Our Suburban Lives

     1. Ruby Tuesdays: She could feel him loitering behind her, his breath heavy on her neck. She whipped around and looked into his big brown eyes. That spot where his tooth should have been gaped open as he smiled and waited. His skin was pasty and covered with a thin layer of sweat, and as he lingered above them he rubbed at a white-head pimple with his pinky.

     She looked back at her date and rolled her eyes.

     “Do we look ready to order?” she snapped, glaring, as her date began to snicker. “We were having a great conversation and you had to jump in with your whiny little voice and interrupt. Can’t you wait a couple minutes? And maybe order some Proactive cleanser?”

     She looked at his nametag. Bernard. Augh.

     Her date was laughing now, loud, and she began to giggle too as she took a sip of her water. She waited for Bernard to mutter something and trudge away, but he forced his mouth into a smile and laughed with them. His face was red and his eyes weren’t happy, but he laughed, trying to fit in, trying to be part of their joke. He laughed as they stared, laughed as they stopped laughing, and continued to laugh as he walked away, until he ducked into a closet and banged his head against the wall, running his hands over his acne. He breathed in and told himself to suck it up. He craved a cigarette, craved the heat in his lungs and the cold wind of the parking lot in his hair. But, forehead hot, he stepped back into the bright lights of the restaurant. He slowly trailed toward the couple, giving them time to finish their conversation. He tried to wait a couple minutes, like she’d said. He always tried.

***

2. Dress Barn: “Welcome, ladies!”

    I step into the shop, the stench of stale armpit and wrinkly fabric filling my nostrils.

     “How can I help you?” an overweight salesgirl asks, tucking her hands into the pockets of her too-tight brown jeans.

     “We’re here for the VIP—Very Important Party!” my mother shouts. I cringe and duck behind an orange pleather jumper.

     “Oh, fabulous,” says the girl monotonously. Her voice reminds me of those automated women that call when I skip classes at school. “You’re actually the first to arrive.”

     I glance over at my mom. She dressed up for the engagement in her favorite khaki skirt and a pink pull-over sweater, and she combed her hair and put on makeup for the first time in weeks—the first time since the divorce.

     We make eye contact. We’re an hour late. How are we the first ones here?

     I browse through the store for twenty minutes, picking up ugly beige tops and nodding politely towards them when salespeople look at me. In my black pants and black hoodie, I know I’m not their ideal customer, but I’m not here for me. I’m here for her.

     My mother glances at one-piece swimsuits as she calls her friends, leaving message after message. Already I can see her energy, her mood, plummeting. I pretend to be interested in some long tacky dresses covered in embroidered flowers as I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

     The table at the back of the store has these neon pink party hats obviously meant for the VIP, and there are a few trays of cookies. The idea was lame to begin with—it’s a party where middle-aged women receive discounts as they drink cheap wine and “catch up,” but more than anything, I want it to begin.

     “It’s not happening.”

     I look at her. “How do you know?”

     “I reached Anne. It was cancelled.”

     We leave the store, my arm hooked in hers. The saleswomen stare at us but I don’t turn around. We get back into our car and I reverse, watching the gray strip mall fade as we retreat from her last chance at feeling Very Important.

***

     3. Longs Drugs: I don’t know where to look.

     I’m lingering between the “health care” aisle and a row seemingly designed for all the excess products that didn’t fit into a specified section. Plastic ferns, dusty Christmas ornaments, polyester goldfish slippers, and various other miscellaneous items are stuffed into the shelves, forming a swirling mass of color. I’m leaning against a stack of neon pink tents, trying to space out, trying not to think about it.

     “Lily?”

     Adam’s unmistakable voice jolts me awake. I blink and glance up to see him looking through a pile of discounted coloring books with his little sister—and that I’m standing in front of the Depends diapers. Great.

     “Uh, Adam. I didn’t think I’d see you here! Not that I didn’t want to. See you, I mean.” I giggle nervously.

     Fuck fuck fuck.

     “What are you doing here?” he asks, standing up and over his sister, who’s wearing a long pink velvet nightgown and a yellow plastic cowgirl hat.

    “Oh, you know. Just shopping around, killing time…”

     Not entering the next aisle.

     “Well, I meant to call you about that night…” he trails off. “I really did mean to call, but Sarah told me that you didn’t want to talk to me, and I couldn’t even really remember what happened…” He glances down at his sister, who’s oblivious to my beating heart and his trembling words.

     “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “It was just, you know, a mistake.”

     He touches my arm and crouches down to his sister again.

     “Bella, we’ve gotta go,” he says. “Here, let’s get the Little Mermaid coloring book. Mom wants us home soon.”

     They both stand and he grabs her hand. They start to walk down the aisle when he turns back to me.

     “Bye, Lily,” he says, green eyes locked to mine.

     I wave and melt into the tents. My lashes flutter closed, tears pluck my eyes, my arms wrap slowly into a pretzel around my body. Then, in a trance, I step into the next aisle and pick up one of the purple boxes. I accidentally glance at the words: First Response. I grip the plastic and start to walk to the check-out counter. Then I see Adam, still paying. I toss the box onto the shelf and grab a pack of Extra gum. I wander toward the cash registers. I’ll come back later. I will.

***

     4. Starbucks: “Like, I want a caramel macchiato, but even non-fat it has too many frickin’ calories,” one of them says, eyes glued to the doughnuts as she speaks.

     “You could get it with that fake sugar syrup,” says another, running her hand over her lank gray-blonde hair.

     I watch their bones jerk as they decide what to order. Each of the three fourteen-year-old girls is wearing a short skirt, made of either white or black denim, revealing bare white knees that knock together like broken bed posts. They’re each wearing the same Hanes v-neck tees, the ones that I wore in the eighties when they were meant for unfashionable men like me. I run my hand over my bald head and think about that hair-growing solution that Martha bought me. Better start using it one of these days.

     “What can I get for you girls?” I ask, trying to make eye contact. Their eyes are scanning the menu and the pastries, their brains begging for forbidden food.

     The brunette one steps forward. “I’ll have a tall non-fat sugar-free mint latte with a shot of…”

     Their orders take forever, each one ordering a different concoction made of fake sweeteners. I smile, give them their change, and walk over to the bar to make the drinks. As I start the espresso machines, I look over. They’re leaning into the wooden chairs, their bones scraping against the backs, their bodies limp, un-nourished. If my daughter looked like that, I’d call a hospital, do anything.

     But for these girls, all I can do is make the drinks. I pour full-fat milk, add honey, sugar, real vanilla syrup, whipped cream. I hand over their cups and watch as they take long, luxurious sips, their bodies readily absorbing the calories. I wipe the counter clean.

     The door slams shut behind them. From outside I hear one of them shout, “See! I told you guys that Splenda tastes like real sugar!” I smile.

***

     5. A highway: You drive along, hands gripping the wheel, head bouncing along with the poppy beats of ____’s number one radio station. You need to pick up a few things at the mall—some Kleenex for your dorm room maybe, or perhaps a set of discounted golf clubs for your grandson’s twentieth birthday. Your age doesn’t matter, nor does your gender, occupation, or race. All that matters is that you’re going to the mall, where everything’s nice and happy and everyone’s nice and happy. You keep your eye out for the freeway exit. There on the right is that yellow sign displaying ads for Dress Barn, Longs, Ruby Tuesdays, and a whole bunch of other stores. You can’t switch lanes fast enough, but it’s okay. There are plenty more malls out there.