by Amy Henwood
Mia and I understood each other well enough that we knew when one another was being sarcastic, and then we would feed off each other.
“His name is Chase,” I told her, my stomach fluttering when saying his name.
“A hot name for a hot man.” I sent her an evil glare. “Sorry,” she apologized again. “I bet he has a killer set of abs under that shirt and a decent package.” She wouldn’t stop.
“Mia!” I yelled.
“You well know that any male figure who walks past me gets thoroughly assessed and placed into my man database. I have a lot more working for me than only book smarts up here.” Her index finger pressed against her temple. “Did you notice his hands? You know what they say about big hands and big feet.” She nudged me while raising her eyebrows.
“I feel you need to read more textbooks and fill that smart brain with more useful information,” I suggested.
“Always stomping on my fun. Anyway, back to the topic of the hour,” she said. “What transpired between you and Chase?” Her voice exaggerated Chase’s name, and she gave me her undivided attention.
“First off,” I began, “I would like to extend my thanks for leaving me to tread the unknown waters solo.”
“My pleasure,” she responded with a sly giggle. “Now quit dancing around the topic and tell me, already.”
I skipped over the initial opening lines, not letting her in on my lack of sentence structure and weather fail. My embarrassment for my failure in communication with people and all things associated with people had me dreading the speech from her. I was unprepared and untrained in natural interaction skills that I would never possess, as if that basic human instinct wasn’t developed with my genes when I was only a microscopic embryo.
“He asked me to a party.”
“A date.” Her tone edged on the shocked side but quickly turned to excitement. “When?”
“Tonight. He is picking me up at eight-thirty.”
Mia looked at the digital clock on the dash, mentally noting the time.
“We have to get started. I have a lot to accomplish in order to get you ready in time,” she said.
“Don’t you work at five?” I reminded her in question form.
She retrieved her phone from her purse and made a call.
“Hey, it’s Mia. I’m not feeling well today.” She paused while someone on the other end spoke. “Yeah, this cold is really kicking my ass.” Another pause. “Thanks. I will keep you posted on tomorrow’s shift.”
She hung up and shifted her car into drive and glanced at me with a sly grin. “Not anymore.”
My greatest fear was becoming a reality. Simple me was going to receive a Mia makeover. I do appreciate her taste in style, but I enjoy it on her. Straying from my comfortable, casual look was definitely outside of my comfort zone.
Once home, Mia went directly to her room, bypassing the task of removing her shoes and jacket at the door. An array of shirts, pants and skirts, and sweaters were tossed from her closet onto her bed. She hummed and hawed as she mixed clothing to create the perfect combination. She was overly excited about the evening, especially considering the simple fact that she was not the one going on the date. She played the big sister role seamlessly, getting her younger sibling ready for their first date.
Mia looked up for the first time since coordinating outfits and caught me leaning against the door frame.
“Come here,” she instructed me, moving her head in a beckoning motion. “I need to see what colour will work best for you tonight. I am leaning toward these skinny jeans and this purple shirt. Nothing flashy, but enough to pop you out from the general crowd.”
I cautiously moved toward her and the leaning tower of clothes. She held up the purple short sleeve top that hung on one shoulder with the fabric gathering on the opposite side.
“Hold that there,” she instructed me, taking several small steps back to look me over at a distance.
She placed her hand against her chin. “Nice, but not quite right.”
Back to her bed, Mia selected a tan-coloured shirt. This one was a light and flowery fabric, much like the last, but long sleeved with embroidered detail down the left side accompanied by a backside that would drape halfway down my albino-skinned back.
“That’s the one.” She was pleased with herself. “Modest at the front with making an enormous statement from the back. When you walk out of any room tonight, all eyes will be on you and your perfectly sculpted back.”
“Great, just what I need. Sex appeal,” I exaggerated.
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“I don’t know the first thing about being sexy.”
“You will be fine,” she encouraged me. “I have just under six hours to sex-i-fy you. With clothing sorted out, I now need to raid your shoe collection.”
I was fortunate enough that Mia and I were the same clothing size, but not so lucky with the shoe department. In my room, I grabbed all the shoes I owned in a single sweeping arm full, showing my true lack of shoes. Mia, on the other hand, had a mini shoe store in her possession. I set my underwhelming collection on her bed: worn-out runners, flat-soled boots, and a single pair of plain black high heels for those special occasions, because black heels go with any ensemble. It was easy for her to select the foot apparel when there was little to pick from. Faded black heels won easily.
“Not what I’m looking for, but they will have to do. If only our feet were the same size, then you could have worn my black, heeled boots.”
“Mental note made. My next life I will either have a larger, more impressive shoe collection to your pleasing or be born with the same size foot as you,” I commented.
She peered at the clock again. Keeping close tabs on the time, she became deep in thought and began constructing an intricate plan.
“What is it?” I asked, well knowing the blueprint involved me.
“I cannot have the perfect outfit be ruined by the wrong pair of footwear. We have enough time to go shoe shopping.”
She had her jacket pulled over her shoulders before she finished her sentence and, more importantly to her, before I could protest.
“It might be hard to find what I want for you. It is getting close to end of season and most stores have begun winter clear-out to make shelf space for spring stock,” she warned me.
I let out a quiet, almost mute, “Uh huh.”
Easily, without effort, I could think of a dozen other things I could be doing at the very moment other than perusing footwear, but Mia’s effort in dolling me up for the night was uncanny. The least I could do is put my best effort toward attempting that I was enjoying the excursion.
* * *
Beginning at the west end of the mall, we worked our way east, taking detours as some stores we visited were down short hallways leading to exits. The first store on our hit list had a clearance section, which I naturally gravitated to. Not much in clearance pricing, though. Twenty dollars off the original one-eighty price tag did not classify as clearance for me; it was a sale price at the most. I didn’t get pressured into purchasing that pair by Mia, as my size was sold out, luckily. Several stores later and still no luck. Mia was in the midst of walking past SmartShoe when I stopped her.
“You missed SmartShoe,” I said to her.
“I know,” she replied, not backtracking.
I increased my pace to catch up with her.
“Why don’t we try there? That is where I purchase all of my footwear.”
“The sole reason why I am avoiding it.”
“Why?” I protested.
“Today is about stepping outside your comfort zone, and purchasing cheap shoes, at a cheap price, at a cheap place, is not allowed.
“But I like cheap shoes.” I made a puppy dog face, my bottom lip sticking out and my eyes drooped.
“Not happening.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me away from cheap-shoe temptation.
We were one store away from the big box store at
the opposite end of the mall where we begun, which was the final shoe store. There were no heeled boots in the storefront and none in the middle of the store either. Finally, the back corner appeared to have some promise, and I was not disappointed when we had a closer look. Mia approached a pair and cradled them. I observed her nodding her head as she checked the price tag on the sole, then the inside for sizing.
“Perfect!” she said excitedly. “Style, size, price. What do you think?” She handed a single boot to me.
I inspected it. Black with a two-inch spike heel, zipper up the outside leg, extending halfway up the calf.
“They are nice, but not something I would purchase to wear, ever. A death wish awaiting me. Heels, icy streets—I am surely done for.”
“Outside comfort zone. Remember?”
I let out a light sigh, as if I was giving into my mom.
Sitting down on a black, faux-leather circular bench, I removed my running shoes, stretching my toes in the process. I put the boot onto my foot and Mia handed me the other boot. I stood up and took several slow steps toward a low setting mirror. Heels, a rarely worn accessory by yours truly, made me take extreme caution with each step.
Safely at the mirror, I pivoted my feet from side to side, getting the best view of all angles. The safe colour of black footwear meant I could wear them with almost any outfit; and as much as I dreaded heels, it gave me some extra height, adding some additional slimness to my body, hugging my calf muscle.
“And?” Mia asked.
“I think you’re right on these ones.”
“Good. I was fearing I would have to call truce and give into your SmartShoe obsession.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the very thought.
Removing the boots from my feet, I returned back to the comfort of my runners.
“You mentioned the perfect price. How much are they?” I was fearing the amount of cash I was about to hand over, all to please Mia and the ensemble.
“Take a look for yourself.”
Flipping one of the boots upside down, I studied the price tags. One hundred and eighty-five, slash. One hundred and forty-nine, slash. A red sticker below the first two, ninety-nine dollars. Good deal, but still incredibly pricey for my student budget. She swiftly picked up on my reaction and pointed to a sign on the shelf where the boots came from.
50% OFF LOWEST TICKETED PRICE.
Bringing the final price down to forty-nine fifty, plus tax. Still more funds than I wanted to part with, but I could justify it, especially since it was my first official date. As long as this one showed up and didn’t bail minutes prior to our scheduled meeting time. At the till, I pulled out my debit card without hesitation.
“Are you a student?” the cashier asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Students receive an additional ten percent off all purchases. If you can show me your student I.D., I can apply the discount.”
I opened my wallet faster than a fleeting cheetah and presented my I.D. to the cashier.
“What a deal,” Mia said.
“It surely is,” the cashier replied to her.
With each passing moment, I became increasingly happier with my purchase and the departure of my cash.
Leaving the store with my new, potentially deadly boots in hand, I turned to Mia and asked, “Do you have to change my outfit now with these?”
“No. The jeans I selected will tuck nicely into them.”
Instead of walking back through the entirety of the mall to Mia’s car, we opted to take the outdoor route and catch more ultraviolet rays.
I spotted two teenagers junior-high aged—at most—horsing around in the distance. The heavy laughing and joking caught my attention. They were pushing each other back and forth forcefully in play.
My son. Please save him.
I stopped dead in my tracks, taken off guard by the voice.
“Is everything okay, Scarlett? Are you regretting the purchase? Let me remind you what a steal of a deal those were,” Mia said.
He is my only child. Don’t let anything happen to my Tarzan.
The female voice in my head grew louder with each passing word, increasing in concern, immense in desperation.
Save him, the voice said again.
There was a vehicle, a car, speeding recklessly on the lot.
“It’s fine,” I finally replied to Mia. “Take these and stay here.”
I threw my bag containing the boots and my purse at her before dashing into a sprint.
The car was going to slip around the blind corner of the building toward the boys. I knew it. I felt it. I leaped toward the boy that was stumbling off the safety of the sideway and onto the road, unaware of the vehicle approaching behind him. “Get out of the way!” I screamed at the teen’s friend, running full out. “Off the road!” My lungs gasped for air.
I pushed teen one aside and directed my full attention to the one who was now on the road. Forcefully grabbing hold of his arm, I pulled him with every ounce of strength I had toward the building, away from the line of fire. I would not normally have had the strength to pull someone bigger and stronger than me to safety, but I had the support of the spirits.
“What are you doing?” the boy howled at me, undoubtedly angry with me.
He attempted to escape my hold, but I refused to let my grip loose, knowing that if I gave in, he would be pouncing away from me, back onto the oncoming car. I held on tighter and pulled harder, keeping him away from the road. In the efforts, I lost my footing and tumbled onto the sidewalk, pulling the teen down with me.
A screech of rubber on asphalt filled my hearing. The car lost control on an icy patch, fishtailed around the corner and headed directly toward us. I shut my eyes and held my breath, not wanting to witness my own death. My entire body went cold and still like stone, preparing for my tomb. A whirl of potent wind from the vehicle passed us. I waited—and didn’t experience any blunt force trauma. My body was still on earth. Opening my eyelids with extreme caution, I saw that the car, with only metres to spare, had passed us, the tire clipping the sidewalk curb before straightening out and regaining control.
I let out the breath I was holding in deeply and relaxed. I stood up unharmed and offered my hand to assist the teen. He took my hand with pleasure, instantly changing his tone from anger to sincere gratitude.
“Thank you,” he said.
I leaned in close toward him and said softly, trying to avoid his friend from hearing me, “Your mom saved your life, not me—Tarzan.”
“Mom?” he repeated, processing my words.
Mia came running toward me. “Scarlett.”
“Dude,” the other teen said to his friend.
“What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” Mia’s words flew out of her mouth.
“But was I?” I challenged.
“No, but—how did you know?”
“I guess I just knew—gut instinct,” I lied.
“You saved him, but still. You could have been the bacon at tomorrow's breakfast.”
I didn’t focus on Mia and her rant; I concentrated on the conversing teens.
“Did she call you Tarzan? That is a messed up, crazy lady,” the other teen said, laughing nervously.
The rescued teen didn’t respond. I assumed Tarzan was his childhood nickname, which only his mother had called him by. When our eyes met, I could tell he was trying to put the pieces together, maybe thinking I used to know his mom or family, or that it was all just a freak coincidence.
I retrieved my shopping bag and purse from Mia and carried on in the direction of her car.
“Are you not going back to talk to him?” Mia’s ramblings carried on.
“He’ll be fine,” I said, shrugging her off.
Right now, I had a bigger problem on my hands. How did the teen’s mother get through to me? My barrier was up. It was always up. I don’t recall the slightest moment when I let my guard down. It had become as natural as breathing. Sometimes I wondered why I had not hear
d from my grandma in such long periods of time, until I remembered to take it down. My head shook in disarray from my confusion.
4
Mia had on more than one occasion mentioned that she knew me better than I knew myself. What I liked versus disliked. What I wanted versus should have. I had tried time and time again to convince her otherwise, failing each time. Example: the day she made homemade squares—one batch with peanut butter and one with its absence. I vividly recalled attempting retrieval of one from a container, only to be cut off before contact.
“Don’t touch those.” She burst between me and the countertop.
I backed off before questioning her weird interruption. “I thought you made them for dessert,” I said.
“I did, but those ones are not for you.”
“Because…” I arched an eyebrow at her.
“That batch contains peanut butter.”
“Okay,” I said, confused by the protection of an ingredient, as if it was more precious than gold. “And why am I forbidden from the garden of peanut butter?”
“You are allergic,” she said, dumbfounded—like I should know better.
“Since when?” This was hot off the news press to me. So new, even I was unaware of my sudden peanut allergy.
“Since always,” she insisted.
“No, I’m not,” I protested.
“Yes, you are. I was with you the time your mom had—” In typical Mia fashion, she stopped short, never finishing her thought out loud.
“I honestly have no idea what you are talking about, Mia,” I said.
Forcing my body around her and the guarded container, I grabbed a square and ate it with immense pleasure, enjoying each and every peanut-filled bite—allergic-reaction free. I never really understood why she would think I had an allergy…or why she insisted on knowing things about me, even when they weren’t true.
The second occasion was the time Mia addressed me by Leanne, which was my middle name. Only knowing each other a handful of weeks and hearing Leanne slip from her tongue was awkward, to say the least. My memory never recalled an occasion in those few short weeks when I had disclosed my middle name. Maybe she had found a completed form that contained my middle name, but who addresses someone by their middle name, especially accidentally.