WHO ARE YOU? is what a journal is asking. And what most people put in are lies. But I don’t lie. That’s the difference between me and everyone else: the Monas of the world, even the Roger Willises. I don’t have a mask to hide behind.
Still, I don’t mind stripping down for you, a notebook, a piece of paper. We are both made of trees. Peel off my bark. Chop off my branches (the crazy mom, the crappy house, the heavy body), then build me into something new. Make a mask of chicken wire, papiermâché for the skin, a painted smile. Reinvention. To be Mona, my own version, so that life becomes LIFE instead of a dress rehearsal.
“Next stop: the outlets,” the bus driver calls out. I slide my notebook into my purse, trying not to wake the old lady who’s fallen asleep on my shoulder. I thought I’d take the car this morning, but Mom had disappeared with it. No note. Just the coffee pot left on, and her coffee mug filled with cigarette butts.
I could’ve asked a friend, but I wanted to come alone. When I go with the other girls, I feel like a dweeb with my empty wallet, pretending I don’t want anything. And they always stop for coffee and lunch.
I am losing weight, finally staying on my die-t. It’s like a drug, I guess. You lose some, you want to lose more. Bye-bye to poundage.
My next step is to try and be fashionable. Well, it’s not really a step. A step would entail money. This is more of a fact-finding mission. Like, What if?
There’s Prada, Dior, Roberto Cavalli, Coach, all the good stuff at the mall. I can fantasize about what I’ll buy when I get a job, a paycheck.
Actually, I think the designer thing is a little weird. I mean, I know girls who spend three hundred dollars on sunglasses!
Still, it’s inevitable. If you want to fit in, you wear the labels.
The bus pulls into the massive shopping center. I gently shake the lady awake. She stares at me with bright blue eyes. “Is it time to shop?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, which is nice, except that right after, she digs glasses out of her purse and puts them on.
The first thing I do is head for Lord & Taylor. Part of my diet is eight glasses of water a day, which makes me a total pee-body. The department stores have the bathrooms.
I’m just washing my hands when my plan for peace and solitude gets blown up. Caroline Kennedy and Reenie Carrot barge in, their arms laden with shopping bags.
“Oh-mi-God. Sage!” Reenie squeals.
I used to hang with Reenie a lot, even though she’s a rich girl. For one thing, her name is weirder than mine. For another, she likes me. She invites me to her parties and she belongs to the Thespians, although Madame Thespian never casts her in anything. Well, I liked Reenie until she talked me into running for class president.
Caroline’s more of a foreign specimen. At every opportunity, she reminds you that, although she’s not JFK’s daughter, she has the same name, which means (she hints) she is somehow related to the Kennedys.
“I didn’t know you shopped,” Caroline says.
“It’s a regular hobby of mine,” I lie.
“We just got Halloween costumes,” Reenie says.
I thought those were for kids. “Oh?”
“I’m going to be a bottle of ketchup.”
“Wow.”
“Not. I’m going as the Little Mermaid.”
“I’m Cinderella,” Caroline says. “We’re all going as Disney Princesses. Mona’s Belle, and Frida is Snow White.”
“What are you going to be?” Reenie says.
Alone? “I usually just... hand out candy.”
“No way!” Caroline says. “You’ve got to come to one of the parties. Bob Corney’s is awesome. He makes this punch that has everyone so drunk, they’re, like, puking within an hour.”
“Sounds... fun.”
“So Reenie, are you going to pee or what?”
Reenie goes into a stall.
“How long have you been here?” I ask Caroline.
“Just an hour. But I actually scored some good jeans. Gap is, like, the only company that understands my kind of butt.” She turns to show me. “See, I have a bubble butt. Most jeans are for banjo butts. Let me see your butt.”
Big fat butt, I think, but I turn to let her give me the verdict. “Your butt is kind of disappearing, Sage, if you want to know the truth.”
“I had it when I left home,” I joke.
“Seriously. Are you on a diet or something?”
“I guess it’s a tennis racket butt.” Answering that question is like an admission of fatness. “There’s holes in it.”
“Help!” Reenie calls. “I don’t have any toilet paper.”
I grab some from another stall and drop it over the top. “You know who has a great butt.” Reenie comes out. “Roger Willis.”
“They’re hot cross buns,” Caroline says. “I’d like to take a bite out of them.”
Which makes me pretty nauseous. “Well, see you guys,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Uhhm.” Anyplace alone. “Coach?”
“You need Coach,” Caroline says. “Your purse is so...”
. . . battered, from Target, sling bag, five bucks on sale two years ago.
“Retro,” Reenie says kindly.
“Yeah, you are so retro in your style, Sage. And roots are so in.”
“If you just wait long enough, they come,” I offer helpfully.
“We’ll go with you,” Reenie volunteers. “I love Coach.”
“Great.” I follow them to Coach, feeling both annoyed and happy to be part of a group. The truth is, I’m not an insider, but I’m not an outsider, either, probably because at any occasion, I bring treats: the best fudge brownies, lemon bars, and cookies on the planet. Someday I’ll write my own cookbook.
Inside Coach, Reenie starts draping purses on me.
“I can’t wait to throw that thing in the trash.” Caroline tugs on my purse.
“I’m attached to it.” I tug back.
Most of the purses are locked in glass cabinets, but in the middle of the room there’s a display of purses built into a pyramid.
“Look at that one at the top.” Reenie points. “That’s to die for.”
So far, the purses have not tempted me... that much. Some are just plain plain; others have a pattern resembling the spermatozoa we studied in health. But this one is gorgeous, beige patterned with a zebra stripe down the middle, like my hair. My mouth actually waters.
“Go get the guy,” Caroline orders.
Reenie dashes off and returns with the guy, who wields what looks like a giant fishing pole. “The Hamptons Zebra Stripe Satchel.” He hooks it. “This is the last one. That’s why I put it at the top.”
“The last one!” Reenie swoons.
I try not to drool on it as I examine the price tag. $368.00!
“I don’t like it,” I say.
“But it’s so you.” Reenie is right: the size, the shape, the colors.
“Try it on!” Caroline demands. Still clutching my own piece of junk, I loop the work of art over my shoulder.
“It looks awesome with your new blonde hair with the roots showing.”
I want it so much, but it is impossible!
This mom comes in with three kids, one about six, and the other two in a double stroller. She parks the stroller practically on top of us.
“Just take up the whole store, why doesn’t she?” Caroline whispers.
“Watch Bim and Bip,” the mom tells the six-year-old, and takes off.
“Bim and Bip?” Reenie mouths.
I take the momentary distraction to shed the purse.
“You have to buy it, Sage.” Caroline picks it back up. “Doesn’t she have to buy it?”
I don’t know why she’s so persistent!
“Definitely,” Reenie says.
“I forgot my credit card,” I offer lamely.
“No sweat,” Reenie says. “You can use mine and just pay me back tomorrow.”
$368; tomorrow?
“Oh-mi-God, he’s picking his nose,” Caroline says.
With one hand, Six is shoving the stroller back and forth in the aisle. With the other he is excavating his nose.
“Ewwww,” Reenie says. “I hope he doesn’t get boogers on the purses.”
Nose-picker gives us a dirty look. Then, with a massive shove, he sends the stroller, toddlers and all, into the display. Caroline, leaning against the table, falls, the pyramid-o-purses tumbling on top of her.
It is a beautiful moment. Caroline Kennedy lying on the floor covered in thousands of dollars worth of Coach purses.
“What did you do?” The guy rushes toward us.
“Get me out of here!” Caroline shouts. Reenie and I each grab an arm and yank her up.
I give Nose-picker a big grin as we rush out the door into the cold free air.
I have got to get over my hostility toward other girls.