"So, what do you think?"
Angel, my mother and I were standing just inside the main doors, watching people flit back and forth, carrying shopping bags and pushing strollers. This, of course, was my home territory, but Angel looked completely out of his element.
"I thought you said it was tiny?" he asked, glancing up at a giant teacup on a podium that marked the entrance to the food court.
"That's because it is," I stated emphatically. "It doesn't even have a third level!"
"Do they usually have third levels?" he asked in awe. The way he said it was so cute, I wanted to give him a big squeeze. Particularly on his butt.
"Buffy thinks that if there aren't at least three stories to a mall, the people in the town must all be living in unbearable poverty," Mom cut in.
"I never said 'poverty'," I clarified. "It's more of a... dreary squalor."
"I wish I lived in a dreary squalor," Angel muttered.
And I wish you lived in my pants!
"It's still a little too early to eat, so why don't we just get a snack?" Mom asked, before pointing to a small, yellow serving counter. "I see a Mr. Pretzel over there."
Mom is obsessed with Mr. Pretzel. I can't stand it, though, because it's one of those places where they fry everything in soybean oil. Now all of their pretzels taste like rancid dough soaked in transmission fluid.
Before I can protest, though, Mom walks over to the counter and orders us three pretzels. She pays for them and brings them back to us, gracing us with a warm smile. "You'll love these, Angel."
Because what's NOT to love about disgusting grease-fried dough? Bleck.
"Oh. Yum," I say weakly, taking my offered pretzel. I try not to breathe through my nose so I won't smell the eighteen pounds of fake butter and start gagging.
Angel bravely takes a bite of his own, and his face scrunches up as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He chews slowly for a moment before forcing himself to swallow. I glance at him in sympathy, but be sure to keep my own pretzel far, far away from my mouth. After all, I don't want to trip and accidentally ingest some.
"It's... delicious," he manages through gritted teeth. He tries to smile, but it ends up mostly just looking like he's in horrible pain. "Thank you."
Mom smiles brightly, oblivious to Angel's obvious suffering. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it. So where should we--"
"I'm going to show Angel the fountain," I blurt out and grab his wrist. "You wait here. We'll be back in two seconds, okay?"
I quickly drag Angel down towards the other end of the food court before she can answer. Once we get near the big, faux-marble fountain, I glance back over my shoulder to make sure Mom's not following. When I see that the coast is clear, I snatch the pretzel out of his hands and dump it in a nearby trash can. I toss mine in next, and turn back to see him looking at me with a closed-mouth smile.
"I think you just saved my life," he says, only half-joking.
"Gross, isn't it? I don't know why Mom likes them so much."
"I'm surprised people pay to put those things in their mouth. It tasted like--"
"Unwashed feet covered in Crisco?" I offer.
"Yeah. I'd say that's a fair analogy."
"Wait a sec," I mutter, while digging into my bag. I grab a piece of gum wrapped in foil and emerge with it triumphantly. "Here you go."
Angel takes the gum gratefully and unwraps it. When he puts it in his mouth, his face dissolves into a look of pure bliss and I lick my lips unconsciously. GOD, that man is sexy. "Thanks. I was afraid I'd have that taste in my mouth for hours."
I want to tell him that my tongue in his mouth for hours might help clear that up, but I refrain. "No biggie."
We start walking back to where I left my Mom and we see her sitting patiently on a bench polishing off the final bites of her pretzel. "How was the fountain?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at my strange behaviour.
"It was... wet," I mumble lamely. "And fountain-shaped."
She looks at me oddly while crumpling up the wax paper her pretzel came wrapped in. "What happened to your pretzels?"
"Um, we ate them," I lie in a completely unconvincing manner. I even rub my tummy, as if that's going to suggest that they're actually in my stomach instead of melting the lining of a garbage bin somewhere. "Mmm. So delicious."
And they were, if 'delicious' means that they tasted like a gamey mass of baby vomit.
Mom stares at me as if I've gone insane. "Mm-hmm. So, do you two want to go look for your costumes now?"
I grin unconsciously and imagine Angel modelling an elaborate Roman Gladiator costume, complete with sword and visible man-nipples. Magically delicious!
"Oh yeah!"
... Wee!
When we get to the costume shop, I stop and stare in muted shock and horror.
Most of the shelves are picked dry, and several empty boxes litter the floor.
The only display that isn't knocked over or in pieces is a giant Darth Vader
costume, which is SO not what I had in mind.
I walk up to the counter nervously with Angel and my mom on my heels. There's a woman who looks to be in her late thirties sitting near the register dressed in a soiled French Maid costume and wearing eight pounds of make-up. She looks up from smoking a cigarette when I clear my throat.
"Um, we're looking for costumes," I begin. "See, there's this cultural--"
"Cultural dance. Yeah, kid, I know," she rasps. "This place has been teeming with you brats for a couple weeks now. We can barely keep up."
"O-okay. Well, what kind of costumes do you have left?"
"Whatever's on the shelves, kid."
I glance over my shoulder at my mother, who looks at me in sympathy. I turn back to Madame Cranky and ask, "Do you have any Roman Gladiator costumes?"
She stares at me blankly before taking a long drag on her cigarette. "Does it LOOK like I've got a Roman Gladiator costume?"
No, but it LOOKS like you've given up bathing, you skanky witch.
Ugh.
"We'll just take a look around," my Mom interrupts, gently grabbing my hand and leading me towards the back of the store.
"What kind of costumes are we supposed to be wearing, anyway?" Angel asks suddenly.
"Well, they're supposed to represent a culture," I explain. "Like a Redcoat or a Samurai or whatever."
"If we don't find something, maybe we could make your costumes?" Mom offers.
Oh yes. I can wrap myself in a sheet and put a bag over my head. Then I'll tell everyone I represent the mysterious and fascinating culture of 'Social Leprocy'. What fun!
I feel a little better when we get to the back shelves. There are still quite a few costumes back here, although they aren't particularly 'culturally-themed'.
"How do you feel about the culture of vampirism?" I ask Angel, fingering a bag containing a black cape and a pair of plastic fangs.
"I don't think I could pull off a Transylvanian accent."
I nod absently and look up towards a rack containing several wool kilts. Now THIS idea has some promise. I smile and hold one up for him to see. "What about--"
"No."
"But you could--"
"No."
"But--"
"I'm not wearing a kilt, Buffy."
"Oh fine. Coward."
Hmph. Spoil my fun. I put the kilt back on the rack and wander a little further down the aisle. I glance up at the display on the top shelf and stop dead in my tracks. It's PERFECT!
I quickly search through the shelf below it and pull out a box with 'Size: Large' written on it. After all, Angel's a big boy. I grin merrily and stride back to where he and my mother were looking at Civil War costumes. I shove the box in his arms and he looks at me questioningly.
"Go try this on," I order. He looks like he wants to protest, so I start trying to push him towards the dressing room. Despite putting all my strength into it, he doesn't so much 'move' as 'lean slightly'. But cut me some slack... the guy's like a foot taller than I am. "Oh, just do it!"
He doesn't look too happy about it, but he sighs and makes his way to the dressing room. He pulls the curtain shut behind him and I grin triumphantly. This is gonna be GREAT!
After a few minutes, I hear Angel mutter. "I feel like a moron."
"Let me see!" I whine, still grinning like a maniac.
"You better not laugh." I hear some rustling before Angel jerks the curtain back and steps out, looking highly embarrassed.
But trust me... laughing was the very LAST thing on my mind.
Angel had a black leather mask covering his eyes and a black, billowy cape was swept back off his shoulders and fell just past his knees.
To top it all off, he was wearing a black, silk shirt that laced up the front, leaving little slivers of his chest exposed.
You might have expected me to say something stupid and embarrassing right about now.
... and I did.
"Oh BOY," I murmured, only it came out in a really high-pitched squeaky voice. I imagine it sounded quite similar to Mickey Mouse, only if he had been kicked brutally in the groin before speaking. "I mean, um, yeah. Nice."
He closed his eyes and looked completely humiliated. "I look like an idiot. And this shirt is too tight."
"Yes it IS," I swooned, but then caught myself. "I mean, no it isn't! It fits perfectly. And, um, perfect. Just right. Like a glove! Or, you know, a shirt. One that fits, I mean. And it's good. Um... yeah. Looks good."
ARG! Shut up, Buffy! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.
Mom chose this exact moment to walk up, and she raised an elegant eyebrow when she noticed Angel in his costume. "Does Zorro really count as a culture?"
"No," Angel answered.
"Yes! Yes, it does," I counter. "It's Spanish culture. Now, go change so we can pay for it."
"I really don't want to wear this," Angel said, staring at the floor.
HOW can he not see how hot he looks? God, somebody get this man a mirror.
"Too bad," I say gleefully. "It's either that or you go naked."
And I win either way!
"You're cruel," he mutters before turning back and closing the dressing room curtain behind him.
I grin ecstatically and march back over to the display. I peer through the matching 'Spanish Dancer' costumes before picking out a white, shirred dress with a tie up front and lace ruffles on the skirt.
Mom comes up behind me while I'm searching through the shelves for a box with my size on it. I feel her staring at the back of my head, so I turn around and smile at her apprehensively. "What?"
She looks at me for a beat, before sighing and shaking her head. "You're going to need a black wig."
Huh. That didn't SOUND like a lecture. Maybe she's ill?
"You're right," I reply. "And maybe a ribbon choker?"
Mom smiles at me patiently. "I'll go look for you."
"Thanks," I say, and we both smile at each other for a few seconds before I turn back to my frantic search.
You know, sometimes
my Mom can be really cool. But don't tell her I said that.
"You need pants, Angel. Your costume didn't come with any."
"Yes, but why THOSE pants?"
I don't see what the problem is. They're perfectly nice, genuine leather SEXY PANTS.
"What's wrong with them? I know they're a little pricey, but I'll pay half if you pay half."
"It's not that they're expensive," he explained awkwardly. "It's that they're made out of leather. And they look kind of tight."
They DO, don't they! Mwa ha ha!
"Yeah, so? That's the point," I answer honestly. "Look, maybe they're a little behind the fashion times in Ireland, but here in America everyone wears leather pants!"
Especially if they have an ass that you can bounce quarters off of!
"Are you sure?" he asks skeptically. "I've never seen anyone wearing leather pants around here..."
And thank GOD for that. Most of the guys in Sunnydale would look like their legs were made of sausage rolls if they tried on a pair of those suckers.
Which is why it's important to remember that leather pants are a privilege, not a right.
"That guy's wearing leather pants," I say, pointing straight ahead.
Angel looks at me weirdly. "That's the mannequin."
"Yeah, but look at how fashionable he is! Now what's your size?"
"Buffy--"
"Size!"
"... 32, 34," Angel sighed.
I grinned and grabbed a pair, feeling the baby-soft leather. God, it's almost TOO sexy! I'm starting to feel faint...
"You're doing America a great service," I murmur reverently.
"What?"
"... nothing!"
