Page 12 of Director's Cut

“Gonna give it a solid no that they have a Cupid’s Closet…”

I realize a second too late that that’s the kind of joke I have with Mason Wu, my very gay Goodbye, Richard! director, who likes hijacking press interviews by jokingly asking me what porn I recommend to people.

Charlie lets go of my hand to give me a dismissive wave as he bites back a laugh. “No, Hot Topic, you horny dolt.”

As if it’s haunting me, at that moment we pass by a Hot Topic a floor above us. Charlie spots it at the same time. “I haven’t stepped foot in a Hot Topic since studded belts were a necessity.”

Charlie laughs. “You say that as if MCR isn’t back together and you couldn’t have gone there yesterday.”

Which—fine, is correct. But I still get full-body shivers thinking about what kind of a surly Hot Topic asshole I was as a teenager. Sure, I can turn it into a joke I tell friends and cute girls, but I was not pleasant to be around when I frequented that cursed store. I don’t want to know what kind of Past Me spirit would possess me if I went back there and put on red jeans, an MCR tee, a studded belt, and wrist warmers.

“It’s not gonna happen,” I say. We’re so close to Zara. So close to getting in and out of this mall. To shed the half-assed attempt at a new endeavor the first class was. I do want to give this job my all, to impress Maeve. I’m not only going to do it, I’m going to pass with flying colors.

“You know what your two favorite stores have in common, though?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as he says it, which worries me.

The Zara sign is in sight. “What?”

“Leather collars.”

The joke makes me feel like I’ve been punted back in time across this very mall and I’m now standing with teenager Charlie. He was the guy in every class we shared together who would, without fear or shame, tell sexual jokes in class right to the teachers. Kids in our school started calling the red-faced squirming that teachers did after one of his jokes Charlie’s Principle. As in Mr. Cockburn was afflicted with Charlie’s Principle in APES fourth period. Mason can be crass, but I’ve awakened Charlie, and he’s so much worse than she is.

Good thing I’ve been around him long enough to be immune to Charlie’s Principle. “You know I can’t wear one of those.”

“We find you a designer one and you’d one hundred percent do it. You’re too goth not to.” Charlie grins. “Sorry, you’re getting one for your birthday.”

And there it is again. The ubiquity by which Charlie and I talk about designer. I can still remember so clearly the way my mom’s face lit up when my dad bought her a single Chanel bag for their ten-year anniversary. Designer used to be rare, aspirational, an indulgence to celebrate accomplishments and milestones. Maybe it means nothing that something special has become routine, but I find myself glancing around the mall searching for those high-end labels. Feeling embarrassment at the looking itself when I don’t see them.

We enter Zara right around then, ending the conversation.

Charlie claps his hands together as I scan the store. They’re still halfway between seasons, getting rid of summer looks and transitioning into fall. And, considering we’re in LA, they know to keep the light linen out. The store is pretty crowded for a weekday, but mostly filled with South Bay moms. Athleta clings to Pilates-sculpted bodies, designer bags from Nordstrom Rack hang off perfectly tan shoulders, AirPods play in their ears as they purse their lips looking at dresses. One dubiously not-in-school youth is searching through graphic tees. Since we’re in LA, my first instinct is to guess up-and-coming child actor.

Overall, though, no one’s looking at the two blond idiots in the matching backward Dodgers hats. My gaze falls on a pair of lilac ankle pants and a matching blazer. Fluttering fills my chest, that specific chemical hit shopping has always brought me, even back in my Hot Topic days. Relief that I don’t hate everything in the store slides in soon after.

“Aren’t ankle dress pants the equivalent of capris for the modern age?” Charlie asks.

I resist shooting him a good-natured eye roll. “It’s a summer look. Besides, with a great pair of shoes, they really get to speak.”

One summer suit, one fall suit, and a couple of blouses in now. Running my hand along the fabric, searching for loose threads, I wonder if Maeve’s felt the way I do right now, surrounded by these signs, feeling the texture of this material. Or if it’s just another chore for her.

I grab the lilac blazer and pants, drape them over my shoulder, and head to another blazer display. Once I pick out one more set, we’ll be done.

I reach for the tweed.

“Isn’t tweed too professor?” Charlie comments, pulling his lips in.

So at this point, Charlie and Trish know this look is all manufactured. But I hadn’t even considered the fact that anyone else could be perceiving my clothing that way. My first instinct, which is usually the one not doused in anxiety, was that this looked professional. Like something Maeve would wear for its plainness. But maybe I’m past the point where plainness works.

I let my fingertips brush against the scratchy fabric. “Maybe I should just get a neutral one.”

Charlie reaches out and grabs a brown blazer with some ruching detail on the sides. “Nah, you don’t want to look like your manager or agent. Brown is warm, approachable. Fall.”

God, I love Charlie sometimes. A true-blue jock boy who knows about fashion. I missed the rhythm we settle into together. I know it’s only been a year since we filmed Oakley together, but it feels like it’s been so much longer. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’ll get a couple of skirts as well.”

“And don’t you have to get non-designer shoes too?” Charlie asks. “To truly convince the ornery, hot professor you’re a regular ole person?”

He knocks my hip as he speaks, nearly knocking me into one of the blazer mannequins. I just manage to catch my footing, leaving my cheeks red as he observes my reaction.

“And shoes, I guess,” I mumble. I glance at a couple of pairs of stilettos lining a shelf nearby.

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