by Ibi Zoboi
The metal security grate was lowered, but not locked. Beyond it, in the main mall corridor, foot traffic was low, the only thing still open to the public being the movie theater upstairs. Typical summertime Thursday in Briarwood Mall.
We jumped when multiple somethings crashed in the back room, followed by a bass-heavy “Fuucccck!” A moment later Amir emerged balancing two shoeboxes, peering at us over the top. “Y’all just chillin’ like you ain’t hear that footwear avalanche. I could’ve died back there.”
DeMarcus said, “We would’ve gotten extra teriyaki chicken from the food court in your honor.”
Amir’s face scrunched. He scrutinized DeMarcus, aggravated. “What is that?”
“The chicken samples from the hibachi spot. We can’t drink, no pouring one out for the homey. So we drop some chicken in a trash can in honor of your untimely—”
“Naw, dude. Your outfit!” Amir spotlighted me. “You let him do that, Shawn?”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” I said.
“This Foot Locker, man. Ain’t no dressing rooms in here. He had to change in front of you.”
“Actually,” DeMarcus said, “I went behind the counter. Ducked down in uniform, popped up in swag!”
Amir set the boxes down by one of the try-on benches. “You went by my register?”
“Yeah,” said DeMarcus.
To me, Amir said, “You ain’t stop him?”
I said, “He’s not my minion.”
Amir flopped on the bench, hit us with the Disappointed Dad Sigh. “Fellas. I’m the assistant manager here. I can’t allow y’all behind the counter near the till. It endangers the company’s assets.”
This dude. “You calling us thieves?”
“I’m not gonna dwell. All’s forgiven.” He flipped the lids on both boxes, exposing glossy new shoes. “Jordans or LeBrons?”
“LeBrons,” we said simultaneously.
“Word.” He removed the Jordans from their box, kicked off his workday Reeboks, and tugged cardboard slip-ins from the new kicks.
I said, “Yo. You buying those?”
“Borrowing.” He worked his feet into them.
“That doesn’t endanger the company’s assets?”
“I need to know the product intimately if I’m to increase quarterly sales.” He produced a slim roll of clear tape from his hip pocket, tore off strips, and affixed them to the soles so as not to damage the loaner shoes. “Wanna explain your outfit?”
I gave myself a once-over. “What?”
“There’s a Care Bear on your shirt.”
“Chewbacca.” His ignorance was disgusting. “From Star Wars.”
“You and that dimensional galaxy shit.”
“Dimensions and galaxies aren’t the same—”
“Girls gonna be there, Shawn. Ole girl from Nordstrom gonna be there. She probably suspects you can’t afford nothing from her store already. You gonna roll into the spot looking like a five-year-old at Chuck E. Cheese’s? Dumb. At least DeMarcus can say he’s a musician or something. They’re allowed to wear anything.”
DeMarcus leaned into a sock display, probably checking for one long enough to double as a headband or necktie. “Leave him alone, Amir.”
I said, “How you gonna talk? You’re still wearing the Foot Locker referee shirt.”
“If this was Wall Street, I’d wear a suit. We in the mall, this is my suit.” With his shoes laced and tape applied, Amir threw his hands up, defeated. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do it.”
He powered down the store’s lights and hoisted the security gate halfway. We ducked under, emerged on the second-floor corridor. The overhead bulbs burned at approximately one thousand watts, though the walkways were nearly deserted. On busy days, shopper traffic made the place feel like standing room only, but after hours the open spaces felt as wide as an airport runway.
While Amir locked up, I leaned on the polished teak railing and toed the safety glass that kept untold toddlers and Applebee’s drunks from tumbling to their doom. From this angle, I saw the scab-red OP in the GameStop sign below, waiting for me to relight it tomorrow morning. Amir stood, the gate secured.
There we were. The Eccentric, the Sneakerhead, and me, the Nerd. Traversing nearly one million square feet of floor space like Masters of the Retail Universe!
Amir turned to me. “What’s this thing about tonight, anyway?”
“Welcome to Mall-Stars!” Mr. Beneton, a round man with orange skin resembling the finest offerings in Wilson’s Leather Shop, tugged on a braided velvet rope fixed to a drop cloth covering the restaurant’s sign. When the cloth didn’t come down, DeMarcus chittered a sarcastic laugh.
I stared. He mouthed, What?
Mr. Beneton beckoned his trio of swole-up muscular helpers, with their too-tight-in-the-arm suit coats. They yanked the rope and the cloth fell, along with the last raggedy S in the signage—which didn’t fall all the way, just hung crooked, attached by one strained support. Electricity crackled, flooding all the letters—including that crooked S—with fluorescent blue light. MALL-STARS.
Our fellow mall employees celebrated the sign lighting with lukewarm applause. We were clustered in the East Atrium, stars visible through the skylight a hundred feet up. Thirty or forty of us from various stores were corralled next to the gurgling fountain, with its small fortune of loose wish-change submerged in greenish water. All clutching glossy invitations passed down from mall higher-ups to our managers to us, with “strong recommendations” that we attend this little party thrown by Briarwood’s big boss.
Beneton slipped index cards from his coat pocket, glanced at them, said, “Thank you for accepting my invitation to the soft opening of our newest venture. We’re excited to bring the ‘barcade’ model to Briarwood. Classic video games meet delicious food and signature drinks. As Mall Ambassadors, you will be the first to experience the magic. Put Mall-Stars through its paces. Anything that you order will be discounted twenty per—”
He frowned, signaled his least muscular helper for an eyeball debate over the notes he’d obviously not read before that moment. Then said, “Ten percent. Your discount is ten percent. Just ten.”
Groans from the “Ambassadors.”
“Try everything. Be sure to text any suggestions to the number posted at each table. Enjoy!” He slow-clapped, and like three other people joined in. When the applause died, Beneton’s guards ushered him off like the Secret Service snatching the president from assassins.
The crowd milled in, the dark space ghostly lit by flickering game cabinets, flat TVs racked around the bar, and assorted black lights. Some eighties song I’d heard my mom sing to, by that one dead artist, blasted from ceiling speakers, drowning everyone in old-school. I lingered outside the entrance, awed by Mr. Beneton’s kind-of-boss escape, and missed Amir giving me the ninja-look look, so he elbowed me in the ribs. “Shawn, she here.”
She was Dayshia Banks. Dark brown, fine, and flawless in a cream dress and low heels befitting the Nordstrom employee dress code. She went to Ocean Shore High, a town over. A senior, like us. Used to be a flag girl. This year she let band go to focus more on academics and saving dough for college. She didn’t tell me that personally. That’s off her Instagram and Twitter.
She ain’t follow me back yet. It’s been like eight months, but, I mean, I don’t post a lot.
“Shawn,” Amir said, “give me your phone.”
Dayshia strolled in, hugging herself against the arctic air-conditioning. I handed my phone to Amir, no questions.
“What’s your PIN?”
“1955.” The year Marty McFly traveled to in Back to the Future.
DeMarcus said, “Why you all in the man phone?”
“Something for Beneton’s suggestion box.” Amir dictated while he tapped. “Get Shawn to stop staring at women like a serial killer.”
I snatched my phone back.
“Talk to her,” Amir said with the hopeless enthusiasm of someone advising a PetSmart goldfish to towel o
ff. “She right there.”
“I will.” I wasn’t.
She was right there, thirty feet from us, ordering a Coke at the bar. She was by herself, and doing those do-I-know-somebody-here glances before focusing on her phone. You know what would happen the minute I crossed that divide, and tried to spit game? This:
MWARRRGHH! MWARRRGHH!
That’s how Chewbacca talked.
MWARRRGHH!
That’s all she was going to hear when a dude in a freaking Chewbacca shirt stepped to her. What was I thinking?
Black. Nerd. Problems.
Amir said, “You regretting your outfit, ain’t you?”
“How’d you—?”
He tapped his temple. “I know things. Let’s grab a booth.”
We locked down seats with good views of the billiards table, the bar, and the Skee-Ball machines, where the dudes from the Far East Emporium—that store with mad decorative chessboards, tiger statues, incense, and a perpetual “50% OFF EVERYTHING” sale—were battling the twins, Brian and Ben, from Abercrombie & Fitch.
Brian scored a forty-pointer on a sweet roll that arced off the corner of the ramp. He high-fived his brother, then mean-mugged the competition.
DeMarcus said, “Why that joint seem so intense?”
Could’ve told him the beef was deeper and tougher than them one-hundred-point Skee-Ball holes. Brian and Ben were Brian and Ben Lin, Chinese Americans who been said the Far East Emporium was racist AF. Mr. Lee (like Robert E., not Bruce), owner of the Far East Emporium, and his sons said the Lins were too sensitive, that the store honored the “spirit of the Orient”—also racist AF. Thus, the Lin vs. Lee Skee-Ball war.
How I know? Food court gossip on dinner breaks gets you the whole rundown in Briarwood. But I didn’t explain all that to DeMarcus. My attention was elsewhere.
Cologne Kiosk Cameron had slithered in undetected, settled at the bar right next to Dayshia, a bulging man purse resting at his feet. A pretty boy who talked with his hands and way too many teeth, he had the complexion of a well-cooked french fry, brown and a little oily. No one was sure how old he was. Kamala from Build-A-Bear said he was a college sophomore, though nobody knew which school. Jeff, the old stoner from the vape shop, said he once saw Cameron at his aunt’s bingo night hitting on single moms. Who knew?
Whatever his age, there were no characters from a Galaxy Far, Far Away anywhere on his pristine slacks, pressed plaid button-up, or blazer with those voluntary patches on the elbow. He said something. Dayshia laughed. With him, not at him.
Amir noticed me noticing. “Yo, that dude appears like Satan. I’ve never seen him come and go.”
DeMarcus said, “I promise you a black cloud of brimstone smells better than the knockoff nerve gas he be selling at that box shop.”
I said nothing. Just unlocked my phone, opened my notepad app, and wallowed in defeat.
Pia, our waitress, who used to sling frozen yogurt but said this gig paid a dollar more an hour plus tips, propped her empty serving tray on her hip. “Y’all gonna order some food?”
Amir said, “Any of it cheaper yet?”
Pia glanced down. “Why you got tape on your shoes?’
“Just bring us more water with lemon, please.”
She stomped away while I slurped my third water down to the ice chips. I tapped my screen, ignoring Amir’s heat-vision stare.
“I ain’t sitting with you all night,” he said.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“I could really be checking on these shorties. I heard Chrissy from the Sprint store is a freak.”
“Chrissy got a girlfriend. Stop spreading rumors.”
“Oh. Shit. Look who’s salty. Don’t be mad at me because you too much of a punk to take your shot with Dayshia.”
Naw, that didn’t sting. It might if it was true, but it wasn’t. Asshole. “You making a bunch of noise over nothing. She’s dope. We ain’t the same, though.”
“Of course you ain’t the same. Why would you want to be with someone the same as you? Like a female Shawn? A clone? Get off that sci-fi stuff a little bit. When you writing your books and movie—yeah, I know what you really be doing on your phone—it’ll be an asset. You gonna get all that good cosplay loving at the Geeki-Con. But today, act cool.”
“You’re only proving my point. I love ‘that sci-fi stuff.’ If she act the way you act over it, why waste the time?”
“You don’t know how she act, and you won’t ever if you don’t step up.” He pressed back in his booth corner. Looking like he wanted to dust me for fingerprints and solve me. “So you saying it ain’t a thing if I hollered?”
“Go for it. I’m cool.” The lie twisted my stomach on the way up, dragging acid.
Amir slid from the booth, went straight for Dayshia, who’d drifted toward a pack of other mall girls. There was Aubrey from Things Remembered, Vicki from Victoria’s Secret, and Desdemona Bloodbayne (the name she preferred; her birth name Jill) from Hot Topic.
Amir was charming when he wanted to be, so he infiltrated the ladies’ convo with ease. They welcomed him with smiles.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Of course it was a thing if he hollered at Dayshia! He should know that! A clear violation of bro code.
I couldn’t watch whatever happened next, so I did what came easy to me. Words.
My phone was full of them. Not the “sci-fi stuff” Mr. Know Every Damn Thing suggested. Just stuff. My observations about Briarwood.
Take this “soft opening,” for example . . . it did not seem to be going well. Those who ordered food—like the Limited employees occupying a circular booth in the corner—grimaced on first bites and left mounds of sauce-heavy wings virtually uneaten. Dude who worked in the JCPenney men’s department kept checking his watch, yet likely couldn’t escape because guess who was back! Mr. Beneton, checking on the captives, making everyone as uncomfortable as the Santa Claus–looking dude from Yankee Candle who’d ordered the crab poppers and was rubbing his stomach with regret.
Brian, Ben, and the Far East Emporium took their battle to the Shoot-to-Win Free Throw machines, while the Dick’s Sporting Goods crew went for like their tenth round on Big Buck Hunter—
“Hey.” Dayshia slid into the booth, taking Amir’s old seat. “Your friend told me about you.”
I died for half a second.
“You shouldn’t have been afraid to come talk to me.” She smiled with perfect teeth tinted blue under the Mall-Stars black lights. My head whipped toward Amir, aiming a Scanners-style telepathic attack at him, hoping to either explode his head or read his mind. What did you do?!
He raised a fresh glass of ice water with lemon at me, winked.
Dayshia said, “If you want to take care of it tomorrow, we open at ten.”
“I’m—huh?”
She pointed Amir’s way. “That guy told me about the broken clasp on your mom’s necklace. If her birthday was just last week, you’re well within the return window. Our policy is very generous, so it won’t be an issue to replace it.”
There was no necklace. Was there even a mom? My short-circuiting brain repaired itself, deduced Amir hadn’t hollered at Dayshia. He made up a story about problems with a purchase, created common ground for me and Dayshia. Chewbacca was still on my shirt.
Leaning forward, obscuring old fur-face, I said, “I didn’t want to bother you off the clock.”
“As my manager says, I’m a Nordstrom ambassador anytime I’m in the mall. I’m Dayshia, by the way.”
I nearly said I know—I follow you on the Gram. Trapped that foolishness in my throat. “Shawn.”
“You’re here in the mall?”
“Yeah, GameStop.”
“That sounds fun.”
“It’s all right. You game?”
“I have driven a Mario Kart on occasion. I also Guitar Hero’d at a party when I was ten.”
“So that’s a no.”
She laughed. Laughed! With me, not at me. Was this actually going okay?
&nb
sp; Glancing toward Amir, I sent another telepathic message. I might not be whipping your ass after this. Maybe.
When I faced Dayshia again, I nearly shit myself. Cologne Kiosk Cameron was in the booth with us, arms spread along the backrest, his fingers nearly grazing her shoulder. She curled her lip, seemed as shocked as I was.
“Yo!” he said, a spicy cloud of whatever sample he’d doused himself in crop-dusting the immediate area. “What’s poppin’, fam?”
“. . . I was like, babe, I know it’s CU homecoming weekend, but somebody else gotta use those Kendrick Lamar backstage passes. I got other plans. You feel me?” Cologne Kiosk Cameron thrust his palm at me like a karate strike.
I was slow registering his attempted high five, dazed by all his not-so-humblebrags. I slapped his palm as quick as possible, then friction-burned my palm on my jeans.
“I’m just saying,” he said, “it’s crazy how many opportunities come my way at the kiosk. Everybody wanna smell good, so everybody come to me. Did you know we sell women’s fragrances, too?”
“You’ve mentioned it,” Dayshia said, glassy-eyed, aiming her chin toward the bar. “Earlier. Over there.”
His monologue never even paused, like a living PA announcement blaring weekly mall specials on a loop. “People drop in with concert tickets, passes to those gospel stage plays. Got my grandma on the front row of Javarius Jenkins’s If Your Man Ain’t Jesus, He Just Ain’t last month.” He scooted closer to Dayshia. “I got the hookup, is all. Just say the word.”
He flashed a smarmy grin my way. “Same for you, little man.”
“I’m taller than you.”
Dayshia pressed an elbow into his ribs, halting his lateral motion. “Excuse me. I need to . . . just.” She aimed finger guns in the general direction of elsewhere.
Slow, and somehow sleazy in a way basic motion shouldn’t be, Cameron exited the booth, clearing a path for Dayshia. As she escaped, she shot me an I-couldn’t-take-it-anymore look that got me laughing. With her. Not at her.
