Somebody Else’s Shoes

Somebody Else’s Shoes

We’re both short, with wide feet. Other than that, Gigi and I have nothing in common. Dad jokes that the wide feet should give us “good understanding”. 

It doesn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I love her. But it’s like we’re from two different worlds! Oh, sure, technically we’re from the same bloodline, but we’re like night and day. Honestly, she’s a little loony.

“If I were you, Girl, I’d…”

“No. You wouldn’t. Whatever it is, Gigi, if you were me, you’d do exactly what I’d do.” 

I’m all about logic. Science, tech, engineering, math. Gigi is… I don’t even know. I do know she’s not anyone's image of a grandma. The disparity between us isn’t your stereotypical “teen angst” versus “elder ataraxy”. No, indeed. And if you just encountered a new word there, you’re welcome. To put it plainly, Gigi’s not a paragon of mental tranquility.

Or physical. No sitting in a rocking chair for her! No knitting, no cookie baking. Gigi bounces on the balls of her feet when she walks, and jogs in place while she’s waiting to cross the street. She’s all muscle and angles. She just started a YouTube channel on fitness, where she uploads videos of herself doing acrobatics or high intensity cardio workouts, talking at full speed the whole time. Yes, it’s embarrassing. As in, humiliating to me, because I’m an absolute klutz. Also, because she already has over 900 subscribers. And the number climbs daily. 

“Woo-hoo, Girl!” she boasts. “Next thing you know, I’ll be monetized! Did you see my latest Insta post?” 

“Gigi, I don’t do Instagram.”

“What?!”

“Nope. No social media.”

Gigi rolls her eyes. The woman has no idea that we just do not connect.

Another thing. Gigi is stylish. The only reason I know she is, is because I’ve heard my cousin Tara going on about it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a clue. According to Tara, Gigi’s fashion sense is “with it”. Whatever that means. I don’t give two hoots for fashion. When I get dressed, I put something on that covers me up. And that’s all there is to it.

“Girl, you need to let me take you shopping,” Gigi informs me. “You’ll never turn any heads, dressing the way you do!”

“I don’t want to be noticed, Gigi. Not physically.”

“Then you’d better update your wardrobe. People do stare at you, but not in a good way.”

People stare at me? That thought makes me cringe. Maybe she has a point—even though she contradicted herself in making it.

She won’t give up. All she talks about is how I need some style. Mom suggests I should go ahead and let her “have at it.”

“It’ll make her happy, and she’ll quit hounding you. You don’t need to let her go to extremes.” 

Right. From my perspective, whatever Gigi does is extreme. But I’m pretty good at digging in my heels, so maybe I can get through this only mildly scathed.

I text Gigi.

“Offer still open? Could use a few new things before school starts.”

Ding-ding! She pounces on it. Her reply is there before my finger is off the “send” button. We set a time, and I show up at her door.

“Knock knock!”

“Come on in!” she calls out. Her voice sounds a little muffled. I press my finger on the security sensor and step inside. Her crab pose is impressive, but I don’t let her know it.

“Gigi!” I scold, trying to  interpret her grotesque, upside-down expression. 

“It’s time to go. Get up off the floor!”

I regret my choice of words. Before I can modify them, she’s done a backflip and landed cross-legged on her futon. 

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” 

We speak in unison. I’ve never noticed how alike our voices are.

Gigi is dressed, head-to-toe—well, collarbone-to-ankles—in Spandex. She’s covered, but at the same time… ugh. And the color—I’d know that lovely, symmetrical hex code anywhere: 33CC33. In layman’s terms, it’s called lime green. Although, if I saw an actual lime in that shade I would question its authenticity.

“I won’t be seen in public with you—”

There we go again with the stereo effect. Gigi jumps to her feet. We glare at one another, hands on hips, with identical posture.

“Girl, you look like such a frump!”

“I’m comfortable.” 

My favorite Geek Tragedy World Tour t-shirt is well worn, but not quite ratty. And what could be more practical than a long black skirt with an elastic waistband? I’m just going to be taking it off in the dressing room anyway.

Gigi clicks her tongue and disappears into the coat closet.

“Here. At least put this on so you look presentable.” 

She hands me a plain black… hoodie, for lack of a better description. It’s made of some slinky material instead of fleece. I don’t get the point. It’s certainly not cozy, but at least it’s tolerable.

“I’ll wear it if you tone that down a little,” I counter, with a challenging stare at her Spandex unsightliness.

“Oh, all right!” She huffs, and skips down the hall to her bedroom.

Moments later, she comes pirouetting back wearing a skirt of some floaty material with an uneven hem. I can’t tell if it’s poor workmanship or a fashion statement, but at least it covers the Spandex from waist to knee. 

We arrive at the mall just at opening time. Gigi pulls me toward a trendy clothing store whose significance I know only from Tara yakking about it.  I stare at the window display of bright, shiny stuff. Clingy. Glittery. Sheer. Dread.

“Gigi, please—they won’t have anything I’d wear!”

She takes me by the elbow. 

“Come on! We’ll find something you like.”

Flitting away to a rack of coordinated outfits, she calls out,

“Here’s what you need to pull you together, Girl!” 

She grabs two hangers, shoos me away to the dressing room, and heads back to scout for more.

I’m standing in the torture chamber trying to decode this crisscrossy garment. Do I pull it over my head? Is that the neck, or a sleeve? Where do my arms go? Getting dressed shouldn’t be this difficult. I have the thing halfway on… I think—

There’s a shriek. And then more shrieking! I can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement. I freeze, listening. Is someone holding up the store? Should I stay where I am, or run out there? Is Gigi in danger? 

A series of scenes plays rapidly through my mind as I struggle my way into the outfit. I figure that, if something bad is happening, Gigi will have it under control. She’ll have given the perp a judo chop or whatever it’s called. But still—I’d better get out there and see for myself.

Gigi is surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls, probably a few years younger than me. They’re gabbling excitedly and taking selfies. With Gigi. Clearly, there is no element of danger. But I’m clueless. What is going on?

“I can’t believe it!” one of the girls gasps.

“Me neither!” 

More selfies. More squealing. 

“Gigi, in person!” 

How do they know who she is—and why do they care?

At last, Gigi notices that I’m standing there in awkward uncertainty. She motions wildly at me.

“Come here and meet my fans, Girl!”

Gigi has a fan club. 

In the dressing room, I disentangle myself from the tricky attire and pull out my phone. Open YouTube. Bring up Gigi’s channel. Click the bell. And wouldn’t you know it—I’m the one-thousandth subscriber.