“You do need a coat before it really starts getting cold,” she said, handing her party blouse to Kelly. “Hold this a sec.” Striding to the rack housing the coats, the pink garments squeezed together on the metal rail, Brenda riffled through them, eventually finding one the same size and colour. She plucked it free and held it up for inspection. “What do you think of this one?”
“Mum…it…” Her daughter pointed to the price tag. Not half-price. Not on clearance. Nor would he ever find out. “Mum, it’s twice as much as this one.”
“Yes,” agreed Brenda and pointed to the label under the inside collar. “This one’s Nike.”
“But it looks like the exact same coat.”
Now her friends were interested.
“But this one’s Nike,” Brenda repeated. “You need a coat. Put that one back.”
Kelly frowned. “Okay…” She glanced at her friends.
One of them shrugged. “Get it. It’s a nice coat, Kel.”
Appearing wary, like she expected her mum to withdraw the offer at any moment and burst into laughter, Kelly returned her first coat to the rack.
Brenda handed her the new choice, swapping it for the green blouse. She gave the thin garment one last look and dumped it over the rail holding the pink coats.
“Mum?”
“It’s okay, love,” she whispered. “I have plenty at home.”
She straightened, smile beaming from her face. She hoped it blinded these two bitches. “Let’s get that bought. Then I guess we have to find your sister.”
Samara had snuck out of the clothes store the moment her mum had vanished inside the changing rooms. She had clothes, why would she need even more? Not like they sold anything she’d be interested in. She pictured the model she’d based her painting upon, glowering from the pages of the metal magazines in leather corsets, tartan miniskirts, fishnets, and spiked jewellery. The mail order companies she represented, now there was a shopping experience Samara could get into…not that she had the money, or a credit card. Most of her clothing was bought from a stall in the indoor market, run by a creepy guy affectionately known as Sweaty Steve by his teenage customers. Metallica, Coal Chamber, Nirvana, Cradle, Tool…he stocked them all. Dodgy knock offs, but within her limited budget.
It was her budget she cursed now, flicking around the few coins in her purse in the futile hope of finding more hidden beneath. That bloody quiz machine. If she hadn’t let Lily convince her to play… Once again, she’d missed out because of what others expected.
The bookshop had called to her like a siren. Why waste your time pretending to browse lacklustre clothing, my dear? I am but a few stores away. We have all your friends here, girl. King is here, and Koontz, Barker, and Laymon. Come and see, Samara! Come and see!
Kelly had of course bumped into friends, just real. She did every time they left the house. Samara had used the distraction to nip out of the clothes store and venture deeper into the shopping centre. Like The Scholar, the second-hand bookshop at the end embraced her with its familiarity. Straight to the horror section. The thrill of seeing the shelves restocked. What gems would she find today?
Her mum and sister always took forever when they went shopping. She’d have time. There and back. New novel under her arm.
She caught herself scratching through the fabric of her long sleeve shirt, pulling the sleeve higher up her arm. Another iffy item courtesy of Sweaty Steve. Her nails penetrated the thin, black cotton to attack her forearm. The seam was already starting to come apart from the regular onslaught. She cursed and pulled the sleeve back down to her wrist.
She looked down at the Laymon novel she clutched in her other hand, one of the few she hadn’t read, a nice fat five-hundred-pager too.
Another check of her coins. Just short.
She considered trying to talk the assistant to sell at a discount, and immediately dismissed the idea. She could barely talk anyway, preferring to hand over the cash and mutter a small thank you than engage in pleasantries. Bartering was beyond her capacity.
“There you are!”
Samara turned around as her mother emerged from between two cluttered bookcases. Dragged along in her wake came Kelly, wearing an awful pastel pink sports coat. A marshmallow trying to look cool.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I got bored,” said Samara. “And there was nothing in there I liked.”
“We came here for you,” stormed her mother. “You can’t exactly go to your big art show dressed like—” She waved her hand. “Dressed like that! You always look like you’re going to a bloody funeral!” Her mother took a deep breath. “Don’t think that we’re going to this show, with all the other families, and have you looking like…”
“Like something Marilyn Manson forgot to sing about,” said Kelly, smirking.
Samara glared at her sister. “Never thought I’d see you in a bookshop,” she replied. “Not afraid your idiot friends might see you? And that coat’s hideous, by the way.”
“Yeah, because you know about fashion—”
Their mother growled. “I’ve had enough of this. Will you two knock it off? Samara, stop having a go at your sister.”
Samara’s eyes widened. “What? Really? I’m the one in the wrong again?”
“And Mum bought me this,” said Kelly, throwing in the quick jab.
Typical. Their mother had brought them shopping with the misguided intention of Samara picking out a nice, boring dress for the art show. Not that it would ever happen. She had no intention of allowing her family anywhere near the show. She refused to let them shit over her work, to shit over her, and then jump in at the end, all fake smiles and forced pride. Even so, her sister had managed to snag a prize for herself, as usual.
“Come on,” ordered her mother. “We’re going back in that shop and picking out something nice.”
“Okay, fine,” said Samara. “But please…any chance I could borrow a fiver until next week?” She lifted the book. “It’s one of the last ones I need. Been after it for ages.”
Her mum laughed. “Oh, you have to be joking. Put that rubbish back. We’re leaving.”
“But Mum—”
“I said we’re leaving!”
Kelly had begun to withdraw, taking a few quiet steps back before sneaking out behind the bookcases, her head bowed to keep her hidden. The pleasure from fuelling the fire had been outweighed by the possible humiliation of their mother losing her temper and causing a scene.
“You buy her a brand-new coat and I can’t even borrow some money for a book? For a fucking book?”
Like she’d been slapped across the face, her mother physically reeled for a moment. Pointing at her daughter, her voice descended to furious rumble. “Don’t you dare ever speak to me like that. Don’t you dare.”
“It’s not fair,” answered Samara, doubt growing through her, its twisted roots penetrating her rage and sapping its strength. A little girl again. How they liked to wield this power.
“You’re right. This isn’t fair. You don’t make it easy on any of us. You don’t stop to think how you affect this family. I can’t even take my own daughter shopping without drama. Jesus. Why can’t you be more like…” Her mother swallowed and shook her head, her own fury now spent.
“Like what?” Samara pressed. “Like Kelly?”
“No. No…I’d never… Just why can’t you be more like everyone else, Sam? Out with your friends instead of watching those movies? Picking out something nice with me. Not being here, buying this—” She nodded towards the novel— “shit. Put it back on the shelf. I think you’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”