We aren’t explicitly staring at your muffin top. We are, however, staring at your jeans. They are… an interesting choice, for sure. Low rise, yet somehow also high like you must’ve been when you decided to wear them in our presence.
We are the pack of teenage girls at the mall, and this is our natural habitat—fluorescent-lit and eternally 72 degrees, a landscape of cinnamon-sweet air and mirrored storefronts that multiply us until you can’t tell how many are watching you.
Our leader is Meghan, who is not to be confused with Megann from home room, who is the personification of evil and also smells weird. We worship Meghan because she smells like vanilla body lotion and has a boyfriend with a provisional driver’s license. One time, she swiped a bottle of Moscato from her parents and brought it to a sleepover. We all say we got soooooooooooo drunk, but really none of us felt anything because we split the bottle nine ways. Evenly, of course, because we are fair and justice-minded.
We move in a pack. Ideally, five bodies across, but we can go down to three in order to fit through narrower spaces. We are modular in this way. We do not walk around obstacles; we surround them. Our slow glide past PacSun is part of the hunt. The synchronized hair flip in front of Hot Topic is the kill shot. You, unfortunately, are in the blast radius. You will not feel any pain, but something will leave you missing a piece of yourself.
Our watering hole is the food court. We never buy food. We sit at a single table for four even though there are ten of us. We arrange our Victoria’s Secret Pink shopping bags in front of us like shields. We nurse one shared Diet Coke for ninety minutes, taking turns with the straw. We watch you pick at your salad from the salad place no one cool goes to. We silently agree: she’s probably a teacher. That’s why her aura is so…tragic.
You might see us in Sephora, swatching lip gloss we will not buy. We leave our fingerprints everywhere. We know we smell like Bath & Body Works because we have sprayed ourselves with at least four different mists on the way here. This is on purpose. We want to be a cloud you have to walk through on your way to the skincare section you think will “reverse time.”
We have opinions on you. We will not say them to your face, but you will feel them in your bones. We know you are watching us watch you. That’s the point. We are the main characters of this mall, and you are merely a side quest wandering through our storyline. Your presence will be discussed later in a group chat titled “SKINNY LEGENDZ,” where we will argue over whether a professional glam team could save you or whether you’re too far gone.
One day, Meghan will get a full driver’s license. We will no longer need the mall to contain us. Until then, we will be here, orbiting Abercrombie and Auntie Anne’s, our jangling bracelets and synchronized whispers echoing through the air-conditioned eternity.
You will dream that night of trying to run, but the mall is endless, looping the same stores forever. We are behind you in every reflection. We are the pack of teenage girls at the mall. And we have noticed your jeans.
