ERICA #3
Five women with small shopping bags dangling from manicured fingers stand like a wall just past the rack I’m pressed into.
They’re well-dressed, their shopping bags have logos on them from high-end stores like Tiffany & Co.
, Prada, and Kate Spade. They are all very well put together and not one of them has a raggedy old army-green backpack.
But every single one of them is staring down Bitsy and her backup singer like they’ve just watched someone kick a puppy on live television.
"This is unacceptable." The one with the bob at her shoulders steps directly between me and the rack, voice pitched to carry. The tone of someone used to being listened to. “Do you two do this to everyone who walks in, or did you just decide today was a good day to be awful?”
“Ma’am, store policy—”
"Policy doesn't require you to loom over someone like she's about to steal the register.
" The blonde in the ponytail cuts in, arms crossed, looking like she's enjoying this a little too much.
"I've been standing here two minutes and I've already watched you insult this customer five times. I'm counting."
“We were simply—”
"Simply enjoying yourselves, it looked like." This from the quiet one with hair long enough to brush her waistband.
Bitsy and her backup singer go from smug to scrambling in about four seconds flat, and none of the five slow down long enough to let them recover.
“Come on, sweetie.” The short one links her arm through mine like we've known each other for years. On my other side, another arm slides through, then I’m boxed in by women I’ve never met, all moving for the door in one unbroken line. “Let’s go somewhere that treats people like humans.”
We walk out six-wide, arms linked, and I don’t look back to see what’s left of Bitsy’s face.
Outside, blinking in the sunlight, I get my first real look at them, and something clicks into place.
Sparkly jacket ladies. The ones from the friends and family room after the hockey games.
“Wait.” She's studying my face now, head tilted, ponytail swinging with it. “I’ve seen you. You were there for game five.”
"Guilty," I say, since apparently I've been made.
“I’m Taylor.” She smiles, warm and immediate, and gestures at the others in turn. “Hadley. Paige. Penny. Lauren.”
“I’m uh… Erica.”
"Are you shopping for the gala?" This from Penny. Probably. The introductions were super quick, but I think I got that right. “Because that’s exactly what we’re doing.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I should probably just order something online.”
Taylor waves her hand. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have time for that.”
“Girl, we gotchu.” Paige grabs my other arm. “We all got our dresses at the same place on the first try. You gotta come. It’s like magic.”
“That feels like a lot of pressure to put on one boutique,” I say.
“I couldn’t believe it either,” Hadley says. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I should say no. I have exactly enough self-preservation left to know that letting five strangers adopt me mid-afternoon is not, strictly, part of the plan.
But they’re already walking and chattering, folding me into the middle of their group.
And something about the warmth of it makes it very hard to remember why I’d want to say no in the first place.
The boutique’s sign is just a discreet brass plaque, and there’s a woman behind the counter who lights up the second we walk in.
“You’re all back!” She comes around the counter in a suit so well-tailored it looks poured on, wearing heels that click in that satisfying ASMR way.
“I kept your purchases exactly as promised. And I put them in our signature leather garment bag so they’ll be safe for the ride home.”
“You’re an actual angel,” Paige tells her.
“This is our friend,” Taylor says. "She also needs a dress for the gala. Be gentle with her, she’s had a day.”
“Say no more.” The saleslady’s eyes go soft and assessing, sweeping over me once, twice, the exact opposite of Bitsy’s once-over. She probably can guess a dress size and give you a color analysis in five seconds flat. “I’m thinking black. Very elegant.”
“I was thinking black,” I say, surprised.
“I am never wrong.” She smiles like we’ve shared a secret. “I’ll get a room started for you.”
What follows is a blur I only half-remember clearly. My new acquaintances split off into five different directions. Hadley pulls something off a rack with a soft “Ooh, what about this?”
Lauren vetoes it before it even makes it to the fitting room.
Penny quietly produces a dress from somewhere in the back that seems custom-summoned by sheer will.
I end up in a little curtained room, arms out, being handed things I would never have picked myself, and there is a full minute where I catch my own reflection, surrounded by strangers who are, inexplicably, invested in whether the neckline works.
I muse, with genuine bewilderment, that I feel like the frumpy best friend in the makeover montage of a movie.
And I don’t hate it. That’s the part that catches me off guard. I really, really don’t hate it.
“What’s your name, dear?” the saleslady asks, stepping back to study me in the third dress.
“Erica.”
“Ah.” Something shifts behind her eyes. “Well. There’s no America without Erica.”
“That’s what I always say,” I tell her.
She disappears without another word and comes back two minutes later with a garment bag she must have had staged somewhere, waiting. I don’t argue. I just put it on.
The room goes quiet when I step out. Then Hadley makes a small, strangled sound. Then Lauren actually claps, both hands, like she’s at a wedding. Paige just points at me and says, “Yeah. That’s the one.”
I look in the mirror and something in my chest does a slow, unfamiliar flip. It’s perfect. I don’t have the words for it beyond that yet. So I just stand there in it and let five strangers tell me I’m beautiful.
Next thing you know, I think, I’ll be in a bedazzled bomber jacket, singing “You’re the One That I Want” at a tailgate. The thought should horrify me.
It doesn’t, though. That’s the unsettling part. I wouldn’t mind that so much.
Even though I truly am a terrible singer.
We walk back down the avenue together and find ourselves in front of the mean girl boutique I went into.
All six of us burst through the door like it’s a dang saloon in a western and we’re some kind of gunslinger posse.
Paige scoots to the front of our group and marches right up to the two snobby sales ladies.
“Remember her?” Paige says, pointing at me, her voice carrying across the entire floor. I see two heads pop out of the dressing rooms, curious about the clamor we’re making.
Bitsy’s face twists with recognition, then dread.
“You work on commission, don’t you?” Paige asks, sweet as poison.
A pause. Bitsy’s chin lifts, reluctant. “Yes.”
Paige gestures to every single one of our luxury shopping bags and bespoke leather garment bags. “Big mistake.” She pauses dramatically, channeling her inner Julia Roberts. “Huge.”
And then we’re all giggling, six grown women sprinting out of a luxury boutique in broad daylight.
By the time we spill onto the sidewalk, I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe, bags swinging, heels clicking against pavement, and somewhere behind me I hear Paige, breathless, delighted, confess to no one in particular.
“I have always wanted to do that.”