“How do I look?”
Alia twirls in a deep green dress before me, giggling for all the world like we haven’t spent most of the afternoon trudging through the mall. Still, I’m a good sport, so I give her a smile.
“Very pretty, Alia.”
God, I feel like I’m in the Say the line, Ralph! scene from The Simpsons.
“You should try some of these dresses yourself!” Alia says, picking another dress to try out. “Come on Zainab, live a little!”
“I’ll pass,” I say, stifling a groan. I swear, Alia’s memory can be awfully selective at times. As if I could actually afford anything they have on offer here. My family isn’t poor or anything, but the neighborhood we live in is a bit too fancy for our current finances. We have to be careful with our budget.
Alia sees me as a friend first, but I can tell the money problem is completely alien to her – never even crossed her mind, and why would it? She’s a trust-fund child, down to every bratty, entitled element of the stereotype. And a good friend, nonetheless… but I do wish she were a bit more considerate about this stuff.
I give a weary sigh. Truth is, even if I had the money, I would likely buy nothing here anyway. Places like these don’t have clothes for big-boned, plain-faced girls like me, and I feel even more average than usual when pitted against Alia’s lithe grace.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not commiserating. I know I’m smart, I’ve always worked hard for everything I have, and I’m no less a person than Alia just because of my family background. Still, sometimes it does get to me – usually, when we’re at the mall.
It’s just a little frustrating to see how easy everything is for her. If it was just the money I could understand it, but Alia lives a life straight out of the cover of a glossy magazine with no effort whatsoever.
As if to prove my point, she emerges once more from the changing room, this time in a flowery summer dress that’s ten times as expensive as you’d guess from merely looking at it.
“What about this one?” A flash of mischief goes through her eyes.
“Looks pretty too,” I say, evenly. “They all do.”
Alia giggles, retreating back into the changing room, and leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Of course, she has an easier time than I do when it comes to picking clothes. She’s petite, and cute, and rich. Even without makeup she looks so effortlessly pretty – and knows it. The clothes she picks “at random” seem to bring out the shine in her long hazel locks, and match the honey-gold in her clever eyes.
It’s the one interaction in our friendship where I feel, not simply restricted in my means compared to hers, but truly jealous. I’d rather stay home, but I guess she loves the attention too much to just go to the mall by herself. She gives me an innocent look every time she asks me to accompany her, but I know her well enough to see the clever manipulations behind the angelic persona. Sometimes I flatly say no.
But when I do say yes, I’m left playing cheerleader, repeating “you look so pretty!” for hours on end, then carrying her new purchases like some kind of gopher. Alia and I aren’t normally like this - I won’t let anyone push me around – but as in all friendships, it pays to make concessions at least some of the time. I balance it out with my “outspoken rule”: I am always vocal and assertive when I feel my boundaries are being violated.
I have to admit that today I’m regretting the shopping trip more than usual. We’ve been at the mall for most of the afternoon, and I’m so tired. Alia is seemingly intent on purchasing half the mall’s stock, and predictably, I haven’t bought anything.
Besides, my mind isn’t on clothes at the moment. Alia and I are both in our senior years, and where I fret and worry about the future, she sails through life without a care in the world. Were it not for my full scholarship, I would never have gotten this far, but what next?
I try to ignore the knot of dread at the pit of my stomach, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.
As I stare at Alia, who is giggling with the cashier and flashing her father’s credit card, I realize the absurd paradox that comes with wealth inequality. I need a job, but she doesn’t: her trust fund is more than enough to sustain her lifestyle indefinitely, and that’s without counting her family’s liquidity and real estate assets. And yet, paradoxically, she’ll have her pick of jobs when she’s done. I won’t.
Still, it looks like the shopping binge is finally over. I’m carrying all the clothes, obviously, but so long as we leave in a hurry, I don’t really mind being a pack mule. Alia hasn’t lost a bit of bubbly enthusiasm though, alternating between her phone, and a rapid-fire monologue about the week’s upcoming parties.
I only half-listen, until I hear her say, “Come clubbing with me tomorrow night!”
I don’t have the emotional energy, or the money, to deal with this. And I’m more than a little miffed that Alia is going on and on about parties after we devoted the entire afternoon to her pastimes, when anyone with functioning eyes could tell I’m mentally in a bad place at the moment. She could take at least five minutes out of her day to be considerate and supportive about it!
I know she means well, that she isn’t being an emotional vampire or anything – hell, on some level, this might be her way of being supportive: trying to distract me with fun. Still, I am annoyed and I feel like my needs aren’t being addressed. And that means one thing: it’s outspoken rule time.
“No, Alia. You know I don’t like it, and besides, I have to study. I need to actually worry about my grades, and you know it.”
“You’re right, no problem! Just make sure you don’t burn out, alright?” The smile never leaves Alia’s face. Even when being rebuffed she manages to be perfectly graceful. On some level, I admire that, and I feel better for enforcing my boundaries. Alia and I might not be fully on the same wavelength, or members of the same social circles, but as friends, we are equals.
Alia’s composure doesn’t last long past the exit to the mall, though. Her smartphone vibrates to a new notification, and upon checking it, she switches to full brat mode again.
“Un-fucking-believable!” She mutters to herself. “My dad isn’t picking us up!”
I cringe internally. As if the man had nothing better to do in his life? Alia at her best is a really great friend, but damn she has a selfish streak. “We could take the bus? The stop is right over there.”
Alia’s face contorts in vague displeasure. “Ewww. No way, Zainab! We’ll call a cab. My treat.“
Of course, the princess is too good to take the bus like the rest of us mortals. I roll my eyes, but I shut up – I’m not paying, after all, and by the time we do come home, we’ll hopefully get to do something we both enjoy, like watching some Netflix, or looking at recipes.
Alia and I are technically neighbors – which is how we became friends in the first place, during our childhood – but that’s where all similarities between our homes end. My parents got a hold of the cheapest middle-class unit they could, but Alia and her family live in a veritable mansion, surrounded by a walled garden that has hosted more parties than I can count – either here in the shade of the trees, or by the pool in the backyard.
The house itself is a sprawling, three-floor extravaganza whose carbon footprint I don’t even want to think about. Honestly, I’ve always thought it was a little impractical, the kind of place that would require an army of maids to clean and maintain at all times.
I’ve been here countless times since my childhood, so I don’t really take the time to take in the luxury and elegance as Alia and I make our way through the place and up to her bedroom. I say “bedroom” but that’s selling it short: the room is huge, with a king-sized bed, an expansive desk, plenty of furniture, and of course a walk-in closet that is just slightly smaller than my own room at home.
I help Alia sort and put away her newly purchased clothes, trying to ignore the small flashes of envy I feel. I wonder how much money I would have to earn just to be able to afford half of this closet’s content over a long period of time. Oh, well. I have the brains and the determination to see myself through any obstacle. If a walk-in closet like this is what I want, I’m sure I’ll get it eventually. I just need to land the right job after college.
If I can land any at all…
Still, I’m here to have fun, not sulk. With the clothes sorted, Alia and I head back downstairs. I step over a stray set of slippers (Alia’s, of course) as I make my way to the living room, then crash on the sofa, exhausted. Finally, my weary limbs are getting some relief. I don’t care what other plans Alia has for the day, but I’m not moving away from the couch.
“You stay here and rest,” she says, basically hopping between each foot in excitement. “I gotta call Yasmin a sec. Totally gotta brag about what we just bought!”
What you bought, I almost say, but then nod my assent. I really dislike Yasmin – she has all of Alia’s flaws, and none of the positives – but admittedly I can use the downtime. My friend, high-strung as ever, rushes out of the living room, presumably back to her room, to make the call, and I stay, lounging on the sofa.
I don’t stay alone for long, though. Soon enough, the front door opens again, and Anbar – Alia’s younger sister – steps in. She’s built very differently from her sister, with a short crop of lighter blond hair that brushes her shoulders, and more of a tomboy look – unisex jeans, a loose shirt, and very little of the grace and innocence that so characterizes her sister. She’s also quieter and a bit of a loner, but not at all unpleasant. We know we like different stuff, but we’re still cordial to each other.
“Hi, Zainab,” she says with a nod, munching on a pack of chips. God knows how she can maintain her good figure with all the carbs she eats… if I transgressed on food one time for every three of hers, my acne would explode, not to mention the instant weight gain. This family really does get all the blessings.
“Hello, Anbar!” I say, with a smile. “How are you doing?”
“Good, thanks,” she says without looking me in the eye. “Enjoy your time with Alia!” Then she slinks back into the hallway without a further word, doubtlessly to go back to her room and play video games. Oh well, to each their own.
Time marches on, and there’s no sign of Alia coming down again. I find myself lightly dozing on the sofa when a sudden rustling awakens me. It isn’t my friend, though. It’s the… least charming member of the household, Sanae. Successful psychiatrist, local queen bee among the well-to-do, and more importantly from my perspective, Alia and Anbar’s mother.
She looks freakishly younger than she is – mostly thanks to her blemish-free skin. Were it not for the darker, almost brunette color of her hair, and the fact that she has straight bangs rather than flowing locks, it would be impossible to tell her apart from Alia. She sits royally in a plushy armchair, one leg crossed over the other and a mug of tea on her lap. She doesn’t offer to make me any, but gives me a tentative, circumspect smile.