SHOUT - Adopted by Lin Manuel Miranda

RUNWAY READY

On most weekends, I sleep until noon and watch TV until my eyes burn. On this weekend, Vanessa wants to take me shopping. She wants to buy me one pair of jeans that fit. I'd rather she gag me with her manicured nails. 

She drags me to a nearby Macy's at 9:00 in the morning. The temperature has dipped below freezing. It's the dry type of cold. The worst kind. In stepping foot in the store, we go from one extreme to the other. The heat is jacked up so high, I begin to sweat through my coat.

I tell Vanessa she can choose what I buy. I'm too worn out to care. I need a size two in jeans. That's all. We head for the Juniors section of the store, where the Precious Baby Bitches swarm. I slunk around the racks and run my hand along the hangers. Vanessa is in full embarrassing foster parent mode. She flies around the store and returns with a stack of clothes so large, it covers her head. 

Just one pair of jeans, she said. Just one that fits, she said.

I don't know why people focus so much on clothing. Every other species goes naked. The only thing I like about Wilmington is that I don't have to waste time picking out an outfit in the morning. Still doesn't change the fact that the uniform is ugly as sin, but at least there's no competition, no Precious Baby Bullfights over whose designer shirt was designed more à la mode.

I sort through the clothes in the changing room. Six frumpy blouses, two sun dresses and five pairs of jeans. What I get from this is that Vanessa wants me to dress less like a serial killer and more like a Precious Baby, but buying some jeans may not be such a bad idea. I can always rip them with scissors to make them more à la Vidya. The first pair is size zero. I can't even get them up my thighs. I don't bother with the next pair-- they're double zero. The third pair is gigantic. Can't even see my legs beneath them. Perfect. 

I turn to look in the mirror. Beneath my sweatshirt, you can hardly tell these are Precious Baby jeans. I step back and study myself. In Health class, Mr. Wells shows us all these VHS tapes that explain and try to shed light on our changing bodies. Bullshit. That's what it is. Adults say puberty is a good thing, but that's because all of their teenage brain cells are long deteriorated. How would Mr. Wells feel if he had a face full of zits and a hideously disproportionate height to weight ratio?

I trudge out to the waiting area. Vanessa stares for a moment and tries to grin. "You like them?" She asks.

"I love them."

The mountain of clothes sounds like some polyester bomb when Vanessa drops them on the counter. I fiddle with the edge of my coat while she pays. I'm in awe of how someone could spend so much money on fabric. I don't object. If she wants to waste her money, she can waste her money. I'm good wearing thrift store clothes. I could sell these clothes. Or give them to Sebastian. His stuffed animals could use a makeover.