Sixteen The Freestyle Exchange

“This isn’t Value Village,” I say as we pull up in front of #Smitten, the most overhyped clothing store in the universe, with its giant hashtag around the door frame and gimmicky cringe everywhere you look.

“Most of the high-profile thrift influencers do fashion dupes,” he says. “That’s where they find an expensive outfit they love and thrift a way cheaper version of it.”

He turns when he realizes I’ve stopped walking, and goes, “What...?”

“Did you just say high-profile thrift influencers?”

“I looked it up during Psych. We’re going to find you the perfect outfit and dupe it somewhere else.”

“This must be what hell looks like,” I mumble.

When we get inside, B’Rad leads the way to the formals section, embracing his previously unknown alter ego: Captain Fashionista. I try not to gawk too hard at the clusters of shoppers at selfie stations all over the store, snapping their #trending outfits and uploading them to #Smitten’s social media page in hopes of winning a shopping spree. This place is giving me serious Grace Redeemer vibes, only with a little more commerce and a little less Jesus.

This store isn’t me at all. I’ll take a really great thrift shop over this bullshit any day of the year. Hashtag budget friendly. Hashtag no selfie required.

“Here,” B’Rad says, zeroing in on a tall carousel under a sign that says #Fancy.

“Seriously?” I say, pointing up at the sign. “Isn’t that a little precious?”

“It won’t be like that at the next place, I promise.”

He immediately finds a bright purple gown with fake jewels all over it and holds it up for me to see. The top part has no sleeves or straps of any kind, and the bottom part has these swirly strips of fabric hanging all around it that look like jellyfish tentacles.

“That needs to be taken out to the lake and drowned,” I tell him.

He puts it back, and a few seconds later pulls out another one. This time, he lets his face do the asking.

I let mine do the answering.

B’Rad gives me a look like I’m saying no just to spite him.

He goes, “What’s wrong with this one?”

“Ruffles,” I say. “Miles and miles of ruffles.”

“Okay, maybe we can narrow down the parameters a little. Maybe by color? Or style?”

“B’Rad... no.” I take the hanger from him and put it back on the rack. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to do a prom dress dupe. This dress is going to be a one-and-done. I just want to buy the cheapest thing that fits and call it a day.”

It’s a standoff, right here amid the waves and waves of lace and ruffles and bejeweled bra-tops and slits that go all the way up the leg.

“Daya,” he says.

“Are you about to mansplain prom dresses to me? Please don’t do that.”

“Decades from now,” he says, completely ignoring me, “we’ll go to our high school reunion, and they’ll have yearbooks out on all the tables, and people will wander around looking through them, and that’s when they’ll see it. You. In a dress that looks like a tablecloth your great-grandmother stuffed in the back of a closet. Hanging lifeless off your shoulders for no other reason than it was cheap and it fit. Is that what you want?”

The noise of #Smitten fills the air between us for a few moments as my gaze ripples outward from the racks. My brain is overstimulated by all the store announcements and canned instrumental versions of Eminem songs and the sound of shoppers giggling as they snap and upload their #selfies.

B’Rad pushes his glasses into place, runs one hand through his tuft of hair.

“If you don’t care what you look like,” he says, “at least think about me.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be in the picture with you,” he says. “For eternity.”

I wish I could laugh, but this sucks too hard to find the humor in it.

“Just so you know... I will never go to a high school reunion,” I say, dead serious, as he leads me out of #Smitten and back to his car. I don’t say anything when we leave the city limits and continue east. A few miles farther, he pulls up in front of a store I’ve never heard of.

I go, “What’s this?”

“The Freestyle Exchange. It’s got a pretty cool vibe, and it’s all secondhand.” He gives me one of those looks like there’s more to say about that, and then adds, “Sometimes Lucian buys some of my granddad’s stuff off me.”

I let out a breath. This is the first thing that’s made sense all day.

The Freestyle Exchange is an acid trip, like crash-landing onto the mindscape of someone with both ADHD and OCD in the best possible way. Inside the once-abandoned warehouse, some guy named Lucian has assembled a collection of literally anything you can name in the universe. And he’s got things weirdly organized so you don’t have to wander around in a daze. If you want appliances, there’s a section for that. If you’re looking for trading cards or furniture or figurines, everything can be discovered in its own part of the Exchange.

“That’s where I found my pipe,” B’Rad says as we pass a whole rack of fondue pots. “This one chick, Amy—she doesn’t work here anymore—but one day she set it down right there for some reason, and she was so stoned she forgot where she put it. No harm, no foul,” he adds as he takes me to women’s clothing.

I don’t normally shop by gender, but at least there’s something about this place that makes me feel less like I’m on an alien planet and more like this is a world I might be comfortable in. Except the part where we’re standing under a sign that says WOMEN’S, staring down the barrel at several rows of formal gowns.

“I think I’ll go look in men’s,” I tell him, pivoting in that direction.

“Whoa.” He rushes me, blocks my path. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe it’ll be easier to find a suit I like than a dress.”

“Daya...” He looks around the open space of the warehouse for a moment. “I don’t know how to say this tactfully, but... we’re going to prom at church. Do you really think we should both show up in a suit?”

“Yeah, but... I just want to be comfortable, y’know?”

He comes all the way over, places his hands on my shoulders, leans right into my face. “It’s church prom. Comfort isn’t really the point.”

Right.

We go back to Women’s, and I begin to methodically make my way through rack after rack. Every now and then, I glance up to see B’Rad the next aisle over, doing the same. The only sounds inside the Freestyle Exchange are the hum of a massive air-conditioning unit and the metal scrape of hangers sliding left to right in rejection after hideous rejection.

Ruffles—no.

Strapless—no.

Gigantic bows—hell no.

“Hey, Daya?”

I look up from a nightmare of 1980s satin and lace to see B’Rad lifting a hanger off the rack.

“Come check this out,” he says.

I hear the excitement in his voice, but I don’t share in his confidence as I join him the next aisle over.

I slip the hanger from him and hold it up.

He goes, “I’ve got some kind of feeling about this one.”

I have to say, I don’t hate it. It’s not pastel, for starters. It’s all black. Hangs straight down, no ruffles or puffs or pouf or lace, nothing glittery or shiny, and no bows. Just a long, slender skirt, a neckline that doesn’t drop too low, and a slit that doesn’t ride too high. The girliest thing about this dress is the sleeves, which look like someone draped some sheer fabric over the top of the arm, just enough to expose a teensy bit of shoulder. Not too daring, just a little more femme than I’m personally into.

“Try it on,” he tells me.

I search for the price tag.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says, pulling the tag off before I can see it. “I’ve got some store credit from the last time I sold stuff to Lucian.” He points out where to go and says, “You don’t need to show me unless you want to.”

I walk into the try-on room under the weight of dread. Just because I don’t hate the dress doesn’t mean I want to wear it.

The musty try-on room is more like an old broom closet with a curtain wrapped around it. I slip out of my jeans and tee and pull the dress over my head.

It feels weirdly nice as it falls down around me. Slick and cool. But I also feel naked underneath, with nothing but a pair of underwear between my bare skin and a couple yards of breezy fabric. I swallow hard and sweep aside the curtain that separates me from the humiliation of being seen by anyone, B’Rad included.

He turns, his gaze dropping agonizingly slow down the length of the dress. I wish he’d say something before I crawl out of my fucking skin.

“Wow.”

I shake my head. “I’m gonna need more than that.”

“You may not want to hear this, Daya, but you look sexy as hell.”

“Oh God.” I turn back to the mirror inside the broom closet and try to see myself through his eyes, or Beckett’s. But I can’t. All I see is a dress wishing it was a suit, and even if it looks great to the rest of the world, even if it feels cool and sleek against my naked skin, it does not feel anything like me.

“It’s one night,” he says.

Lucian finds a used-but-nice box with tissue paper inside to fold the dress into and tells B’Rad he’ll adjust the balance of his store credit. I have no idea how much this thing cost him, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I can’t help thinking that whatever he paid for it, it was a waste of B’Rad’s hard-earned money.

On the other hand, at least that part’s over now. I have something to wear to Pure Prom that won’t get me kicked out.

We head home, but the closer we get to my house, the bigger the reality looms: I never went home last night, and I never told my mother where I was. And she never called or texted to see if I was okay.

“You all right?” B’Rad asks as we head down the Strip toward the Flats.

“Sure,” I mumble, even though I’m not sure if I really am all right.

The closer I get to facing Joanna, the less sure I am about anything.

I peek through the back door window before going in. Joanna’s standing at the stove, cooking the dinner I wasn’t home to make.

Add another match to the flame.

I hold my breath as I step inside and softly close the door behind me.

“Oh good,” she says.

Brace for impact.

“Dinner’s just about ready. Are you hungry?”

I freeze. Of all the things I figured she’d say to me, Are you hungry? wasn’t even on the list.

“Um. Not really. Thanks.”

She turns, tongs in hand.

“Are you sure? I haven’t made these in a long time, but they used to be your favorite. I even bought the good tortillas you like on my way home.”

I am Dorothy, spinning inside the tornado right now, as she adds another pan-fried taco to a plate already stacked with tacos. She turns back to look at me like she’s waiting for me to change my mind.

I shift, tuck the Freestyle box under my other arm.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing the tongs at it.

“It’s my dress,” I tell her, hugging the box a little tighter. “For Saturday. For prom at Grace Redeemer.”

“You’re going to prom at Grace Redeemer?”

I nod, and she shuts off the stove, motions to the box.

“Can I see?”

After everything she said last night, everything we said last night, all those hard truths... it doesn’t make any kind of sense why she’s being soft right now.

“You want to see my prom dress?” I ask.

She smiles, wipes her hands on a dish towel. “Of course.”

“I thrifted it,” I say as I lift the lid, as if that will be the key to whether she likes it or not.

She leans forward, looks inside.

“It’s really nice, Daya. Simple. But... still elegant.”

She reaches out to touch the fabric but pulls her hand back before she does.

“I don’t want to get it greasy,” she says.

I put the lid back on the box, and Joanna leans back and sort-of smiles.

“I’m so glad you’re going,” she says, almost like a sigh of relief. “That’s just... it’s great news.”

I’m not sure what’s happening here, only that I kind of want to jump in front of whatever might be coming.

“I stayed with some friends last night,” I tell her. “In case you were wondering.”

She takes a few steps back, slides over to the stove, gathers up the pan and utensils she’s been using. She tosses the spatula into the frying pan, then the frying pan into the sink.

“It wasn’t the girl from my room either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I add.

She still doesn’t say anything, just brings the plate of tacos over to the table. Her movements are slow and fluid as she sits down. There’s breathing room around her. I don’t know why any of this feels easy, because it shouldn’t.

I cautiously drop onto the chair across from her.

“You know...” She turns the plate around nervously, moves some of the tacos like she’s styling it for a photo shoot. “It was pointed out to me last night that... you’ve never given me any reason not to trust you. You mostly follow my rules; you’ve never snuck out. Never had someone in your room until...”

We’re in dangerous territory again.

Joanna seems to feel it too. She reroutes.

“I’m glad you’re going to Pure Prom, Daya,” she says.

“So... am I in trouble? For last night?”

She turns the plate again.

“I admit, I was upset. But I called Pastor Mike, and we had a really good talk. About us. About why and how kids rebel sometimes. We prayed over it. He helped me understand some things. That’s when I... when I realized...” She clears her throat. “I’m just hoping this can be a fresh start for us. Yesterday was... unfortunate, but it’s over. And I’m hoping we can just... move more toward the light.”

I wait for her to explain what she means by that. I have no sense of what moving toward the light is supposed to look like. But she doesn’t say anything else.

“Okay,” I say.

“Good. I really think it will be good for you to spend the evening with other like-minded kids, Daya.”

There’s nothing like-minded about me and the kids from The Great Wait. But maybe it’s best to keep that to myself.

I slide the box off the table. “I should probably hang this up.”

“I’ll set some plates out,” she tells me.

In my room, I fire off a quick text to Stella.

My mom wants to “move our relationship toward the light.”

The little dots pulse just long enough for her to type:

wtf?

I know, I write back.

She goes: careful – that light could be the front end of a speeding train LOL.

But I can’t find my way to the joke of it, because that’s honestly what I’m afraid of.

I want to trust my mom. I want to trust her softness tonight. When she said, I’m hoping this can be a fresh start for us... it gave me the exact same feeling I get when I listen to all that incredible music at church. Hearing her say that felt like faith. It felt like trust. It felt safe. It felt like having my mom back, the way she was before everything went bad.

I want a fresh start.

I want her back.

I want that light she talked about.

But I don’t trust it.

I know what she said.

But all I can hear is the sound of an oncoming train.