Conversing with Shiri about my old... enemy? rival? Eh, let's go with "colleague."
Anyway, Shiri and her conversation skills are the high point of my trip to the mall. Because Fiona assumes, likely because of the laughter and me coming out looking fabulously dark, instead of just dark, I'm starting to have fun.
I am not, as soon as we leave the makeup shop whose sign declares it to be Rogue Lioness, in fact, having fun.
Further torturous acts included:
The obligatory soft pretzel store. (I gained a pound just looking at the damn things.)
Photo booth torture. (What's the point? Everyone has a damn cell phone!)
The rooftop petting zoo. (Why do they even have one?!)
And then at last the bane of my existence.
The Alpha and Omega of pain, and everything I disagree with.
The-
"Princess Store!!!" Fiona declares with Victoria as Stephany records.
"Ash, you've gotta say it!" Fiona says to my scowling golden goddess-like face.
On the count of three, we repeat the phrase, with me adding a tiny, sarcastic "yay."
Just the sight of the interior stops me at the entrance like a physical force.
There are frills.
Lace.
Crowns, circlets, and coronets (and not the fun kind from Russia).
And enough glitter to drown a small nation.
I triple-groan as I'm dragged in by Fiona and made to stand in the dressing room for hours while she dresses up, dresses me up, and then parades me outside for her would-be friends' opinions.
Even though she frowns, they thumbs-down me the first three times until they notice I am thanking the stars every time they do.
It's all thumbs up from there. And the worst part is Fiona actually tries to buy me five sets of "princess wear" that I have to argue down to one. A slim-fitting black and purple ensemble that screams (fabulously) wicked witch or (fabulously) dark queen instead of naive, whitewashed exploiter of serfs.
There was a witch hat, too, but I stuffed it in the bag and pretended it didn't exist after exiting.
Leaving the store wearing it and a stupidly glittery pair of black pumps is the greatest humiliation I have ever felt... right after having my feet sawed off and being murdered with gravity.
Surely this is enough to pay my debt...
But no. Fiona has me for the afternoon and so she tops it off with something I find entirely inane.
A movie.
Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good documentary or presentation or DIY video, but sitting in a movie theater is the antithesis to my existence. I can't build anything. I don't learn anything except how derivative modern entertainment is. And I certainly can't enjoy the food knowing it shares its lineage with cardboard and styrofoam dripping in industrial butter.
All of the selections are a wasteland devoid of creativity.
"Retaliators: Final End, The Indomitable Hunk, Ground Wars, The Notebook: Book 10?!" I don't say "What is this garbage?" after I read the abysmal showings out loud.
"Oh my gosh! Book 10 is finally out?! I totally missed opening day studying for Knight High," Stephany says.
As I roll my eyes, a sudden scream grabs my attention as something crashes behind and below us.
Looking down one floor, I see a guy in a hoodie trying to outrun the mall cops, one of whom has a gross-looking capture Talent comprised of mucus green globs, while the other seems to be a doughy guy whose body absorbs the force of anything the runner throws at him. Including the pretzel stand we visited earlier.
As the rentacops tell the runner to freeze, the thief turns and proceeds to do just that, freezing the floor and making them trip, with snot cop's gloop landing on his own face as he drops his glob.
It's the perfect scenario for some sort of hero of the week looking for their five minutes and oh shit, Fiona's grabbed me.
"Let's go!" Fiona shouts, and in three seconds we're both on the ground floor behind the thief, whose pockets are stuffed full of bread. Twin princesses, one full of pep and justice and the other... rolling her eyes before going with it. (Guess which one is me.)
"Surrender, villain!" Fiona shouts.
"Villain?" I protest. "Come on, have some standards," I say to Fiona.
"Ash! Come on. At least try-"
"Get out of my way!" the thief shouts. Not a very dignified cry. His face looks gaunt, and his eyes are more desperate than angry.
Not villain material.
Fiona floats at him, but I spy the ice already forming on his wrists before she lands a grab. His hand passes backward like it's going through water but hers crunches the ice with no thief to be had.
Realizing he's about to be outmaneuvered, he raises the ice on the floor into a sudden, all-encompassing mist to block Fiona's vision. In prescience, I spot shadows moving in the mist. The ephemeral outline of the thief passes to my right, five seconds ahead of the man, but in defiance of that future, I use the only tools I have available to trip him.
My heels.
Like a rogue with daggers, I snatch the damn heels off my feet and spin counter clockwise, catching his right leg with dual-wielded pumps and forcing him to land flat on his belly.
I'm not the most graceful in a gangly teenage body, so far from landing, I wind up collapsing to a seat on the guy's butt.
"Ash? Where are you?" I hear Fiona. But I ignore her. Someone will be by to clear up the mist.
"Hey," I say to the stunned thief. "What's your name?"
"Let me go!" he screams. I shocked him just a little to let him know that I'm, unfortunately, obligated to hold him until the rentacops come.
"Your name," I say in a more demanding tone.
I can see his eyes with my prescience, the tears rolling down a blue-white outline of his face. "It's Artyom."
"Eat your bread, Artyom. Before the cops get here."