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Authors: Abby McDonald
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frizz gene. “What’s up? Are you — ooh!” she exclaims, suddenly reaching for the rack behind me. “This is perfect!”
“It is?” I blink. Kayla’s holding up a pair of hideous shorts: khaki, with a red flower print, they reach at least to her knees when she holds them up against her body.
She catches my expression and laughs. “No, I mean, they’re disgusting, but that’s perfect. Those kids destroy everything I own.” She plucks a lurid chartreuse T-shirt and adds it to her basket.
“I know what you mean,” I say. “About the destruction, anyway. You have no idea how hard it is to get melted chocolate-chip smears off your jeans.”
“Oh, I do,” Kayla says, “if it’s anything like finger paints. I swear they do it on purpose.” She adds, “This one kid, Jaden? He slapped bright-blue handprints all over my favorite shirt. Ruined!”
“How is it?” I ask as we stroll toward the dressing rooms. “Working at the playgroup. That must be fun.”
“Sure, they’re just adorable,” she says. “For the first five minutes. And then I want to wring their adorable little necks.”
I stop, shocked. “I always figured you loved kids.”
“Yeah, no.” Kayla shakes her head emphatically. “One kid, I can do, even two — just stick them in front of a Disney movie, let them play Xbox all night. But a herd of them?” She shudders.
I laugh. “Come on, they’re just kids.”
“Have you been stuck with a group of ankle biters before?” Kayla stares at me, wide eyed. “Sure, they toddle around quietly, but if they turn on you … it’s like in the movies. The ones that seem sweet and innocent are always, like, possessed. Or zombie spawn.”
“The kids are demons?”
“It would explain a lot. But hey, I get to use it on college applications. I want to major in psychology,” she explains. “And it’s fun watching the parents, trying to figure out how traumatized and messed up their kid is going to be.” She beams happily at the thought of all the future therapy the kids will require.
“Um … great.” Clearly, I’ve been underestimating Kayla.
She looks around at the fluorescent-lit room full of limp sale signs and people dejectedly picking through the remainder bin of underwear. “Oh, my God, this place is so depressing. I should go buy these before I change my mind. Or kill myself.”
“You’re not going to try them on?”
“And see just how bad they look?” Kayla backs away. “You’re way braver than me. See you!”
As I watch her walk away, I feel a strange pang. This conversation must be the longest one we’ve had in years, and right now, I can’t even think of the reason why.
“Kayla, wait!” I call suddenly. Then I stop, embarrassed, but she’s already turned. “Do you have plans?” I ask. “I mean, we could maybe get a soda or something. Exchange stain-removal tips,” I add, my face heating up.
Kayla pauses for a minute, then shrugs. “Sure, I don’t have to be anywhere.”
“Great!” I realize how eager I sound and dial it back a couple of notches. “I mean, OK. That’s cool.”
“Meet me out front when you’re done.” Kayla smiles. “I swear, I’m breaking out in an allergic reaction to all this polyester.”
“OK!” I feel a weird sense of achievement. “See you outside.”
“So, Totally Wired,” Kayla starts as we claim our monster neon Slushies from the food-court stall. The mall is busy with gaggles of preteen girls camped out on every bench and weekend shoppers drifting aimlessly down the fluorescent-lit fake streets. “Want to switch? You take tiny demons and I’ll serve coffee. That place has the cutest guys on staff.”
“It does?” I slurp at my drink, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia. Or is it déjà vu? Either way, this is a scene I must have played out with Kayla a hundred times when we were younger, back when a day at the mall and icy treats were pretty much heaven to us. “Like who?”
“Where do I start?”
“It is?” I blink. Kayla’s holding up a pair of hideous shorts: khaki, with a red flower print, they reach at least to her knees when she holds them up against her body.
She catches my expression and laughs. “No, I mean, they’re disgusting, but that’s perfect. Those kids destroy everything I own.” She plucks a lurid chartreuse T-shirt and adds it to her basket.
“I know what you mean,” I say. “About the destruction, anyway. You have no idea how hard it is to get melted chocolate-chip smears off your jeans.”
“Oh, I do,” Kayla says, “if it’s anything like finger paints. I swear they do it on purpose.” She adds, “This one kid, Jaden? He slapped bright-blue handprints all over my favorite shirt. Ruined!”
“How is it?” I ask as we stroll toward the dressing rooms. “Working at the playgroup. That must be fun.”
“Sure, they’re just adorable,” she says. “For the first five minutes. And then I want to wring their adorable little necks.”
I stop, shocked. “I always figured you loved kids.”
“Yeah, no.” Kayla shakes her head emphatically. “One kid, I can do, even two — just stick them in front of a Disney movie, let them play Xbox all night. But a herd of them?” She shudders.
I laugh. “Come on, they’re just kids.”
“Have you been stuck with a group of ankle biters before?” Kayla stares at me, wide eyed. “Sure, they toddle around quietly, but if they turn on you … it’s like in the movies. The ones that seem sweet and innocent are always, like, possessed. Or zombie spawn.”
“The kids are demons?”
“It would explain a lot. But hey, I get to use it on college applications. I want to major in psychology,” she explains. “And it’s fun watching the parents, trying to figure out how traumatized and messed up their kid is going to be.” She beams happily at the thought of all the future therapy the kids will require.
“Um … great.” Clearly, I’ve been underestimating Kayla.
She looks around at the fluorescent-lit room full of limp sale signs and people dejectedly picking through the remainder bin of underwear. “Oh, my God, this place is so depressing. I should go buy these before I change my mind. Or kill myself.”
“You’re not going to try them on?”
“And see just how bad they look?” Kayla backs away. “You’re way braver than me. See you!”
As I watch her walk away, I feel a strange pang. This conversation must be the longest one we’ve had in years, and right now, I can’t even think of the reason why.
“Kayla, wait!” I call suddenly. Then I stop, embarrassed, but she’s already turned. “Do you have plans?” I ask. “I mean, we could maybe get a soda or something. Exchange stain-removal tips,” I add, my face heating up.
Kayla pauses for a minute, then shrugs. “Sure, I don’t have to be anywhere.”
“Great!” I realize how eager I sound and dial it back a couple of notches. “I mean, OK. That’s cool.”
“Meet me out front when you’re done.” Kayla smiles. “I swear, I’m breaking out in an allergic reaction to all this polyester.”
“OK!” I feel a weird sense of achievement. “See you outside.”
“So, Totally Wired,” Kayla starts as we claim our monster neon Slushies from the food-court stall. The mall is busy with gaggles of preteen girls camped out on every bench and weekend shoppers drifting aimlessly down the fluorescent-lit fake streets. “Want to switch? You take tiny demons and I’ll serve coffee. That place has the cutest guys on staff.”
“It does?” I slurp at my drink, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia. Or is it déjà vu? Either way, this is a scene I must have played out with Kayla a hundred times when we were younger, back when a day at the mall and icy treats were pretty much heaven to us. “Like who?”
“Where do I start?”
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