CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | rewriting

18: VULTURE CYCLE

            'Rule one,' I tell Diwa as we turn onto Market Street, 'don't steal from independent stores. That's unethical. Shoplifting from Primark is actually more ethical than supporting them financially.'

She casts me a sceptical glance. 'I'm not sure that's true.'

I shrug.

'What're the other rules?'

'Well, I dunno. I didn't think that far ahead when I started listing. Avoid shopping centres, I guess. More guards.'

I guide her into Primark and almost immediately faint. I wouldn't be surprised if it were revealed that they put anti-inhibitory sedatives in the air conditioning to trap people in here forever. You can't find air like Primark air nowhere else. Maybe TK Maxx...

Diwa sticks to my heels, looking unavoidably like a criminal. We're several sections into the store before I turn around.

'What clothes do you like?'

Very uncharacteristically, Diwa cowers at my impatience. For the first time in her life, she don't have an answer to the question. After a beat of silence, she shrugs—only with one shoulder which makes it look well fucking weird.

I drop my head back to pray to the fluorescent lights. 'Okay, when you scroll on Tumblr or Pinterest or whatever, what sort of things d'you like?' When she still don't say owt, I prompt, 'What colours? Are they wearing skirts, dresses, trousers? Tight or loose fitting?'

'I like skirts,' Diwa finally mutters but gains more confidence the more she speaks. 'I like it when they're wearing a short skirt and cool tights under with boots or knee socks. And I like pink. I like Melanie Martinez, just adjusted for Manchester weather.'

'Brilliant,' I say and I might actually not be totally lying.

I guide her past the beige business casual display that her current clothes camouflage into, past the assortment of Christmas clothes, to the first rack with owt remotely wearable. Apparently, I have to do everything for this idiot cause a moment later, I'm carding through the clothes on her behalf.

'I like this.' Diwa gestures at a pink babydoll dress with straps that tie into ribbons. 'I could wear it with a collared shirt under.'

I shift through for what I imagine is her size and shove it at her.

Her eyes widen and she starts to say summat but the words curl back into her throat as she registers all the other shoppers nearby.

I continue carding through the rack until we come to a black skater skirt with the phases of the moon strung on the hem. I show it to Diwa and she eagerly finds her size.

She finally evolves to the stage of humanity where she can shop for herself. While Diwa looks through a rack of jumpers, I bounce between the things that are black. I end up with a torn mesh long sleeve and a black and white acid wash tee.

'I don't get it,' Diwa says, distracted from her own shopping. 'Are you like goth or punk or a skater?'

'Yeah, it's almost like human beings are more complex than arbitrary categories. But I'm sure you wouldn't get that.'

Her cheeks flush and my insides twist. I've gone too far, again. Git.

I bite my tongue as hard as my survival instinct allows. Would it be so hard to be a halfway decent person for one day?

Mrs Harland was right; you were born evil.

I scrunch my shirts in a fist so that the mesh sleeves drag on the ground as I step over to Diwa to look through the jumpers with her.