After school Chelsea says, “I need to buy something to wear to the next open mic. Want to come shopping with me?”

Nadine teases, “You need to get something or you just want to wear something new for James?”

I laugh. “Where are you going?”

“I was thinking we could walk 125th,” Chelsea says.

We get on the train and head downtown to Harlem. Walking up the stairs with Nadine and Chelsea gets me winded because Nadine’s legs move like she’s in a speed-walking race. When we get to the top of the stairs, we squeeze our way through the people coming and going. A trail of incense fills the air, and from the distance a man shouts out, “Got your oils right here. Got that tea tree oil, got that coconut oil, right here, right here.”

We haven’t even walked a block before Nadine is stopping at a street vendor’s table to try on earrings. “Can I try these on?” she asks the woman at the table, holding up big wooden earrings that look like single teardrops. I would have never picked those up, but they look good on her. Nadine has an eye for fashion, and after all these years of being her friend, you’d think it would have rubbed off on me, but it hasn’t.

Nadine tries on five pairs of earrings, looking at herself in the handheld mirror from every angle possible, then decides to get two pairs, the wooden earrings and a pair of oversize copper hoops.

We continue down the street until Chelsea says, “Let’s go in here.”

We walk into Rubies and Jeans, a store that just opened about six months ago. It’s got a high-end feel to it, but the prices are reasonable. There’s a mix of casual and dressy clothes, and the atmosphere makes you feel like you are shopping in a classy, trendy boutique even though it’s a chain store. Chelsea goes straight to the escalator. “The clearance racks are downstairs,” she says. Nadine and I follow her, and when we get off the escalator, Chelsea walks over to the rack under the Forty Percent Off sign. She pulls a bunch of tops and jeans off the rack and tosses them over her arm. Nadine is looking through the bins of jewelry, picking out rings and bracelets. “I’m going to try these on. Be right back,” Chelsea says.

“Okay.” I roam around the store looking through the sea of clothes and see a section far back on the right side of the room with a sign that says Plus Sizes. I didn’t even know this store had clothes that would fit me. I walk over to the plus size section, wondering why my sizes have to be in a special section of the store and not mixed in with the other sizes. There is a definite divide, as if a shirt with a 3X tag will contaminate the other clothes. I look through the clothes—there’s not much to choose from. Just two racks compared to a whole store full of options for thinner girls. Just as I pick up a sweater to try on, I see the advertisement on the wall. A model with full cheeks and curvy hips is standing with that half-smile, half-serious look that models give. In a room full of fat people, she’d be considered thin. The caption under her half-smiling, half-serious face says: Rubies and Jeans Plus: Because every girl deserves to look beautiful.

A store clerk sees me and says, “Not finding what you’re looking for? We’ve got a bigger selection of plus size options online. Free return if it doesn’t fit.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and walks away.

Online? Why can’t I try on the clothes here in the store? Why are these two racks hidden in the way back of the store?

I read the ad again: Rubies and Jeans Plus: Because every girl deserves to look beautiful. I think about the word “deserves” and wonder what they mean by it. How about: I am beautiful. The way I am. For a moment—just a moment—I think about taking out my black Sharpie marker and rewriting the statement:

Because every girl is beautiful.

Because every body is beautiful.

And then I think about crossing out the word “beautiful,” because what does that even mean? This is a clothing store. It’s just clothes. Wouldn’t that be a good ad?

Rubies and Jeans: It’s just clothes. Come try something on.

I look back at the poster one more time before walking away. I study the girl’s body. She isn’t thin, but she is definitely not a big girl like me. I wonder why girls with bodies like mine can’t even model the clothes that are made for us. Most times when I see body types like mine on advertisements, they are on posters like the ones in the subway—big body, sad face. Sometimes they are the before picture in a weight-loss success story, but bodies like mine aren’t often seen with happy faces, stylish clothes. I put the sweater back on the rack. I don’t really need anything anyway. I always waste money when I’m shopping with Chelsea. While she’s trying and buying clothes, I usually stick to the accessories section looking for earrings, things to put in my hair, or cute wallets. That’s usually the option for a big girl in most stores. And I think maybe I buy something every time because I want to feel normal, don’t want Chelsea asking, “Why aren’t you getting something?” It’s been this way since the sixth grade. The first time we went shopping together, I remember trailing behind Chelsea, going rack to rack, Chelsea’s arms full of options, mine empty. Chelsea noticed I wasn’t picking out anything to try on and she said, “What’s the matter, not finding anything you like?” I knew in that moment that she didn’t even realize that I actually can’t get anything from the stores she shops at. She kept on asking me, “You’re not going to get anything?” And so at the counter when she was paying for her clothes, I picked up a pomegranate-mint lip gloss. I think I only used it once.

I walk over to the dressing room. Chelsea is still trying on clothes, and now Nadine is in the room next to her. I sit on a chair in the waiting area, scrolling through my phone, not really looking at anything important. When Chelsea and Nadine come out of the dressing rooms, they both have a handful of clothes in their arms. They stand in line, buy them, and we leave. On the way out of the store, Chelsea says, “I think this is my new favorite store.”

At home, it’s just Dad and me. Mom and Jason are at his karate practice. I start making dinner so when Mom gets home that’s one less thing she’ll have to do. Dad comes into the kitchen just as I am filling a pot with water.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“Spaghetti.”

He reaches up on the top shelf and takes down the glass jar that has dry noodles in it. The jar is half-empty, so I can hear the noodles shift and rub up against each other, sounding like the music shakers Mr. Morrison has in the prop box at school.

“Thank you,” I say. I could have got it down myself. Well, I would have had to use a stool, but I could have. Dad walks all over the kitchen gathering ingredients and setting out the dishes I will need. “You don’t have to help, Dad. Just sit here and keep me company.” The more he exerts energy, the more tired and miserable he’ll feel tonight.

“I’m okay, Jasmine. I’m having a good day today.” He chops garlic on the cutting board, then opens a can of fire-roasted tomatoes. None of us are the best cooks, but we can doctor anything up and make it taste good. We buy spaghetti sauce from the market and add our own stuff to it. Dad works on the sauce while I break the noodles in two so I can dump them in the boiling water. “You don’t have to be scared of me, Jasmine. I’m not going to break.”

“But you’re going to die.” I didn’t even mean to say that. It just came out as quick and easy as the tears streaming down my face. The steam from the hot water hits my face, and I don’t move. “Sorry—I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Dad says. “It’s true. Eventually, I’m going to die.” He sprinkles salt in the boiling pot of noodles, then stirs the simmering pan of sauce. “But not today. I am not going to die today. Today we are cooking together, and we’ll eat dinner. And I’ll probably eat too much but still want some ice cream, and your mom will fuss at me, but we’ll share a bowl anyway. And since it’s Friday, maybe we’ll watch a movie tonight, the four of us. Something Jason can handle, of course. That’s what’s happening tonight.”

I step back from the stove, trying so hard to hold in my sadness, but it spills out of me. Dad puts the spoon down, turns the burner all the way to simmer, and takes me in his arms. He lets me get it all out, and over and over he tells me, “It’ll happen. And there’s nothing we can do about it. But not tonight. Not tonight, sweetheart.”