A Life Guide To Prolonging the Inevitable

Chapter 2

Saturday, September 25th, 1999

“What about this one?” I heard Jordan say, but her voice was muffled and I could barely see her. She was buried in the very center of one of those circular garment racks, and every time she plucked a dress from the hanger, her little arm would extend outward into the isle to show me.

I reached out to touch it, and the fabric felt light and silky under my fingertips. “I dunno,” I told her. The dress was a pale green—long with puffed sleeves—and judging by the way it dragged on the floor even when I held it up, I would absolutely drown in it. “It kind of looks like a nightgown,” I said, and I frowned at the droopy bow in the front.

“Fiiinnee,” Jordan whined, and seemingly for the millionth time this afternoon, her arm shot out from the garment rack, snatched the dress from me, and disappeared into the mess of materials and colors.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the bench in the shoe department; my mother was still sitting there, bags scattered at her feet, and even though she looked exhausted, she mustered a smile and waved at me. I waved back and turned around again.

It was the day before my seventh birthday party, and we’d been at the mall since nine AM.  We’d gotten the plates and the piñata and the paper streamers and the party gifts and the banners and the big plastic table clothes and the candles and the balloons and the red velvet cake mix. Now all we needed was my party dress, and my mother had left that task to us. Which I assume she hardcore regretted right now about, because I’m decently sure Jordan and I could’ve recorded the inventory for the whole kids’ department at that point.

The dresses started to rustle, and Jordan emerged from the clothes rack. “This is the last one here,” she told me, and in her arms, she carried the prettiest, most amazingly wonderful configuration of cotton, fabric dye, and textile fibers that I’d ever seen in my whole entire life.

It was a tiered sundress—plaid with canary yellow and slate blue—and I don’t think I’d ever wanted a piece of cloth as badly as I wanted that one. Jordan and I sprinted to the dressing room, and my mother, who probably would’ve been encouraged if I tried on a goddamn toga at this point, was right behind us.

The dress was made for a girl about five years older than me (one who was actually familiar with the term ‘puberty’) and I could tell by the way it hung off my skinny boyish frame. I looked in the mirror and saw how it crinkled at the waist and hung far past my knees, but I spun around anyway and begged, “Can I get it?”

My mother took a step toward me and examined the dress. She pinched it in the back with one hand and bound the straps in an X-shape with the other. “I suppose it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a safety pin or two,” she murmured to herself. Then she had me turn in a circle while she stood with her fist underneath her chin.

“Alright. Sure, Honey.” Her pensive expression finally fell away and her mouth curved. “You’re going to look so pretty for all your new friends.”

By the time we’d finished setting up, that backyard looked badass. And I’m not just saying that because I was seven and it was my birthday. It was any kid’s dream party, and I was so excited, I thought I might vomit. Except I’d probably vomit rainbows, because that’s how thrilled I was about it.

We’d gotten the square folding tables out of the garage—the ones my mom used for yard sales—and we’d covered them with purple and yellow tablecloths. My father had hung the streamers above the patio, and he had cross-crossed them so many times that it looked like a paper canopy. Each place-setting was perfectly centered in front of its respective chair, and the colors alternated—purple, yellow, purple, yellow—around the tables.