eight

I stare at my surroundings, and all I can do is wonder why I'm here. It's a Tuesday. At four. Typically, I would be in my school's gym, warming up with Ezra for whatever excruciatingly terrible workout he has decided that we're doing. But right now, that isn't where I am. Instead of whitewashed walls, there are walls covered in various forms of footwear. In the place of wooden floors is some type of black covering that feels almost bouncy. There isn't the smell of sweat, but rather a clean scent of newness. It's all very different, and I simply cannot fathom why I'm here.

           "Not that I'm complaining or anything because I'm a teenage girl and I love shopping and the mall and stuff," I begin, my eyes still reviewing the open area that I'm in, "but why are we here, Ezra?"

           He's dribbling a basketball—of course he has managed to find a basketball—and is standing off to the side, admiring the ambiance. Eventually, he flicks a glance my way, and registers what I have just asked. Then he begins to formulate an answer, and I assume that it's a pretty epic answer, because it takes him quite a while to come up with. "To run," he drawls out finally.

           I move over to where he is, and knock the ball out of his lazy possession. Tentatively, I rack it in the bin where it lives, and try to force Ezra into divulging more information by seriously saying, "But actually, Ezzhead, why are we here?"

           "I already told you, Sal. We're going to run the length of the mall. It'll be good practice." I'm pretty sure that he's joking, but Ezra has one of those demeanors that conceals sarcasm like a freaking squirrel hiding its nuts. He doesn't give anything away by the expression he wears, but I'm almost certain that he isn't being serious. We're in a store at a mall. There is no way that we're running.

           "Ezra!"

           "Sal!"

           "I'm being serious!"

           "So am I!"

           I cross my arms over my chest firmly and attempt to stare Ezra down, but he isn't one to shy away from intensely intense eye contact. He stares right back, and it's a race to see who will crack first. Surprisingly, Ezra is first to break, and he lets out a laugh that I'm not familiar with and just shakes that head of his. He's grinning at me, and though I'm trying to keep my face as aloof as his typically is, once I see his expression, I can't help but smile back. Because Ezra is beaming, and it's contagious. So I smile, and quickly try to asphyxiate it. But I can't. Because of Ezra.

           "You're cute, you know that, Sal?" Ezra tells me like it's just a regular conversation that the two of us would have on any other day. But it isn't. And I know it, and I think that Ezra knows it, too.

           Red instinctively floods my cheeks, and I look down to try and hide the glee that inevitably swarms me. Because Ezra has just called me "cute," and while I may be overreacting, maybe I'm reacting just the right amount. Ezra isn't the type of person who's supposed to call me "cute." We have a relatively platonic association with each other, and by him bringing that adjective into things, it just makes everything a bit weird. It doesn't really matter if he was describing my exterior or behavior, because either way it's still strange—strange as heck.

           Once I collect myself as best I can, I mumble out a cocky, "I know."

           Ezra just laughs, and then he decides that it's time to answer my initial inquiry: "Oh, and we're here to shop."

           "To shop?"

           "Yes, until we drop."

           "To shop?"

           "Yeah, Sal. This is a store and all. People tend to shop here," he informs me acutely.

           I want to reply back with something snarky about his fashion sense, but then I realize that as boys go, he actually dresses pretty well, so any insult I come up with will be baseless. So I just keep quiet, and wait for him to say more. Which he doesn't. So it's my turn to say more. Which I do: "How does shopping have anything to do with basketball?"

           "You're kidding, right?"

           I'm not, so I shake my head.

           "Shopping in this sense involves clothes, and clothes happen to be about thirty percent of the game," Ezra explains. My eyebrows scrunch, for I don't really see any correlation between the two, which prompts Ezra to continue. "If you show up to tryouts or a practice wearing the wrong clothes, then you're automatically put in a category of people who don't take the game seriously. By wearing the right clothes that are appropriate for basketball, then you're sending a message to everyone that you care and that you're there to win."

           My mouth forms into an "O" at the recognition of this new information. It makes a lot of sense, and it can definitely be removed from the basketball context and applied to life in general. People who wear and know how to wear nice clothes tend to be more confident, and without even having to articulate it, they are telling everyone around them that they care, and, well, that they want to win (at life, of course). If I were to come into school wearing sweats and a hoodie, that allows others to know that there's a lack of attention on my part. But if I were to dress up like usual, then, like, people wouldn't think twice about me and stuff. Oh, and they would also take me seriously and all that crap.

           Ezra's point is an extremely valid one, so I commend him on it: "That actually makes a lot of sense, Ezzhead."

           "I know," he smirks.

           "So, we're here to shop?"

           "Yeah."

           "For basketball attire, obviously?"

           "Obviously."

           I grin, and then I take in the sports store that we're in once more. I understand why we're here, and I can't deny that I'm not giddy at the prospect of buying and searching for clothes—I am a girl, after all. So I ask Ezra where we should start, and he says from the top down. I take this to mean headbands, headbands, and more headbands. But before I can begin my hunt for headbands, I go over to the front of the store, and wheel a cart over to Ezra. I'm about to push it over to the accessories section, but then Ezra decides to play the nice domestic housewife that he is born to be, and takes the cart from me. I nod a thanks, and then we begin to shop.

           Once we've reached the area designated for products commonly used in the head region, I carelessly throw a few headbands and packs of hair ties into the cart that I know will hold my hair back properly. Then we go over to another section, and while Ezra assumes that my next move will be tops, he's partially wrong. I steer us over to sports bras, and I'm not as embarrassed or uncomfortable as Ezra is, which I find pretty darn funny. Laughter can't help but emit from my lungs as I put a few of the sports undergarments into the cart, and Ezra cringes.

           My next stop is the shirts area, and this is when I'm a bit lost, so Ezra steps in and uses his extensive basketball knowledge to help. I don't know what the best type of top for basketball is (so far during our practices I've just been wearing normal T-shirts), so Ezra picks out this fiber-thin aerodynamic shiz that looks a bit tight, but he assures me that it's stretchy and good and stuff. We choose a few sleeved shirts, and some tanks that look legit.

           Following our detour into the land of shirts is an excursion to Shortsville. I immediately gravitate over to the shorter shorts because I like my legs and I like short shorts, while Ezra insists that longer shorts are the way to go. He vindicates with some accurate bullshit about leg flexibility and accessibility. I believe him, and end up selecting a few long shorts (which is a total oxymoron, so they shouldn't even be a thing, like, I can't), and some regular shorts...oh, and I may or may not slip in one or two pairs of short shorts. It's a pretty prosperous stop.

           Then, I think that we're done. But Ezra says that we're not. He tells me that I need shoes. Normally, I would be jumping on the chance to buy a new pair of kicks or heels, but right now, I'm not. I explain to Ezra that I'm fine with the ones I have. They're a pair of Jay's old ones from when his foot wasn't ginormous, and they're kind of a good luck charm to me, in a way. Jay's a good player, so I've always figured that maybe some of his skill will rub off on me if I wear his shoes. Ezra refutes my points and says that I don't need luck—I need new shoes. So then I'm caving in like an avalanche, and we end up right back where we started: the wall of shoes.

           There are so many different shoes to choose from. They range from bright neon hues to the most absent of blacks. But my eyes gravitate towards one particular pair that I can't seem to look away from. They have these strings that hold the laces back, and look as though they could be strummed. The colors are royal blue and light blue, and the shape is standard of a basketball shoe. Honestly, they're probably the most beautiful shoes I've ever seen, and it's love at first sight.

           "Nike Hyperdunks," Ezra mumbles, watching me admire the shoe.

           "What?" I question, snapping my head over in his direction.

           So he repeats, "Nike Hyperdunks," and then adds, "that's what shoe you're looking at."

           "They're beautiful," I express earnestly.

           "They are," he agrees. "Personally, I like the blue the most."

           I grin. "Me too."

           "Do you want them?"

           I glance back over at the current loves of my life, and can't help but nod my head. "Yeah," I say, "I think I do."

           So Ezra calls over a sales associate, and I tell the dude my size, what shoe I want, what color I want, and all that jazz. The man who seems a bit socially awkward and too old to work in a place like this leaves us and goes to retrieve my shoes. I'm giddy during the entire wait, and it doesn't go unnoticed by Ezra. He's mocking my initial reluctance to even so much as look at another pair of shoes, and I can't help but tell him that he's right about me needing a new pair of shoes and stuff. Then the black box with the swoosh on it appears with the man who works for the store. I'm practically salivating.

           When I receive the cardboard container, I try my hardest to not open it like a complete savage, but I just cannot wait to see my shoes. When the top flips off, I pause as I gaze at the splendors that are placed on my lap in a sea of sheer tissue paper. They're so freaking pretty that I have trouble containing myself. Like, WOW. They glisten off the lighting overhead, and it's as if an angel has crafted them from constellations of clouds and perfection. Then, I try them on.

           As I pull the heel onto my foot as I'm holding the tongue, everything feels right in the world. Like, in these shoes I could freaking cure cancer or world peace it up. They fit better than a pair of gloves, and aren't uncomfortable like new shoes often are—they just feel right. I can't imagine playing basketball in these shoes, though, because I'm afraid that they'd get wrecked and ruined. Upon voicing this qualm to Ezra, he pacifies me with a dismissive, "They're made for playing basketball, Sal."

           But I don't find his remark very helpful, and I tell him that in a few words: "Really, Ezra? You don't say?"

           He lets out a sigh, and I smirk, but then I catch sight of the footwear that I'm currently sporting and smile. Reluctantly, I take the shoes off, and put them back in the box. The sales guy asks for the verdict, though both Ezra and I have known what it is even before I tried the shoes on. I tell him that I'm taking them, and then he leaves us. Ezra applauds me on my decision, and I clutch the black box close to my chest, not wanting to let them go for a second. He laughs at my possessiveness, and then suggests that we go check out. I comply, and off we go to the cash registers.

           Ezra is still handling the cart when we reach the overly jacked guy manning the money transactions. After few words, the dude begins to mindlessly scan barcodes of clothing and drop them into plastic bags that probably aid a great deal in the elongated murder of the lovely planet in which we happen to live. Ezra's face panics a little bit at the sight of the cost of everything, and I assure him with my trusty emergency credit card that is only used for, like, emergencies (like this basketball shopping spree so wonderfully qualifies as).

           The guy behind the counter makes a not-so-very-compelling sales pitch about socks, and Ezra says that it'd be good to buy some. So I do. Then I'm handed a few bags of basketball gear, and I'm about to thank the employee and head out like a normal person, but then Ezra takes the two heaviest bags from me, leaving me with the small one that contains only my Hyperdunks. I politely tell him that I'm fine carrying stuff, but he insists and doesn't back down, even as we exit the store and enter the rest of the mall.

           By now, it's about 4:41 on the dot. If we were in the gym right now, then we'd still be practicing for another twenty (or, well, nineteen) minutes. But we're not in the gym and have already done really all of our basketball shopping, so I don't know how we're going to spend the rest of our designated bonding time together. Except Ezra does know, and he leads me into a section of the mall that I'm rather familiar with: the food court.

           Sketchy smells of grease and goodness flit into my nostrils, and I inhale deeply, wanting to absorb everything about it. I love the mall food court. While the food may not be some gourmet shit or the healthiest thing on the planet, not everyone likes that. Like, personally, I'm not really a fan of straight-up broccoli and, like, whatever gourmet thing goes with straight-up raw broccoli. I'd much prefer my fried rice in a Styrofoam dish from some Asian place in the food court. Well, actually, maybe that's a lie. Gourmet food can be pretty freaking good, so, like, minus the broccoli, maybe I totally would prefer gourmet to mall food. Whatever. Right now, we're eating in the food court, and I'm chill as heck about it. One may even be so bold as to say that I'm excited. Because I am. Like, majorly.

           "So, uh, do you want to get some food?" Ezra inquires.

           I have to restrain my enthusiasm, because it's practically oozing out of me. "YES!" I answer all too quickly and all too elatedly.

           "What do you want to eat?"

           "Food." I want to punch myself for being such an idiot. But I'm not one for self-harm, so I don't. Obviously.

           "Right..."

           "Sorry," I apologize, "that was a dumb answer. Uh, what do you want to eat?"

           "I'm good with whatever."

           I feel an argument of indecisiveness coming on, so I decide to quench it while I still can by determining, "Let's get, like, Chinese food."

           "You know that there's only an Asian-fusion place here, right?"

           I gesticulate with my hands, brushing the detail off like it's nothing—because that's exactly what it is. Then Ezra and I head over to the small line that has formed in front of the "Asian-fusion" place (which is called "Asia's Arts," BTW), and we begin to look at the menu and at the glass case of steaming hot food. We're both still holding my shopping bags, and I notice that it's not only hard for me to contain the drool that threatens to drip from my mouth, but it's also hard for Ezra, too. He seems to be just as into the ethnic food as I am. But maybe we're both just hungry, so we would even be slobbering over stale Wheat-Thins, too.

           Someone behind the counter spoons out each of our globs of nutrients (or lack thereof), and then we're moving over to the cash register. A girl with pink streaks in her dark hair looks up from inspecting her nails, and reads out the total amount that our orders cost. I reach for my wallet, but Ezra stops me with a free hand and expresses that since I've just dropped a shitload of money on clothes, this one's on him.

           "Actually, that was my parent's money," I contest.

           But he isn't taking no as an answer so just utters, "Sal, let me pay."

           "No way, Ezra," I fire back, not giving up so quickly.

           His eyes roll back into his head at my obstinacy, and he just gives a bill to the girl in the apron with the pink in her hair, not even allowing us to continue with the quarrel. He's paying for my food, and it feels weird, and I know that I could've at least put up more of a fight if he would have let me. But he didn't because he's Ezra and it annoys me to no end, but I can't help but feel slightly flattered and happy that he's paying for my food (even if it is only, like, five dollars) because it's a nice thing to do.

           So as the girl is getting the exact change and shiz, I'm like, "You didn't need to do that, Ezra."

           And he's like, "I know, but I wanted to."

           And the girl with the pink streak is like, "Here's eleven dollars and fifty-three cents. Oh, and by the way, you two make a really cute couple!"

           I'm about to explain to her that, no, we're not even, like, close to being a couple, but she's already calling for the next people in line, and Ezra is whisking me away to a table nearby. We put the bags down, and then sit on opposite sides. People are all around us, and the noise is one of movement and eating.

           Once we're fully settled, I find myself thinking back to the girl, and can't help but say, "It's crazy that she thought we were a couple, isn't it?"

           I expect Ezra to agree with me, and be like, "Yeah—totally crazy!" but he surprises me by instead replying with, "No. Not really."

           All I can do is gape a little bit as I spear a fork into my food. "What do you mean 'not really'?"

           "You're an attractive girl. I'm an attractive guy. It's not a terrible assumption," he rationalizes.

           "So you could picture us, like, together?" I laugh.

           But Ezra doesn't find it funny, and answers with an all-too-serious, "Yeah, I could."

           For fear of saying anything weird or, well, anything at all, I use my mouth for something useful and vital at the moment: eating. It shuts me the heck up, and gives me an excuse to not say anything in response. So I just eat, and eat, and eat. All the while, thinking about what Ezra has just said and my new shoes.