Psyche

Alexandria is almost like the clothes she wears. The different colored patches she’s sewn onto her jean mini-skirt matches her train of thoughts: jumping from one color to a wild pattern, from one topic to another.

She and Jamie are running around in half-price bookstore, Alexandria searching for a certain book for her dad as a birthday gift. After she gets done explaining to Jamie the book they’re looking for, how she wonders if the bookstore’s coffee shop has vanilla bean latte, and if she should dye her hair a deep purple -- she talks about Jean’s offer to Jamie.

“I don’t know whether to say that’s fantastic or Jean is really iffy,” she ponders, grabbing a black book with the words GHOSTS stamped across the front. Jamie’s learned that Alexandria is an optimistic person as she is a realist. Jamie is pessimistic, yet he still asks,

“Why are you so doubtful?”

“I’m not! It’s just I don’t want Jean to turn out to be a douchebag or worse.”

“You don’t know for sure.”

“You’re right, I don’t. I don’t know Jean like that, so it’s not my business to judge him so . . .” She lets out a yelp of joy as she finds the book. She hugs it close to her chest and smiles at Jamie. “Let’s go.”

They attack another store that looks like it caters to young socialites. The store smells oddly of apples and not the typical obnoxious perfume like the other shops. Jamie browses through some plaid shirts and all the ones he tries on hangs off his shoulders like a drapery.

“You’re so skinny,” Alexandria giggles, poking his tummy. Jamie doubts it; he’s been eating more lately. He doesn’t even like plaid -- it’s what Jean always wears and how ridiculous would Jamie be showing up looking identical to him?

“Never catch me in pants,” Alexandria scoffs, holding a pair of skinny jeans. “I feel restricted in them, and I hate that.”

She goes on about tight jeans and baggy pants, when the tiny bell over the entrance rings, warning them of an incoming customer. Alexandria glances at the door, smile still large, only for it to vanish once she sees the girl who just entered. She drops the jeans back on the rack.

It’s only a girl wearing a zebra-print sundress and has her dark hair too tight in curls. Yet Alexandria has her shoulders hunched over like she’s been hit, and she’s chewing her lips till they’re blood red.

“She’s not . . .,” she mumbles, fingers brushing Jamie’s wrist and the coldness from them shocks him. “I hate this store. Let’s go.”

“But –“

“We can find better stuff at JC Penney, let’s go.”

She all but flies them around the racks and to the door, when the girl appears in her path and bumps shoulders with her. Alexandria mutters an apology and keeps walking without looking at her.

“Hey, wait!” the girl calls, slipping in front of them. Jamie can see the muscles in Alexandria’s back tightening underneath her shirt.

“Is that you, Alexandria?” the girl quirks, tilting her head suspiciously. “It’s Sierra. Remember me? From Blue Meadows Elementary?”

Alexandria lets go of Jamie and plasters a gold smile on. “Yeah! Hi.”

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” Sierra gushes, nose pointed upwards. If you can call it a nose. It’s so flat she looks like a very distraught Persian cat. “So you live here now? How weird is this?”

“Freakishly odd,” Alexandria says. “Very.” She shoots a glance at Jamie, telling him we need to go.

He opens his mouth to intrude but Sierra butts in. “Me and my parents are going to Alabama but we decided to stop here and look around and visit my cousins.” She drifts her attention to Alexandria’s legs, eyeing the lacy white leggings covering them. “You never used to wear skirts or shorts or anything. I remember back in fifth grade you always kept your skin covered since your mom –“

“And I remember you were voted ‘Youngest Wanna-Be Slut of the Year.’ I’m guessing you still hold that title?” Alexandria shoves herself into Sierra’s shoulder, almost toppling her into a rack full of swimsuits. Alexandria grabs Jamie’s hand again and they rush outside.

They speed-walk up the sidewalk and loiter in front of a coffee shop before crossing street after street. Alexandria slows down enough so Jamie doesn’t have to jog anymore to keep up. Her arms are folded across her chest and her mouth is a tense line. There are no tears and yet Jamie can picture her crying. It makes him sick.

“You don’t even know, Jamie,” she breathes. “That girl? I punched her in the face in the fifth grade.”

“Why?”

“She knew how terrible my mom was to me,” she says it so freely it doesn’t sound like a hidden secret, only something annoying from the past. Jamie holds her hand, and they stand there for some time, ignoring bystander’s funny glances. Alexandria rubs her eyes and stands straighter.

“. . . I am so hungry,” she laughs.