Swish

eight

eight

I stare at my surroundings, and all I can do is wonder why I'm here. It's a Tuesday. At four. Typically, I would be in my school's gym, warming up with Ezra for whatever excruciatingly terrible workout he has decided that we're doing. But right now, that isn't where I am. Instead of whitewashed walls, there are walls covered in various forms of footwear. In the place of wooden floors is some type of black covering that feels almost bouncy. There isn't the smell of sweat, but rather a clean scent of newness. It's all very different, and I simply cannot fathom why I'm here.

           "Not that I'm complaining or anything because I'm a teenage girl and I love shopping and the mall and stuff," I begin, my eyes still reviewing the open area that I'm in, "but why are we here, Ezra?"

           He's dribbling a basketball—of course he has managed to find a basketball—and is standing off to the side, admiring the ambiance. Eventually, he flicks a glance my way, and registers what I have just asked. Then he begins to formulate an answer, and I assume that it's a pretty epic answer, because it takes him quite a while to come up with. "To run," he drawls out finally.

           I move over to where he is, and knock the ball out of his lazy possession. Tentatively, I rack it in the bin where it lives, and try to force Ezra into divulging more information by seriously saying, "But actually, Ezzhead, why are we here?"

           "I already told you, Sal. We're going to run the length of the mall. It'll be good practice." I'm pretty sure that he's joking, but Ezra has one of those demeanors that conceals sarcasm like a freaking squirrel hiding its nuts. He doesn't give anything away by the expression he wears, but I'm almost certain that he isn't being serious. We're in a store at a mall. There is no way that we're running.

           "Ezra!"

           "Sal!"

           "I'm being serious!"

           "So am I!"

           I cross my arms over my chest firmly and attempt to stare Ezra down, but he isn't one to shy away from intensely intense eye contact. He stares right back, and it's a race to see who will crack first. Surprisingly, Ezra is first to break, and he lets out a laugh that I'm not familiar with and just shakes that head of his. He's grinning at me, and though I'm trying to keep my face as aloof as his typically is, once I see his expression, I can't help but smile back. Because Ezra is beaming, and it's contagious. So I smile, and quickly try to asphyxiate it. But I can't. Because of Ezra.

           "You're cute, you know that, Sal?" Ezra tells me like it's just a regular conversation that the two of us would have on any other day. But it isn't. And I know it, and I think that Ezra knows it, too.

           Red instinctively floods my cheeks, and I look down to try and hide the glee that inevitably swarms me. Because Ezra has just called me "cute," and while I may be overreacting, maybe I'm reacting just the right amount. Ezra isn't the type of person who's supposed to call me "cute." We have a relatively platonic association with each other, and by him bringing that adjective into things, it just makes everything a bit weird. It doesn't really matter if he was describing my exterior or behavior, because either way it's still strange—strange as heck.

           Once I collect myself as best I can, I mumble out a cocky, "I know."

           Ezra just laughs, and then he decides that it's time to answer my initial inquiry: "Oh, and we're here to shop."

           "To shop?"

           "Yes, until we drop."

           "To shop?"