Goodbye, Evan

9

  "Why do you need so many shops?" I half demand, turning in a circle to look around the shopping centre.

We caught the bus to get to this shopping centre, again, and now we're in this massive three-storey building that's mostly dedicated to goddam clothing. Theo, who is stood next to me in the middle of the ground floor, blushes and looks at his feet, which I get - I must look like a madman, spinning around like a fairy while everyone else gets on with their shopping. But it's all so rejuvenated and fascinating and, in its way, lovely. People surround us on all sides, riding up escalators and lifts and entering shops and sitting in the windows of restaurants. They're all so wrapped up in their own little lives, trying to fill each second with something worthwhile before it slips between their fingers. It's wonderful.

"Different styles, I guess," Theo mutters. "Come on. You're scaring the children."

Indeed, one little girl holding a lollipop is staring at me. I pull a face at her, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, and she giggles. Her mother pulls her away, giving me a weird look like I might suddenly run forward and snatch away her precious little darling. Parents these days.

I remember using that move on my baby sibling when they were still alive to calm them down and how it always worked. I quickly follow after Theo, raking my eyes around the shops to distract myself.

Theo walks like he knows where he's going, but I know I would get lost without him. I'm half tempted to grab his flipping hand, just so I don't go mistaking him for another curly-haired daddy long legs and start yammering to a stranger about ghost shit.

I follow Theo into a shop on the second floor, keeping as close as non-awkwardly possible. When we're inside, he turns to me and tells me to pick out anything. Shrugging, I grab trousers and shirts and jackets haphazardly and throw them over my arm. When I turn back to Theo, he has his face in his hands.

"What?"

"Oh my god, you dress like an old man," he moans into his palms. "Let me help."

He chucks the clothes I picked out over an empty rack (seriously, that boy needs to learn to clean up after himself) and grabs me suddenly by the shoulders, staring me in the eyes. When I squirm, he pouts at me and grips harder, so I try to relax.

"You have green eyes," he mumbles. (Yeah, duh.) I can feel his breath on my face, making it hard to think straight. "Glittering emerald orbs that reflect the light of the H&M store, transforming them into glowing spheres of pure gold..." He collapses into giggles. It's a lovely sound. "Shut up," I mumble, shoving him away playfully. Charlie laughs again and pushes his hair out of his eyes, unveiling his glowing spheres of pure gold; or, as I like to call them, eyes. "You'll look great in a blue shirt," he says. "It'll bring out your eyes. Come on, grandpa." He smirks, going from adorable to something else in an instant. "I'll help you out."

He turns away, still grinning, and picks his way through the aisles, grabbing clothes and slinging them over his arm while I follow him like an obedient pet. Blue and green button downs, tops of similar shades, black skinny jeans, Converse in three different shades, hoodies, check shirts, a beanie and end even a goddam leather jacket.

"I'm not a doll," I mutter at his back as he yanks a beanie on my head and pulls it off again a second later. "No, but it's not like I get to be stereotypical every day. You have to give me this."

So I do.

When he tells me to try them on, I do so obediently. Every time I yank on a new outfit (I hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE skinny jeans) Theo makes me come out and show it to him. He laughs and gives me thumbs up and crows "yas, honey!", stereotypical right down to the way he sits on that stool with his legs crossed looking like he's enjoying every second of this little fashion show he's roped me into. I stand there while he adjusts my beanie and tells me to swap jumpers and pretend I'm enjoying this half as much as I am. I think he sees through my plastered-on scowl.