Read Online Tales from the Back Row by Amy Odell - Free Book Online

always be secretly looking one another up and down, as though in competition over just existing.
    No, in those days, the sale was just a bare room, racks and bins of clothes, and young fashion people hoping to find something slightly cooler than usual to wear to work.
    Once we arrived, I was pretty high. It had not occurred to me that I might see people I know and work with (but see above re: high). As soon as we walked in, we saw our friend Diana, my coworker and style sage.
    â€œHiii!” I said. “We were just laying out . That’s why I’m wearing my bathing suit . Anything good here?”
    James was already off in a zone, pilfering the racks.
    â€œYeah, so I’m getting this top,” Diana said, “and maybe this dress—”
    â€œ Ooh, SWEATERS!” I got distracted and drifted toward a rack of cardigans. I pulled a silver silk-paneled cashmere one off therack along with a knee-length blue shimmery one. I started trying them on over my clothes.
    â€œJames! Lookie! This is like a cape !” I looked at the prices taped to the walls. “Ooh these are each eighty dollars. I dunno . . .”
    â€œGet it,” James said with the utmost certainty. “Just get it.”
    James is an attractive gay Asian hipster who has legs for days and can pull off any item of clothing in the world. I’ve seen him roll up to dinner looking incredible in a SeaWorld windbreaker and neon pink fanny pack across his chest. I trust his advice implicitly not only because he always looks fantastic but also because, when it comes to getting dressed, we both love the unexpected, the weird. He’s spontaneous and impulsive in the same way I am, and not just when it comes to five-dollar smoothie purchases.
    I went back to flipping through the racks. “What are you getting?”
    â€œI want a onesie ,” he said, again with the utmost certainty. He pulled a thermal white, fitted jumpsuit off the rack.
    â€œ That? ” I said.
    â€œImma try it on,” he said, moving toward a mirror on the wall. There were no fitting rooms, so he had to change in front of everyone.
    He pulled this, what I can only describe as a unitard, over his feet and up his legs. It was a lot tighter than it looked on the hanger—like leggings but for the entire body.
    Diana came by again.
    â€œOh, hey, we’re leaving,” she said, barely registering that James was now wearing a white cotton body stocking.
    â€œI’m gonna get it!” James said. I, now even more high, was laughing at James uncontrollably.
    â€œYou’re getting that?” she said to him, straight-faced.
    â€œWhat are you going to wear it with?” I asked.
    â€œI’m gonna dye the bottom. Dip-dye. So it looks like pants. And I’m gonna wear it out. Everywhere. In Brooklyn.”
    â€œYou are going to dip-dye that onesie? Really?” I said. I am too lazy to fold my socks 99 percent of the time, much less dip-dye or DIY anything . I haven’t made anything that’s not edible for my own personal pleasure since I owned Play-Doh.
    â€œIt’s easy. I’ll just dip the feet in a bucket. I can do it.”
    â€œGet it anyway. It’s hilarious,” I said.
    Once I had regained composure, I noticed we had wedged ourselves into a corner with one of the few remaining racks that was stuffed with clothing. All of it sweatpants.
    â€œWait, should I get . . . sweatpants?” I picked up a light blue pair and held them up to my waist.
    â€œHot. Yes,” James said.
    â€œWhere would I wear them?”
    â€œTo work. Da club. Everywhere.”
    â€œCan I do that?” I wondered.
    â€œ Yes , boo. You work in fashion. You need Alexander Wang sweatpants,” he said.
    Did I really need designer sweatpants? I wanted them in the moment, that’s for sure. And when I saw them on his runway in shades of pink and blue, worn by models who had either been slicked with