The Girl Who Would Be King(109)

“But you rename them anyway, so you have to learn all the names you give them – it’s the same thing.”

“Not really. Besides, if I get the name I gave them wrong it doesn’t matter to me, and they know to obey when I point anyway,” I say, waving my hand.

“I think it’s just your way of dehumanizing them,” she says.

“Whatever, Liz. I don’t want any backseat theraping today, alright?”

“That’s also not a word.”

“While we’re at it, can you cut it out with the grammar-Nazi crap. Leave me be already!” I shout. But she’s smiling and so am I. The relationship probably looks dysfunctional to some – okay, everybody – but the truth is I get a lot of fun out of sparring with Liz. She pretends she doesn’t, but I think she doth protest too much, or whatever the saying is.



At the mall, we leave Heckle and Jeckle in the car. This is girl-bonding time and I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t come with two dumb henchmen in tow. The mall is crowded for a Tuesday morning, but would be considered empty for a weekend, which is just about what I was hoping for. Plenty of temptation for Liz, but not too much confusion for me. That’s one thing about super-senses – and super-hearing especially – it can be hard to separate out all of the noise. Once inside, I hold up my hands to her.

“Well, where to? You’re the boss today.” Liz checks the mall map and points straight ahead.

“That way,” she says and I shrug and follow her dutifully. We roll up outside something called Nordstrom and already I’m complaining.

“Liz, c’mon, this looks like an old lady store.” She cuts me a look that could probably kill if I was any less awesome.

“This store has Burberry,” is all she says before signaling for me to come along with a wag of her finger, heading for the escalator. By the time I reach her on the second floor she already has a handful of items slung over her arm. I finger the tag on a white silk blouse she’s holding and almost lose my breakfast.

“Three hundred bucks!? For a white button-down shirt?! Are you kidding me?” Liz doesn’t even look up.

“What do you care? You can afford it,” she says.

“There’s a difference between can and should,” I mutter. Liz stops flipping through the racks and looks up at me, her expression one I’ve never quite seen before. There’s something soft and pained in it, less defensive and controlled than usual.

“I thought you said this was my day, no expense spared?”

“I…” I’m about to say something cruel or sarcastic, but that look on her face kills it. “Yeah, yeah it is. Get whatever you want. Besides, things are about to get real busy and we’re not going to have time for this kind of thing, so you should get whatever you need, and as my right-hand you should look the part,” I say, dropping the price tag. Liz beams for just one moment and then looks away and continues adding to her already monstrous pile. I walk away from her and call Jeckle.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Yeah. Have Heckle bring me the other envelope of cash I left in the car,” I look at Liz, nearly blotted out by the pile in her arms and weaving drunkenly toward the dressing rooms. “I’m going to need it.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“I’m somewhere called Nordstrom.”

“10-4, boss,” he says. I hang up and follow her to the dressing room. Three hours and more than twenty thousand dollars later we’re finally checking out. I watch the clerk carefully pack up the pieces. A high-necked, sleeveless, backless white silk blouse; a low-cut, light blue, sleeveless silk blouse with some ruffles or something along the neckline; a cream-colored silk blouse – the bitch really likes silk – and light pink cashmere sweater. There’s also a dark grey wool skirt; a pencil skirt in three different colors – navy, black, and light grey; a silky cream-colored pantsuit; two pair of black pants; a charcoal trench dress; a black and grey checked trench coat; a handful of scarves and belts; some silver jewelry; six pair of heels, two pair of boots; a t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans. I look at Liz as the two hundred and fifty dollar jeans get folded up.

“You don’t even wear jeans,” I say.

Liz sniffs. “How do you know?” she says. I look at her, eyebrow raised. “Fine. I don’t. But I thought I’d try them out.” I can’t decide whether I want to kiss or kill her. Who just ‘tries out’ a two hundred and fifty dollar pair of jeans? Only my Liz.

“Whatever,” I say, sighing. I survey the pile as I hand the cash to the clerk, whose eyes triple in size at the sight of a wad that big. “You sure know how to shop,” I say, watching the clerk re-count the cash.