American Mall, Abandoned, by Senna Xiang
Suppose we are 17 again and we are chasing our childhood. We spend twenty minutes illegally cramming five of us into one car while our reckless friend helms our journey towards jean jackets and the greasy booths of the mall food court. The first time we did this, we stayed silent so our friend wouldn’t crash on the highway. The last time we do this, we are silent because there is nothing left for us to talk about.
*
We have not been to the mall in months. Last week, they shut down the Applebee’s due to a lack of patrons. The neon in the OPEN sign is finicky and flickers even when unplugged. Already, the freshmen have started a rumor that that section of the mall is haunted. The legend passes its way down to middle schoolers who goad each other into touching the sign. Already, we wish we could still believe in those rumors.
*
This time, we are greeted with apathetic, minimum-wage workers. There are no longer any shiny, smiley women in eyeshadow-smeared aprons to give us free makeovers. Every product is one month away from the end of its shelf life, but almost nothing is on sale. Like they know how much we’re willing to pay to pretend that we’re pretty.
*
Our mimicry is Batesian. We are both predator and prey. Our lives match each others’ too perfectly, majoring in some big-bucks field so we can get rich quick. We act like we have everything together even though tomorrow is a vanishing point at which the parallel lines that constrict our lives converge. In the food court, we order boba from the new kiosk, a last-ditch attempt to cash in on the pocket of Asians in this town. The tapioca is so soft it squelches together. We pose together for an Instagram picture, cups still full.
*
And one day we hoped to be so American that we wasted our money on trivial things just to prove that we could.
*
It was this time last year that I stopped trying to love a boy in another state. Now, I think it’s foolish that I tried loving someone so hurtful, but my mother says that the people we love often are. I am trying to be better. I can only watch old 2000s chick flicks because the new one with the female protagonist who loves Yakult and cherry turnovers and falls in love with guys too shitty for her feels too real. I leave the TV on and let the blue light rot over me, trying to remember when things started feeling so bad.
*
The water in the fountain is perfectly stale. On the tiles, the coins swell with light, a bloated apparition of someone’s American Dream. We each throw in a nickel, the water bruised by the burden of our wishes. When we were younger, we wanted the new stuffed animals, the glistening makeup palettes, the salted pretzels at Auntie Anne’s. Climbed into the fountain while our mothers cooed over thousand-dollar diamond necklaces at Tiffany’s. Our fathers let our mothers believe they can afford it. All around us, the quiet hum of the AC loiters like an outlaw, like something that knows it doesn’t belong.
*
Penny for your thoughts? We’d never invest ourselves in a lost cause.
*
Finally, I am the last one to be dropped off at home. I am alone now, and glad to be alone. I could call someone and tell them about nothing’s nothing. Upstairs, I flick through my digital camera and delete old pictures with him. Every time I press the trash icon, a message pops up asking me if I am sure. It is hard to believe that I am being reprimanded by a pre-programmed message. I put down the camera. Take out the SD card. God doesn’t photograph too well. Downstairs, my house is vacant. Idly, I wonder what my friends are doing before I realize that I don’t care. Outside, the leaves are already dead with heat, dry as a mouth. I’ve hidden in bodies so sick I forgot what it was like to be healthy. I wanted to be the best liar because no matter what stories I told people, they never seemed to stay.
Before it gets dark, I apply nearly-expired, too-expensive lipstick, satisfied by its sticky smack. I drive twenty minutes straight back into the past, trying to forget how I’m fleeing my future. In the empty parking lot, I look hard into the rearview mirror but the face that looks back has already turned into a stranger’s, too childish, too grown-up for me to understand.
Senna Xiang's work is published in Gasher Journal, Kissing Dynamite, The Lumiere Review, and other lovely places. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the Adroit Prizes, and she is a 2023 YoungArts Finalist in Creative Nonfiction. Her work has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions 2023.