Shopping at Target (Tessa POV)

Tessa Lewis

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I always liked Target. The big boujee retail store maintained a more coherent atmosphere compared to the alternatives. Consistent color themes, energetic reds mixed with soothing whites. Never quite crowded, yet always lively enough to feel like you weren’t alone in some soulless warehouse.

Mom pushed the cart along, Cassy trailing behind with nose buried in her Switch. Cassy played one of the many Pokemon video games in the family catalog.

Feeling restless with the errand, I expressed my intent to break off and browse the clothing section.

“We’ll be back with the home decor,” Mom said. Her voice was muted through my earbuds.

“Kay,” I said, forking off from my mom and sister.

A copy of Wyatt's super mega advanced CD™ played off my phone, its riffs soothing and atmospheric. The soft, non-distracting music was perfect to drift along to without ever having to pay attention to it.

I didn’t know whether he had good taste, or if he just knew me that well, but either way, I loved all the music Wyatt had mixed for the tests so far. I listened to all the tracks as often as I could - and thanks to the special sound driver I'd installed on my phone, that meant I basically had our **** learning playlist in my head nonstop.

I even re-listened to CDs #1 and #2 occasionally. Which technically was overkill, I guess, since we were already done with the tests on them, but when I got a song stuck in my head, the best way I knew how to get it out was to listen to it over and over till I got sick of it. Hadn't happened yet, so, more good times for me.

Such thoughts occupied my mind as I browsed through rack after rack in the women's section.

Pants, skirts, tops, underwear - I didn’t have a plan as to what I was after, but lately, I’d been feeling feelings.

The hair was a good start. My friends were noticing me more and more.

The other day, me and Zan had hung out with another old friend group from high school - we all met up at a wings place and made a big ruckus for somebody’s birthday, I don't know who. The group was mostly people who Zan knew, people in their late 20's who were already college graduates or working real jobs, but some of them brought along some younger friends and siblings - some I'd known before from way back when. We all hit it off.

Usually, after the initial round of introductions, I blended into the background and was forgotten in minutes. After my little makeover though? The boys next to me went out of their way to remember my name and invite me into their conversations. And the girls, instead of missing me for the noise, complimented my hair, my shirt, everything - they thought I was cool. No, not just cool - they thought I was cooler than them.

It really was just that easy! Who knew that bright blue hair was the secret sauce for standing out? I looked good with my new short hair! Yeah, sure, I knew it wasn’t a big change - it was superficial at best - but even the little change made me feel like a totally different person. A more cool, more confident person.

After the restaurant birthday blowout, multiple people asked for my number, or to add me on social media. Plans were made to hang out - plans that included me. How many times had I ever had so much fun? I could count them on one hand.

Which was why I was currently rifling through clothing racks at Target.

Now that I had plans with new acquaintances, I wanted to keep the momentum going. What if this year I actually made more than two friends? Usually, it was so difficult drawing unnecessary attention to myself, but this summer I felt differently. I wanted to stand out. I wanted to be noticed. These were good things.

Without paying attention, I passed by a rack full of socks and stopped short. On second thought... I moonwalked back to browse at the bottom row.

I unhooked a plastic pack from the bottom row hanger and turned it over in hand. Inside was a vacuum-sealed pair of plain white knee socks.

Knee socks. A cutesy article of clothing that soccer girls, streamers, or stupidly pretty blonde girls owned. I'd never worn anything like them before. It was one of those things people who weren't me did. I wasn't pretty enough, tall enough, athletic or blonde or brave enough to wear something as cute, as sexy, as knee socks.

But holding a pair now, in both hands, in the middle of my favorite retail store, I realized something extraordinary.

The thought of wearing a pair of socks like this didn't scare me anymore.

They were just socks. Incredibly cute socks, sure, but that's all they were. Socks didn't have power over me. I had the power now.

I snatched the plain pack. I snatched two more, these ones with colors on them. Then I hurried to the changing room. I kicked off my shoes, tore open the packaging, and pulled on the white pair - I'd already resolved to buy them. Then I dropped my long denim skirt to the floor. I had to see how they looked, without anything else in the way.

I posed, pointed my toes, and angled my legs this way and that in the mirror.

God. Wow. My legs looked amazing. How long had this been a thing? I had to see more.

Turning to look at myself from the back, clad only in underwear from the waist down, I marveled at the stretch of skin from the tops of the socks to my butt.

I’d always been self-conscious about how I looked from behind. Always. I was too flat. Too small. But I was wrong. Today I saw myself all in a new light. Maybe I'd had a growth spurt, maybe it was the socks, maybe it was my newfound confidence, but - damn - I had a great butt.

Why had the thought of showing it off filled me with so much anxiety in the past? Had I always looked so great from behind? I lifted up my shirt to get a better look. And yeah. It only confirmed what I saw. My hips looked great, and I had a nice stomach too - there was no mistaking what I saw for belonging to some prepubescent teenager.

I pulled off my shirt and took stock of the amazing, mysterious girl standing in the mirror straight in front of me.

My read on myself had been totally off. I wasn't plain. I wasn't ugly. I was beautiful.

Before, staring at my reflection would fill me with dread. My imperfections stood in stark relief to my eyes. I wasn’t good enough. I didn't look like the girls on magazine covers, I didn't look like models or actresses. Too mousy, too petite, too plain.

Now? The hypercritical nitpicking voice was barely a murmur at the back of my mind, and my swelling positivity muted the rest of it entirely.

For the first time in a long, long time, I felt truly comfortable in my own body. I looked at the girl in front of me, and there was nothing wrong with her.

Anyone who saw what I saw would feel the same way, came an unbidden thought.

What did I need a long skirt for? Or a shirt, for that matter? At the beach, women wore bikinis in public without issue - here I was, wearing a bra, panties, and socks. Why couldn’t I walk out like this? The same as the underwear models pictured on every package of every underwear package in the store?

Because you would get in trouble, came an insistent voice.

I thought this through. Calm, generic music served as a perfect backdrop. No, I couldn’t shake it. What did I have to hide? From myself, nothing, clearly. Socks, panties, bra - what more did I really need? So long as all the important stuff was covered, I had nothing to lose from showing off - and I had a lot I could show off, if I wanted.

My worry subsided as I examined myself, all of myself, with my new eyes, with my new understanding.

What I saw was right. What I saw was good.

I could work with this. And, thanks to my part in Wyatt's ongoing psychology experiment, my wallet was stuffed thick with $120. At Target, that’d go far enough.

Reluctantly, I dressed again, and hurried out to get some real shopping done. I had until Mom finished searching the gardening section for a new pair of work gloves and a hat, and that wasn't nearly the kind of time I needed to do this the way I wanted.