Who even said I was normal?

I never in a million years thought I’d be doing something like this.

I’m at the AEON mall, waiting for the most insufferable person in the world to show up. And, lo and behold, as soon as the clock strikes half past, there she arrives, fashionably late as her kind often do. Wearing a dress taken straight out of a Victorian maid’s summer closet, white lacy thigh highs and a frilly parasol to complete the look, Ichika turns the corner.

And as soon as she spots me, her bitch face rests no more.

“All right,” she mutters, pulling out her phone from her plushie purse, if only to make sure I’ll only exist as a faraway distraction from her Instagram scrolling. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You can at least show some enthusiasm,” I sigh as Ichika walks past me. “It’s not like I like this any better than you do.”

She gives me a hand, which could mean plenty of things. ‘Fuck you’, ‘Wanna bet?’ and ‘Just come already’ among others. I choose to follow along with that last one.

Now, you might be thinking I’m out of my mind – and for good reason. That’s precisely what I told Hinata when she gave me my next task, Get in Ichika’s good graces. She assured me, with a plethora of bows and playful pinches, that this was tantamount to the mission’s success. And whilst I (kinda) believe her, it still begs the question of:

“Why did you agree to this anyway?”

“Because Hinata told me to,” Ichika replies without hesitation. Loyal like a puppy imprinted on her master. Now I can see why Hinata feels bad for her.

“If she told you to jump off a bridge –”

“Don’t even try that one on me.”

Well, this is going great. With the concrete wall between us growing thicker with every climbing – or breaching attempt, I resolve to just stay quiet and see where the day takes us.

It’s not long before the discomfort sets in. People are staring and, unlike when I’m with Hinata, when that’s just the endeared gaze of bystanders watching a young (and alleged) couple holding hands, with Ichika it’s more of a confused gawk. Slowly, whispers start surfacing all around us.

“She shouldn’t be allowed to pick her own clothes.” (Agreed.)

“Why does she look so sad?” (Guilty.)

“Did somebody lose their kid?” (Maybe I shouldn’t be trailing this far back.)

“She’s so weird.”

And she is weird. We pass by a bunch of clothes stores, some I recognise by the name, some I’m not rich enough to know, and Ichika stops before all of them. With a distant look in her eyes, she scans the aisles from afar, but never enters. She only shows her interest with a subtle twitch of her brow, which turns into a sour frown soon after. Then, fists balled, she stomps away to the next shop.

It’s only when we reach the twentieth or so shop (I lost count) that we finally head inside. Everything is a level of fancy I can only describe as ostentatious. The lighting comes from garish chandeliers, the carpeting is a squeaky velour and the changing rooms in the back come with a pedestal at the front, so that the snobbish patrons can parade in front of their equally snobbish friends. Naturally, not many can afford this type of treatment, so the place is mostly empty, much to Ichika’s dismay – or relief. Really hard to tell with her perpetual scowl.

The woman behind the counter accosts us right away. A middle-aged lady wearing a measuring tape like a scarf, a carefully powdered mole on her right cheek, and a bitter smirk that manifests into an equally bitter greeting.

“Ah, Sasaki-san. Back so soon and in such – eccentric attire.”

“Spare me,” Ichika spits. “I need an evening gown.”

“Yes, yes, your mother called the other day. Now I don’t expect you’ll want to see what I’ve picked for you, but in case you do –”

“I don’t.”

“– they’re in the back. Help yourself.”

Rolling her eyes, Ichika storms off, earning me a sympathetic glare from the clerk.

“Boyfriend?”

I gag, then scoff, “Do I look like I sweat gold?”

“Don’t have to. That girl only has eyes for the common.”

Right, the no less than perfect peasants. Leaving that pleasant presence to rot away on her velvet chair, I find Ichika perusing a collection sold under the name of Ephemeral Quintessence. Or, at least pretending too, since it seems that pretentious label is making her as nauseated as me. A perfect opportunity to bond.

“Not liking what’s in vogue right now?” I ask. She draws in a long breath. Not sure if it’s my cheeky tone or just the fact that I spoke, but she looks pissed.

“You know, it’s bad enough that I need to do this bullshit with you of all people. The least you can do is keep quiet.”

“Sorry for trying to be friendly, I guess.”

“I don’t want you to be my friend,” she snaps. “I don’t even want to share a city with you.”

“Too bad,” I grind my teeth into a wolfish grin. “Hinata would share a room with me.”

Tsk. I shouldn’t have said that. She flares up, mouth open and ready to drop the ethnic slurs only the wealthy possess, but her anger exhausts itself quickly, leaving only wisps of despair behind. Ichika’s head falls and, when she speaks again, she sounds exactly like the child I always took her to be.

“Why does it have to be like this?” She’s not asking anyone in particular, but she’s seeking answers nonetheless. “I offered her my house, my wardrobe, my chef, my chauffeur. My company and my heart. And yet – she’s still choosing you over me. What do you have that I don’t?”

It’s sad hearing her list all of those things like they’re tokens to be traded in. But I guess that’s the only way she’s been taught to view everything – relationships like business transactions. And yet, her words carry an undoubtedly real weight. A pain built on years upon years of yearning, pining and hoping.

It hits me now how long she must’ve known Hinata, a venomous arrow straight to my heart. But my jealousy is short-lived, as it ushers in a nasty stroke of genius. An idea to mend the chasm between us by reversing the way she dug it first.

“I’m new,” I reply, catching her unawares. She wasn’t expecting a response, much like she wasn’t expecting my voice to be so kind. “And people like new things, you know? They’re beautiful, unique, exciting. But all of them get old after a while. And when they do, few keep their lustre.

“It’s hard to get attached to something you only enjoy the novelty of. So, take it from someone who’s only ever had new things,” I continue. “I may have that fresh, foreign shine, but I don’t have all the memories you share with her. It’s something I’ll never have.”

There’s a pause where Ichika stays dumbfounded. The store muzak drones on and on and on, before finally, a short chuckle escapes her throat. A condescending joy that assures me my strategy has worked.

Perking right up, she runs a hand across the hem of a midnight blue bodycon, “Damn right you won’t. Hell, I’m surprised Hinata hasn’t yet wisened up to how dull you actually are.”

“Right, you know what –”

“But I’m glad I did,” she cuts me off, her smile now bright and earnest. “You made me feel better. Thank you.”

Okay, maybe it worked too well. This can’t really be that easy. Then again, if that’s all it takes, I imagine Hinata didn’t really have to work too hard to get her to swoon for her. Nevertheless –

“Sasaki –”

“You can call me Ichika.”

“Woman, are you running a fever?”

“Slightly. Shopping for formal stuff always makes me queasy.”

“Don’t blame you,” I say, checking out a sleeveless a-line. “Squeezing yourself into one of these is sure to leave you out of breath.”

She laughs. The same mousy laugh Hinata always laughs when I drop a witty quip. A gentle, slightly concerning reminder, that they’re not too dissimilar from one another, as best friends never are. And, somehow, that doesn’t feel all that bad. If anything, seeing Ichika being somewhat more at ease around me carries an approving warmth.

“Speaking of out of breath, I hope your stamina isn’t as bad as Hinata’s,” Ichika says.

Suspicious, I squint, “And why is that?”

“Because it’s gonna take a while for me to choose something. And you’ll be the one carrying back all the rejects.”

* * *

Please kill me.

I know, I know, I know. A guy complaining about a girl taking too long to make up her mind about anything, what an unheard of thing! But see, it’s not the waiting that gets to me – it’s the excuses.

“Too springy.”

“Too milky.”

“Too nice.”

“What the hell do you mean, too nice?” I ask, sinking deeper into the armchair. Luckily, the upholstery is very soft. Soothes the nerves well.

“It’s something my parents would definitely love to see me in, so to say I hate it is an understatement,” Ichika replies frankly, which – come to think of it, isn’t that surprising. She’s been a straight-shooter since the moment she laid her first hateful leer on me. Still, when juxtaposed with Hinata’s almost bespoke reluctance to share her feelings, the way Ichika volunteers information is nothing short of a whiplash.

“I take it you don’t get along well with your folks, then?” I ask.

“Not since they found out I’m not gonna continue their bloodline. Which happened long before I could actually do that.”

It’s like peeling an onion, really.

“Well, that rules out infertility. Should I take a guess, or –”

“Slapping two buns together can’t make a hot dog.”

“Couldn’t you just have said you’re a lesbian like a normal person?”

“Who even said I was normal?”

As if on cue, she peels back the curtain revealing her latest endeavour. A perfectly acceptable strapless dress in a striking scarlet colour and with a sheer finish on the last inches of the hem. Goes well with her modest chest and adds a little risque mischief to her playful allure. Then, she finds the mirror.

“Urgh, too poppy,” she groans, stomping back into the dressing room.

God fucking damnit.

“You know,”I sigh, “I could help you if you told me what you’re looking for, as opposed to just listing off dealbreakers.”

A short pause. I can’t see her fidgeting, but I can hear it in her voice.

“I actually – don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“How! Can that be!”

“It’s like browsing a menu at a restaurant you’ve never been to before. You’re not set on anything, but as you rifle through the pages, none of the dishes feel right. But then, you see it – coq au violet – and it just clicks.”

Deep breaths, deep breaths. “Okay, what do you need it for?”

“You’re not gonna find anything,” Ichika chimes.

“Just answer, please.”

Sensing the desperation in my voice, Ichika drops the teasing act.

“A cocktail party,” she says. “My family is hosting an art auction in a couple weeks time and they’re hoping getting their patrons drunk and stuffed with hors d’oeuvres will loosen their pockets.”

“How formal are we talking?”

“Black tie. But everyone will probably go white.”

“Preference on colour and/or sleeves?”

“Nothing that’s too jittery.”

“Gotcha, be right back.”

“Don’t be upset when I hate it!” Ichika says with a singsong that only makes me more determined to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. Which I do – it’s part of my plan after all.

You see, with how transparent she is, I’m certain she’ll never find anything in that posh boutique where the faint smell of Dior farts from the ceiling. Between every gown looking like a facsimile of simulacral sophistication – far from her everyday lolita style – and the pressure of that particular establishment weighing on her shoulders, not only will nothing be enough, but even the acceptable compromises will be dismissed out of hand.

So, a little trickery is necessary.

I run across the mall, stopping only when I find an outlet that sells everything from the latest vagabond fashion to the most businessy three-piece pantsuits. All for a pretty, but not too pretty a penny. Which makes it perfect for my needs. I navigate the utilitarian layout all the way towards the back, where pastel colours abound, and in an instant, I discover perfection nestled between a villainess cosplay and a peach tube skirt.

Scan. Pay. Flee. On the way back, I head into a cosmetics store, if only to use some nail scissors to cut out all the labels – including the three sewn inside – then leave before anyone can ask why I’m squatting in a corner without buying anything. Stiffly, I walk past the acrid crone one more time and she narrows her eyes when she sees the conspicuous bulge under my shirt. But she doesn’t say a thing – couldn’t care less, I suppose.

Lastly, I sneak my purchase among three other inoffensive failures, to remove any doubt towards its illegitimacy, pass the bundle to Ichika through a slit in the curtain (she wasn’t at all indecent, it’s just a matter of etiquette), then pass out on the armchair, twiddle my thumbs and wait.

“Too bruised.”

“Too watery.”

“Too stringy.”

“Too –”

Shyly, Ichika steps onto the pedestal in a baby blue ball gown, silky roses peppered all over the impressive flounce that looks like – but never actually brushes the ground. Her cheeks flush the whole palette of pink from strawberry to peony as she twirls on her feet, lifts on her tiptoes, then drops, sending a rustling wave through her puffy hem.

“Too good?” I ask, only for her to stare at me, for once at a flustered loss for words. Slowly, she pads towards me, stopping right in front and biting her lip with a scary kind of nervousness. Then, after a pause that lasts for what seems to be an eternity and a half, she opens her mouth on a –

“Please be my beard for the party.”

– unnerving, yet not unwelcome, and highly unanticipated proposition. One that I can only interpret as a mission accomplished.