to think about it.” She looks at me dead-on. “How much of your life do you choose because it’s what he likes?”
I snap. The pity in her expression is too much to take. “I’m not one of those girls who gives up everything for a guy,” I tell them, my voice rising. “I’m not! And just because you threw away your life on someone and it didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean I’m doing the same thing!”
Silence. LuAnn’s face tightens, and right away I feel a wash of guilt — but not enough to take it back or apologize. Not after what she said.
For a moment, nobody moves. A boy in skinny jeans and a plaid shirt edges past us to reach the vinyl. Up at the front counter, a trio of tweens in brightly colored vests demands the latest album by Justin or Jason or Jared.
“OK,” Aiko says, looking back and forth between us. “Time out. Let’s go get some ice cream and calm down.”