The Feel of Water

Four - High Tide

It was a warm summer night-the kind of night you hear about in movies, a night with a full, bright moon high in the sky like a disco ball to dance under. Emilie and I were at Aunt Tammy's as our parents left us behind for a special anniversary dinner at a restaurant with giant plates for tiny foods. Aunt Tammy gave us a few bottles of old nail polish as entertainment then proceeded to fight with her current boyfriend on the phone in the backyard. We heard everything. The sliding door was wide open with a screen to catch bugs but nothing to block the plethora of profanities spewing from Tammy's mouth.

We smeared glitter polish on our fingers and locked eyes whenever a curse word was thrown around. Emilie accidentally knocked over an open bottle of Yellow Polka Dot Bikini polish onto the carpet, and when Tammy came rushing in, she quickly sat on the splotch. Little did we know that at some point Tammy stopped talking to her deadbeat boyfriend because of another call she was getting from the police. She hurried to us with flushed cheeks and wet eyes, and Emilie assumed she knew about the nail polish spill. Really, she was flustered because our parents had been in a car accident on the way to the restaurant.

"No no no, you remembered it wrong. It was the summer after eighth grade that we got banned from the Quick Stop for stealing candy. That's partly why I dyed my hair black, remember? So I could still get the Teen Beat magazines because it was the only gas station within walking distance of my house," Becca explains, correcting Allison who stated that it was the summer after freshman year.

"Oh, you know what, you're right," she says. "We went to that run-down summer camp the summer after freshman year. Oh, dang, what was it called again? Camp Hobanoka? Habanka?"

"Camp Hanokawa," I pipe up from behind them.

We make our way down the spacious, glaring hall of the mall close to Becca's house. For a Saturday afternoon, it isn't very busy. We pass plenty of teenager-friendly stores, not even glancing through the open glass doors because Becca is desperate to get to a sale at some panty shop.

"Right, right," Allison breathes. "It was run by that couple from Japan. I wonder if it's still around."

I asked Emilie if she wanted to come to the mall with us. She said 'I'm okay, have fun.' I asked if she was sure. She nodded.

"Hey, I'll meet you guys there," I say as we pass a store I remember Emilie shopping at quite a bit. "I'm going to stop in here and see if they have anything Emilie might like."

"Oh, okay," Becca says, turning back. "I'll text you if we end up somewhere else."

The store is called High Tide and features large, blown-up photos of thin girls in swimsuits and beachy clothes. The inside of the store smells like an employee accidentally shattered every bottle of coconut-sunshine-summer-cherry-surf-ocean-mango perfume on the tile floor and left it to dry. Popular music blasts from speakers in the ceiling, and before I can comprehend all the colors on the racks, a college-aged girl pops out of nowhere and says, "Hi, welcome in! Can I help you find anything?"

My mouth opens, my brows furrow, my shoulders perk up and I blurt something like, "Oh, no, I-I'm just looking. Uh-thanks."

I proceed to the corner of the store.

After searching for a bit, I realize that I can't find anything I believe Emilie would wear because she doesn't shop here anymore. Her clothes nowadays consist of t-shirts and comfortable pants like leggings or sweats. I get a little annoyed with myself for thinking that silly things such as fashion or High Tide would matter to her at the moment. She doesn't want some poorly-made crop top with a micro-sized embroidery of a palm tree on it; she wants things that money can't buy.