Speechless(125)

                We wind our way past the moms with their strollers and packs of                     preteen girls in their way too slutty outfits. Looking at these girls makes me                     sad, even though they don’t seem to be—they giggle in high-pitched voices, their                     faces stretched with glossy-lipped smiles. All of them are the same type; girls                     with overprocessed hair and too much makeup and way too much access to Daddy’s                     credit cards. Girls who, if you took away the designer labels, hair dye and                     cover-up, wouldn’t be more than average-looking, but with all that stuff look                     too plastic to be pretty.

                I know because I used to look just like one of them. I’m                     wearing next to no makeup now, just a touch of mascara and some clear lip gloss.                     Compared to them, I’m practically naked. I haven’t set foot inside the mall in                     weeks. Saturday mall trips used to be a weekly tradition. But that’s over. Like                     so many things.

                No. No angsting today. Time to cheer up, emo girl.

                The crafts store is full of old ladies with too much perfume,                     and Asha and I are the youngest customers by at least thirty years. She goes                     straight to the yarn aisle, starts sifting through the shelves. I randomly pick                     up a roll of scratchy black wool.

                “You should get some,” Asha says. “I said I’d teach you, right?                     I have some extra needles you can borrow.”

                I do have some leftover Christmas money I haven’t spent. My                     grandparents on Dad’s side are crippling agoraphobics who live in Maine, and as                     compensation for seeing me only once every few years, they always send a hefty                     check. I was saving it for—irony of all ironies—a new Winter Formal dress. Ha ha                     ha.

                Asha ends up with an armful of different-colored yarns, and I                     pick out the black wool for myself, since Asha says it’s good material to learn                     on. I try to imagine myself knitting like she does. Maybe I’ll fare better with                     knitting needles than I do with sewing machines.

                We’re walking toward the food court when Asha grabs my sleeve                     and says, “Hey.”

                She points to a window display where there are Barbie-shaped                     mannequins lined up, dressed in tight, flashy, fashionable formal dresses.