“Oh,” I say, relieved that he’s letting the cologne thing drop. I shrug. “That’s why people wear anything, isn’t it?”
“What, to avoid attention?” he says, finally appearing at my side as we exit the department store and make our way through the top floor of the mall, passing store after store. This mall is a little sad; it used to be thriving, but now it’s almost always empty. I don’t know where I’ll go to buy clothes if it closes down, which at this point is a real possibility. Buying clothes online freaks me out. What if it doesn’t fit? What if it’s way uglier in person? Then I have to go to the trouble of returning it, and the whole process takes forever, anyway. Plus shipping costs. I would rather just try it on in the store and be done with it.
“No,” I say. “Because of what other people think about them. Most girls wear clothes to attract attention. I wear the clothes I wear to deflect it.” I gesture to Cohen’s outfit—a simple, long-sleeved thermal shirt and fitted jeans that show off his athletic build—and say, “You wear that because it looks good on you. Which I’m only saying because you know that already,” I say quickly, overriding his response—a smug response, judging by the look on his face. My cheeks burn. “You know it looks nice. And Jack looks good in whatever—”
Dang it. I stop speaking midsentence, but it’s too late. The topic I’m going out of my way to avoid has come up.
“Speaking of Jack,” Cohen says.
“Or we could speak of something else,” I say.
“No, let’s talk about Jack.” Cohen’s strolling along, as casual as you please, looking completely at his leisure. Meanwhile I’m shuffling along next to him, trying to talk myself out of making a fake beeline for the restroom we just passed. I don’t want to talk about Jack. I don’t want to talk about the tutoring thing.
I take a deep breath and think of my list. “I don’t want to talk about Jack. I don’t want to talk about the tutoring thing.”
There. I said it, exactly as I thought it in my head.
Cohen turns toward me, looking almost…impressed? “Look at you, standing your ground,” he says, and he smiles, his eyes crinkling around the corners.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m trying to speak up more,” I admit.
“You speak up plenty to me,” he says, his smile turning wry. He folds his arms over his chest and stops walking.
“We hardly ever talk,” I say, frowning at him.
“But when we do, you speak up,” Cohen says.
“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging, and I come to a stop too, although I’m not sure why we’re stopping. I look up at him, waiting.
He’s eyeing me curiously, his head tilted slightly, like he’s considering something. “All right,” he finally says. “We don’t have to talk about Jack. Yet,” he adds quickly. “But let’s try something.”
“Nope,” I say. I have no idea what he wants to try, but I’m pretty sure it’s not on my to-do list.
“You didn’t even hear me out,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. The pose is so reminiscent of my mother that I can’t stop a laugh from escaping.
“You look like my mom when she’s angry,” I say, still smiling. I put my hands on my hips too. “She does this whole stance right before she lectures.”
Cohen drops his hands immediately, and he smiles, too. “I can’t see you getting many lectures,” he says.
“I don’t,” I admit. “But Ruby used to.” My sister, three years older than me, is a trouble maker, although I think she’s calmed down a bit since going to college.
“I bet,” Cohen says. “I’m sure she attracted all sorts of attention.”
“She did,” I say. “Now, why are we standing here?”
“Oh,” he says, as though he’d forgotten we were standing unmoving in the middle of one of America’s emptiest malls. “Right. Have you ever shopped in there?” he says, pointing to the store we’ve stopped in front of. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess, because this is one of those places you can find all the clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Shorts up to your butt. Necklines down to your belly button. That sort of thing.
I turn around and give a snort of laughter. “Do I look like I shop in there?”
“No,” he says, so quickly and decisively that I’m a little offended. “So let’s go in. Let’s find a shirt and a pair of pants, and you’ll try them on, and you can see for yourself that there’s potential here.”
I don’t take the time to wade through his words before I respond. “I’m not buying anything in there.” Then I stop as what he said registers in my brain. “Wait, what do you mean?”
He sighs. “Look, we don’t have to talk about Jack. But I think part of your hesitation is because you don’t think it would ever actually happen with him.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Well, it wouldn’t,” I say, exasperated.
“But it could,” he says, his voice urging. “I was serious. I know his likes and dislikes. I know what he likes in a woman. I know these things. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go in there. You’re going to try a few things on. I’m not asking you to let everything hang out. That’s not you. But if you look in the mirror and still don’t think it’s possible, then we don’t have to do it. And you don’t have to tutor me.” He says this last part like the words are being wrenched out of him.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re staking a lot on me liking clothing from a store that I hate.”
“I’m prepared to do some begging if it comes to it,” he says.
I’m tempted to say yes. But…“I’m being nice,” I say. “I’m letting you tag along with me. I really, really don’t want to go in there.”
“Is it just that store, or is it the whole thing? You don’t even have to show me. I just—Mina, I really need a tutor. I have to get my score up, and my mom’s paying me to get a tutor. She’s going to give me even more if I get my score up three points. But more than that, I need to get into a good school. I need this. At least try it. Please. If after you try something on you still don’t want to tutor me, then fine. I’ll find someone else. Or I could even pay you money instead.”
“You could go to the tutoring center,” I say, but I know myself—I’m going to say yes. Not because of Jack—although that’s tempting—but because I want Cohen to do well. Everyone deserves a chance to do well on the ACT. It impacts your entire future, and he clearly needs help.
“The tutoring center?” He frowns. “Where Virginia volunteers so that she’ll manage to make colleges think she has some degree of humanity? I think not.”
I burst out laughing, so loudly and suddenly that Cohen jumps. He smiles uncertainly at me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll tutor you. Probably. Probably,” I say. “If I think you’re right. Let’s try this first. But I’m not putting on anything from that store. And I’m not wearing anything I’m uncomfortable with.”
He looks so happy that I actually feel guilty for holding out on him. “You don’t have to do the Jack thing at all if you don’t want to, Mina. I can pay you money. Just—thank you. For the ACT help. Thank you.” His arms twitch like he’s about to hug me, but he doesn’t. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead.
I take a deep breath and remember my mantra. This is my year. “No. If I tutor you, we’ll do the Jack thing too. This is my year.”
Cohen nods. “This is your year,” he says, although I’m not sure he quite knows what I mean. “I think—I mean, I’m glad.” He looks self-conscious all of a sudden, and though he shrugs like it’s not a big deal, I can tell he’s nervous. “Because I thought it would be kind of cool to see if I’m any good at the teaching thing. Like, I could teach you.”
Oh, Cohen. I sigh. “But I would need more than teaching, Cohen. I need a full-body, full-personality makeover.”
He grins and starts walking again, giving a little jerk of his head, indicating that I should follow him. “I don’t know about that. But…”
“But what?” I s
ay, biting nervously on my lower lip.
“But Jack responds well to confidence. All guys do, in general. We’ll need to work on your confidence level. Looking at people when you talk to them. Stuff like that. I mean, look at me.” He gestures to his face. “There is a lot to be desired here. And yet…” He shrugs. “Women don’t flock to me, but I’ve rarely had a problem getting a date. It’s all in the confidence.”
“Fine. Confidence. What else?” I say.
“Well…” He trails off again, more hesitantly this time.
“Just say it,” I say, my voice small and flat. “I’m not hot enough for Jack.”
“I didn’t say that,” Cohen says, frowning.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, inspecting my shoes as I walk. I don’t even know where we’re going; I’m just following him now, because he seems to have a destination in mind.
“It’s not that, Mina,” he says, his voice quiet. “Jack likes attractive girls, obviously. But you’re not—” He breaks off again—it would be great if he could stop doing that, because it makes me anxious when people don’t finish their sentences—and he clears his throat awkwardly.
“Finish your sentences,” I say, looking over at him. I’m surprised to see that beneath his tanned skin, a faint blush is rising on his cheeks. This just makes my anxiety worse.
“You’re not unattractive. Which I just say as your newly appointed mentor,” he says, hurrying through the words. “I mean, it’s hard to tell under all the baggy gray and white and the severe hairstyles, but—”
“It’s not severe,” I say, touching my hair self-consciously. Okay, so it’s coiled into a bun at the base of my neck, kind of like a ballerina’s. And I never wear it down. But sometimes I wear ponytails, don’t I?
Not to school, really. I hate that he’s right.
“You just don’t put any effort into how you look,” Cohen says, still rushing through his speech. “But I think it’s there. Which is why I think it would be good for you to try on clothes that actually fit you. Just for you to see. Not for me. Just for you to see if you like it.”
“I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not,” I say firmly.
“I don’t want that either,” he says, his voice calm. “Think of this as”—he thinks for a second—“as polishing what’s already there. Not changing you. Just refining you.”
Huh. Refining me. I think for a second, biting my lip.
I might be able to get behind that. “Okay,” I say. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
He points to a little boutique all the way at the end of the row, and I’m surprised he’s even heard of it before. It’s much more my style—even if I don’t wear anything from there. My dream closet, if I just didn’t worry about anyone else, would have a lot of pieces I see here.
“There’s always a lot of floral stuff in the window when I pass by,” he says by way of explanation when I look at him. “You like floral.”
I frown, surprised. “I do. How did you know that?”
Now he frowns at me. “I don’t actually know. I just sort of associate that with you, I guess.”
I shrug. “I like this place,” I say. “But I’m not showing you anything I try on.”
He smiles. “I know. Just go in. Find a pair of jeans that fit. Find a shirt that fits. Just…not a baggy t-shirt. And not gray.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His smile turns into a grin; I didn’t know they were different things, but somehow they are. His eyes sparkle. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
7
Mina
A perky brunette greets me as I enter, and I nod and force a smile. The store smells good, like some sort of fruity candle—much better than the store Cohen originally proposed, which even from outside reeked of too much cologne. I mean, I like cologne. It’s not even a daydreaming-about-cute-guys thing. The cologne I like—Cohen’s cologne, apparently—is a very soothing scent to me. Something about it is cool and fresh. It’s relaxing. Not that I would ever tell him that.
I have to swivel my hips to weave through all the racks of clothing, and when I look back I’m surprised to see that Cohen’s followed me in. Well, fine. He can sit and wait, and like every other guy who goes into a store like this, he’s going to regret it in under five minutes. I hope he brought his phone, because he’s going to get bored. I’m probably going to get bored. Although I have to admit, there’s a lot of cute stuff in here. He was right; there’s a ton of floral.
I stop in front of the rack of jeans that takes up a long stretch of the right wall. I just stand there for a second, looking at all the options. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can find myself some clothes I’ll actually wear. None of this is going to look good on me. This stuff never does. I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve tried on clothes. But still. That won’t have changed. Although I do note as I scan the wall that high-waisted jeans seem to be in fashion, which is good news. They’re much more flattering than anything with a low waist. I don’t like to feel like I’m spilling out of my pants.
“Do you know what you’re doing, or are you just going to stand here?” Cohen says from behind me, and I jump, startled.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, turning to him. “I’m not stupid. I can try on jeans without help. Go sit in one of those very plush chairs”—I nod to the cushioned chairs in front of the dressing rooms—“while I secretly envy you.”
Cohen shrugs and grins. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Very altruistic of you. Go.”
Still grinning, Cohen meanders to the chairs and sits. I turn back to the rack of jeans, looking at the different cuts. I choose two pairs based solely on the material, because I do not believe in uncomfortable pants. It’s just not a good idea. Who wants to wear jeans you can’t even move in? But these claim to have “maximum stretch for maximum comfort and maximum style,” so there’s that. I take a stab-in-the-dark guess at my size, because I wasn’t joking; I haven’t tried on pants in forever. I’ve been wearing these jeans for years.
And, yes, maybe I can understand what Cohen means about the whole “baggy” thing. They’re not perfectly fitted. Or even well fitted, for that matter. But they’re soft and worn in. My guess is that they’re a size or two bigger than what would actually fit me properly, so I grab one pair of jeans in each size that might fit me and then go straight to the clearance rack. In the unlikely event I fall in love with any shirt I try on, I am not paying full price. Perkins women never pay full price for anything.
As I thumb through the clothes, I have to admit that there’s more cute stuff here than I expected to find—although “cute” isn’t enough. I’m not wearing something that requires a billion layers. I’m also not wearing something uncomfortable. I’m just not. No scratchy material for me.
I finally settle on two soft shirts—floral, of course—that look genuinely comfortable. And, more to the point, they’re 40 percent off. Then I make my way to the fitting rooms, swiveling through all the clothing racks again, and stop next to one of the rooms while I wait for the perky sales girl to stop talking to Cohen.
Of course he would find a girl to flirt with in the five minutes he’s been waiting. And she’s clearly flirting back. What is it about him?
I guess he’s got that confidence about him that draws people in. And the girl is cute. But just watching how much energy she has makes me exhausted.
I can’t bring myself to clear my throat like my mother would do, so I drop all of my clothes on the floor and then say, “Oh, no!”
The girl and Cohen look to me, and I say, “I’m so sorry. I was just waiting for a dressing room. Who do I ask about that?” I scoop the clothes up as the girl casts one last regretful look at Cohen.
“I can help you with that,” she says, sounding slightly less perky than she did when we came in. “How many items?”
“Four,” I say, and she hangs a little tag on the door of the room she o
pens for me. Then she leaves me be—probably talking to Cohen again—and I take a deep breath.
It’s just trying on clothes. Not a big deal.
And it’s not, right? It really isn’t. If I don’t like them, I put them back. It’s that easy. And realistically, I’m not going to be able to wear my current clothes forever. My beloved jeans are on their way out. There’s a rip in the crotch that I patched a few months ago. The patch has held so far, but a crotch rip never bodes well.
I undress, not watching myself in the mirror, and pick up a pair of the new pants. Somehow, as silly as it is, this feels like a milestone. It’s just a different pair of pants, but…it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m shedding some sort of outer skin.
Do I want to shed my skin?
I sigh and sit on the built-in seat that’s way too small to hold anyone bigger than a toddler. I think of my list. I think of my life.
I do. I do want to shed my skin. Not all of it, maybe. But some of it needs to go.
Because my comfort zone might be suffocating me. I don’t have friends; not really. I don’t ever go out. And it hits me: this isn’t even about Jack. I mean, Jack Freeman knowing my name would be a big bonus. But it’s not about him. I made my list before Cohen came up with this ridiculous idea.
That idea is comforting. I’m not doing this for Jack or for Cohen or for anyone else. I’m doing this for me. New clothes aren’t a bad thing. I feel comfortable in what I wear every day because I take comfort in going unnoticed. But do I like how I look in those clothes? No.
All right. I can do this. Feeling slightly calmer, I pull on the first pair of pants. They’re a little short and a little tight, so I take them off and put on the second pair—and give a little sigh of relief.
They’re so comfortable. The sign was right. Maximum stretch and maximum comfort. Encouraged, I pull on one of the new shirts—yellow with a blue and pink floral pattern. It’s more fitted than one of my t-shirts, but it’s not skin tight, which I greatly appreciate. The V-neck isn’t too low, either. I prefer to keep all my business covered up. I give a few experimental twists. I raise my arms above my head; the shoulders don’t pull, and my stomach isn’t exposed.
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 5