Anson Richman, ’24.
I am running.
Running from the past. Running from the future and present. Running from Trade Square
Mall’s flimsy excuse for security.
Running from my friend.
I don’t run very much, and I’ve only been chased before in dreams, so I am acutely aware
of my feet and legs, and everything surrounding them. On a good day, I can clear Foot Locker in
three strides, but today it takes me five. Two right turns to get to Ray’s, where the red tiles on the
floor turn a pinkish hue. I don’t have to look up to see where I’m going. I know my way past the
dead and dying storefronts here like I know the halls of Fields High School. Probably better, in
fact—I get lost at school all the time these days, sometimes on purpose. The scent of smoothies
wafts out of Kiwi Bowls as I pass, even though Kiwi Bowls has been closed for eleven months.
It’s moments like these when this mall starts to give me the creeps. Finally, the flickering sign
that reads “Ray’s Comics” (next to a drawing of Pikachu) blesses the tops of my shot-through
sneakers with its light. I look up, hearing footsteps around the corner. The metal grate covering
the storefront has been closed (as if Ray’s has anything valuable enough to steal), but Ray is still
inside slipping trading cards into a collection binder.
“Ray!” I yell. “Open the thing!”
He gets what I mean, pushing a button to raise the grate.
“Close it!”
He does, asking, “What’s the rush, Blake?”
“My friend’s looking for me. Have you seen her? She’s a vampire… I mean, she looks
like a vampire. Wears all black.” There are so many shadows in this place, it’s no wonder she’s
practically invisible.
“Eddie’s the Masquerade LARPer. When he’s in, you can ask him if he’s seen any of his
Kindred.”
That jargon-riddled response didn’t answer my question, but I don’t have time to explain:
Tom, the security guard, has just appeared on the other side of the grate, saying, “Come out kid.
You stole those shirts.”
Then, in a pitch-black blur, he collapses, pinned down by a frantically laughing Jordan.
She’s unnaturally pale, her face obscured by long, thin braids. These, and most of her outfit of
leather, denim, and metal, are black. “Got ‘im!” she squeals.
I back up. “Jordan, could you stop? This could get dangerous.”
“I don’t think that I can,” replies Jordan with a look that implies that she means it. The
grate lifts. She runs in towards me and I take out a pilfered t-shirt of Lana Lang from Smallville,
which I’ve been saving for this moment. I throw it over her head to disorient her. There’s a
Starbucks at the end of the hall, so I head for that.
The doors open.
“Blake!”
The scent of coffee.
“I didn’t mean it like that!”
I heave the door to the bathroom ajar.
“Wait up!”
It closes. I lock it.
Two seconds later, the door issues a muted thump. The whole mall is about to close—it’s
6pm on a Sunday night—and Jordan has the decency not to find her way into a locked bathroom
with me in it.
“Blake?” comes her voice from the other end.
“Were you trying to kill me?” I ask plainly.
“I thought we were having fun,” Jordan replies. We were having fun just minutes ago,
like we always do. No one’s looking for us. No one even wants to look at us. So for the last
eighteen months, we’ve been messing around at Trade Square Mall until dusk. We bounce
around to blasting music, keep tabs on the increasingly defunct state of the place, and spend
hours talking in dim halls untouched by cleaning supplies for years. Jordan remembers things:
Sears left in 2019, Hot Topic left in 2013, her last friend left in 2009. Her stories are sad, but
they’re better than mine.
“You looked like you wanted to hurt me,” I say. “Like you—god, this sounds crazy—you
wanted to Transform me.”
“I’m the only one here, Blake.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Stop saying that.” Jordan’s voice has turned from pleading to glum.
I told her yesterday that I got into Williams College, early decision.
I sit down on the stone-tiled floor, sagging under the weight of what I know she’ll say
next.
“I don’t want you to go.”
I reply.
“I don’t want to go.”
A moment passes. I take a deep breath of artificially-freshened air.
“I am going to die,” says Jordan. “This place is practically dead already, and nowhere
else will have me.”
“So you wanna make me into a vampire so we can die here together?” I ask.
Jordan lets out a sigh. “I don’t know what I want. Just don’t come out right now, for your
own sake.”
Her breathing emanates from beyond the door. I hear it pulsate alongside my own at half
my rate.
Ten minutes pass before my phone vibrates.
Jordan: Sorry
Are you really going to do this?
Me: I haven’t seen Quinn in a week
I haven’t even talked to my parents
They think were dating btw
Jordan: You see me.
You see my point.
Me: You see me.
You never judged me and i owe u for that
U don’t stare at me
Jordan: Im undead have no parents and live in a mall
You are normal why would I stare at u
Me: You’re the only person who thinks that
ur from 2006
Everyone here likes football and social media now
Jordan: I went to football games, I wanted to meet people
I met Val at one
Even Val passed over me at one point. That was around the time I Transformed
Me: Do you think new England is better than here?
Jordan: I physically cannot leave this mall. Plus I’m not ur mom. So idk.
Me: Look Jordan I don’t rank friends but you’re really close and I don’t want to suffocate in this
friendship or pretend like this is all about you
Jordan: Do what you want
The sound of shifting comes from beyond the door. I can’t tell if she left. I look around.
A fan hums softly. A dim light above the mirror illuminates a small sink, a paper towel dispenser,
and a toilet with a handrail next to it. No way in. No way out.
I have to call Quinn. It takes me three tries before he picks up.
“Blake?”
“Hi, how are you?”
“Good. You sound tired. Are you okay?”
“Are you? I haven’t seen you all week.”
“Were you at the mall?”
“I am right now. I just wanted to say it’s gotten a bit unhealthy and I apologize. I’m
spending too much time here, I think.”
“I don’t want to hurt you with this, but people look at me really different when we’re not
hanging out. I think they like me more. I still like you, though.” He laughs. “Platonically.”
“I platonically like you and Jordan both. I don’t want to stay around her out of fear of
leaving. It’s college. College is different. Nobody there heard what I said to Coach Bowdoin.”
I haven’t mentioned The Incident in months. Everyone at school knows what I called
Coach Bowdoin. Everyone’s so obsessed with football and social media that it’s become a
practice to re-share the video of me saying it and then avoid me at school. Maybe that’s what this
mall is anyway: a wasteland for people and stuff with no value to the rest of society. Like me and
Ray and Jordan and our stash of Smallville shirts and our lame dance moves.
“I’m glad you reached out, man,” Quinn finally says, breaking my reverie. “I think I’m
going to the West Coast for school, but I don’t know yet. Anyway, see you tomorrow, I guess?”
“I guess.”
“Okay, bye,” Quinn concludes, hanging up.
“ATTENTION, CUSTOMERS,” the PA blares. “Trade Square Mall will be closing in ten
minutes.” This has never stopped Jordan and me from doing anything after hours, but it’s late
winter and getting dark, and tonight, I’m alone. Am I alone? Did Jordan really go? My heart
flutters with excitement as I envision myself sneaking out of the cold bathroom as someone
comes in to clean it in a few minutes, and then running home. Then I remember Jordan might be
waiting outside to sink her teeth into my flesh, taking my normal mortal life and binding it to
hers and to the mall’s. Trade Square would become our shared haunt until it, and we, finally died.
I could live like her. No strained interactions with friends and family, no homework, no phone,
just us, frozen at this moment in our lives. No one would have to look at me ever again and
remind me of what I’d done and how the world punished me for it.
I couldn’t leave the bathroom. I have to call my mom.
“Blake?” she interrogates after picking up.
“Hi,” I say in a rush. “Jordan invited me over to her place. Can I go?”
“Oh,” my mom remarks. “Sure, as long as you stay safe.”
“We’re not gonna–” I start. Then I think some more. “You have no reason to trust me.”
“Of course I trust you,” she says.
“Thanks!” I manage as I hurry off the phone.
The automatic lights in the bathroom finally shut off. I need something to take my worry
away, so I find Spotify, throw in my earbuds, and press play on the first song that comes up. As
soon as the sampled strings kick in, I know what I’m listening to: Linkin Park’s “Faint.” In the
pitch-black I can envision the two of us rapping along to the verses through the halls of unmanned knickknack stands, like we’ve done dozens of times. This song is one of our shared
favorites. We scream the chorus out loud to a world that left us behind: “Time won’t heal this
damage anymore/Don’t turn your back on me/I won’t be ignored!” Now I recall her singing it at
the top of her lungs as she leaned into my face, her breath on my cheeks, a ringing in my ears. I
always thought she’d pictured someone else in my place at that moment. She wanted someone to see her. Yet I realize she was also talking to me. Was I about to turn my back on her? To stop
acknowledging her existence? But how can we be real if we’re only real to each other? Even the
custodians haven’t stumbled upon my makeshift hideout tonight. If I didn’t exist right now, no
one would know.
The song draws to a close as tears start to form in my eyes. I can’t go to sleep this
anxious. And certainly not in a mall. Alone. Am I alone? But with no lights on, the cold, hard
floor could be anywhere. I can hardly even tell if my eyes are open or closed. So I lay down and
stare into nothing until I fall asleep.
A knock disrupts whatever I was just doing, and I sit up. The tiniest crack of light,
interrupted by two black shadows, slices at the edge of the floor. I realize it’s morning.
“You there?” comes Jordan’s voice.
“Yeah.”
“Are we still friends?”
“Do you wanna kill me?”
“If I said no, would you believe me?”
“I think so,” I say tentatively. “I just wish there was a way to keep this and the rest of my
life. But not my old life.”
“You need to come out of there if you’re gonna do any of that stuff,” Jordan replies
frankly.
I consider the implications of this.
“Is four months enough time to say goodbye?” she asks.
“Is that rhetorical?” I ask.
“No,” she answers.
“Then no,” I conclude.
“Blake, I want to give you a hug. I know that sounds weird, but you’re my friend, and… I
just need it. Okay?”
Ten seconds pass.
I open the door, stepping out of the bathroom and into her arms.
redinkmag 