The Lies About Truth by Courtney C. Stevens Page A

today.”
    “We’ll be in and out like a flash,” she promised.
    In and out meant hours of trying on clothes in which someone examined me and said, “Those look great,” or “Don’t buy that,” and doubled my self-consciousness.
    Sonia leaned toward the front. “Sadie, are you doing any camps or sports or plays this summer?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Max said you’ve become quite the runner. I thought you might sign up for the Sandblaster 5K.”
    “Oh, that’s a good idea.” Mom tag-teamed with Sonia. Her enthusiasm made it sound as if they’d planned this, and I thought twice about those extra thank-yous. They’d baited me, and it rang of Social Experiment training.
    “I’ll think about it.” Better to agree now than let them badger me all day.
    “Max is planning on doing Pirates and Paintball,” Sonia continued.
    I turned around in my seat, surprised. “You are? You didn’t say.”
    “We always have. I was going to ask you,” he said.
    “I think we should all keep the tradition,” Sonia announced. “A true McCall, Kingston, Garrison, Adler weekend. The boat. Camping. You kids playing paintball in the competition—”
    “Y’all having adult beverages,” Max said as he mimed turning up a bottle for his mother.
    Sonia popped him on the leg. “Oh, please. You act like we’re a bunch of sots,” she complained lightheartedly, and then continued talking about all the fun we’d have together. I faced the front and sank deeper into my seat. Anything that put Max, Gina, Gray, and me together without Trent sounded more like torture than camping. Max sent an apology through the rearview mirror.
    The outlet-mall scurry was unbelievable. My anxiety compounded as we searched for a parking place and maxed out as Mom beeped the door locks. The airport trip had been a hill of social anxiety; this was a mountain. Tourists were everywhere.
    Mom put her arm around my shoulder. “You’re pale, kiddo.”
    “I know.” Pale isn’t always a color; it’s that hollow-cheeked feeling.
    “You need a Gatorade before we start this?” she asked.
    Sugar and electrolytes sounded like a plan.
    “If you’re going to wear sleeves, you have to stay hydrated,” she said in my ear.
    I nodded and took cash for the vending machine. If Sonia and Max thought my behavior was off, neither of them judged me. Max joined me for a drink, and when we tossed our bottles, he held out his hand.
    Sometimes a hand is an anchor. His held me to the world.
    In his raspy voice, he asked, “You okay?”
    I shouldered off a tear. “Who in their right mind is scared of an outlet mall?”
    He pointed at a half-dozen minivans in the parking lot with men sitting in the front seats. “All those dudes.”
    His joke broke through my stiffness.
    We were holding hands. His hands were different from Gray’s. Less callused, longer.
    I was different when I was attached to him.
    I was better.
    Don’t screw this up , I told myself.
    Mom and Sonia walked out of a shoe store and joined us. I wasn’t sure what our moms thought about us holding hands, but they didn’t embarrass us. Sonia said, “I thought we’d startin PacSun,” and Max said, “Let’s go.”
    Four stores and three shopping bags later, I’d successfully maneuvered around trying anything on. I picked something out; Mom swiped her card. The American teenage dream at work. We were on jeans now, and they required a fitting room. I hadn’t bought pants over the past year, even though everything I had was too big on me. Weight loss had been a problem. My thighs and calves were muscled, but I’d trimmed down at least a size in my waist, probably two.
    My fear of the fitting room had amped from uncomfortable to panic attack the last time Mom tried this shopping thing with me. Rationally, I could go in an enclosed space, try on pants, and come back out fully dressed. Irrationally, the anxiety raised my heart rate, and I felt barred in by expectations. People watched fitting rooms like