She dragged me into a narrow store bursting with secondhand clothing. I halfheartedly flicked through a rack of T-shirts, more people-watching than shopping. There was a blonde girl with dreadlocks and a nose ring behind the counter, and an Asian guy with tattoo sleeves and stretched earlobes standing outside the dressing room.
“Oh my God, perfect!” Cassidy exclaimed, holding up some sort of blue feathered monstrosity that might have been either a coat or a bathrobe.
“No,” I told her.
“You’re trying it on!” she insisted, laughing as she put it back.
After a while, it became clear that Cassidy was teasing me with the worst things she could find.
“That is a black T-shirt,” she informed me, looking at what I was holding. “Come on, Ezra, I’m not going to do it for you. You need to express yourself. You’re not an Abercrombie button-down and baggy jeans.”
I stared down at the black T-shirt, realizing that Cassidy hadn’t dragged me to a shop so she could make me buy some new jeans. She was determined to help me figure out who I wanted to be, now that I sat with the debate team and participated in flash mobs and snuck into college lecture halls. And I could see her point. If I didn’t want to hang out with my old friends, I probably shouldn’t keep dressing like I did, especially since I’d dropped enough weight over the summer that nothing in my closet fit anymore.
“Got any suggestions?” I asked, because that seemed safe.
“Hmmm.” She sized me up as though enjoying a private joke. “How about a leather jacket?”
When I dumped my pile of clothes onto the counter to pay, the girl with the dreadlocks smiled at me.
“Awesome jacket,” she said, ringing it up. “You should wear it with the black jeans.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, taking out a credit card.
“Just not with that shirt.” She laughed as she rang up my purchases and stuffed everything into a bag.
“You’re sure you didn’t want the feathered bathrobe too?” Cassidy teased as we climbed back into my car.
“Nah, it would just make Toby jealous.”
“So jealous,” Cassidy agreed.
A car was waiting for my parking spot, riding my ass so I could barely pull out.
“Seriously,” I muttered. “Why is the world filled with douche-bag drivers?”
“Well, you are under a tree. Maybe he’s just a schattenparker,” Cassidy said, turning on the radio. She hit my presets, getting three stations of commercials in a row before giving up.
“What’s a schattenparker?”
“It’s German.” Cassidy grinned. “And it translates roughly as ‘someone who always parks their car in the shade so their interior doesn’t get hot.’ German’s full of really good insults.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Um.” Cassidy considered for a moment. “Vomdoucher. That means someone who can’t stand to take cold showers. And I like backpfeifengesicht a lot. That one translates to ‘a face that cries out for a fist in it.’ It’s very Shakespearean.”
I shook my head. “Where do you learn this stuff?”
“Don’t you ever get bored?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t Google ‘German insults.’”
“Why not? It’s fascinating.”
I shrugged, merging onto the freeway. “I guess it just never occurred to me.”
“Do you know what just occurred to me?” Cassidy asked playfully.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen your bedroom.”
THANKFULLY, MY PARENTS were out shopping for new lighting fixtures or lamps or something. I hadn’t really been paying attention when my mom had explained it that morning, but the point was, they weren’t home, and wouldn’t be back for a while.
“Should I be afraid?” Cassidy asked warily as I led her up to my room. “Is this going to be one of those messy boy bedrooms that smells like old cheese?”
“Definitely. I’ve got posters of girls in bikinis, too. And like, a whole bedside drawer of lube.”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” Cassidy laughed.
My room wasn’t all that exciting, except for the fact that it contained a large bed. Mostly, it was just really clean. If it wasn’t, my mom straightened up before the maid came on Tuesdays, which meant that she went through all of my stuff.
I wasn’t allowed to put posters up or anything like that, so there were a couple of framed prints: McEnroe and Fleming at Wimbledon, plus some sailing stuff my dad had liked, even though we never went sailing. I had a big bookshelf that held photographs from school dances, a couple of game consoles, and the empty space where my tennis trophies used to sit before I put them in a box in the closet.
I opened the door, and Cooper pushed past us and jumped onto the bed, laying his head down on my Wii controller.
“Cooper, get out!” I said, laughing.
“Awww, poor dog.” Cassidy sat down on my bed and scratched him behind the ears.
“That’s not helping,” I said.
“Why do you have a framed picture of a sailboat?” she asked.
I shrugged and sat down next to her.
“Let me guess,” Cassidy said, “because someone else picked it out and put it up in a room meant to encapsulate who you are, even though you have no interest in boats.”
“If I say yes, do I get to kiss you?”