Grand

Reina thinks to herself long and hard as she stands in the middle of the brightly lit, modernized Target display. Her dilemma is whether she wants to try a new Korean skincare brand or stick to her tried and true. Who is she kidding? The bright pink, the bubble letters? They did her in. She swiftly throws the moisturizer in the back of her bright red cart, already nose-pointed toward the bath salts; no, the hair care. Why not both? 

This bath bomb is in her favorite set of colors—shimmery, dark purple and alien green. It reminds her of the strong plastic scent on the action figures she couldn’t afford when she was a child. Does anybody use bath bombs anymore? She throws it in her cart. 

Her hair is so red now. It makes her skin look porcelain, like it glows in the light, stamping out the subtle gray hue and an ever-so-slight brownness that reveals her lineage to the knowing. Her hair needs new products, too. Ones meant for how red it is. She runs her French manicure through her shoulder-length curls and reaches toward the bottle above the price tag she was just looking at. Color guard probably. The bottles look red, oh two bottles—shampoo, and conditioner. A treatment? Anti-frizz? Throws them all in the cart. The sound of them hitting the plastic basket sends something electric up her neck, fondles the inner parts of her lizard brain. 

A friend with a perfect face said she should try brown eyeliner; it would be subtle but would make her brown eyes pop! It would send lingering eyes away from what her mother chided as that “awful European nose” that still had a slight crook in it from that time Mother hit with a closed fist. Today, everything is red just like the blood was then, as it streamed uncontrollably down her tanned face. It had, left pink trails on her skin that matched Mother’s pink face and had stained her clothes a nasty orange-brown, so she’d gone to Target, arm-in-arm with her friend, Perfect Face. There, with pupils dilated, she’d gotten new clothes, a tinted lip, some girlie undies with lace that she wasn’t allowed to wear. “Our secret,” Perfect Face said. 

By now, she’s made her way, with her fingers lightly floating above her slender chest, over to the clothes. Her mouth waters at the sight of satin, lace, tulle, new textured patterns, colors on trend this season, a show-stopping orange, a subtle watercolor look on an asymmetrical. There are plenty of options to frame her elegant, long neck. This was the one thing her father gave her before disappearing in the night. “Back to Lebanon,” her mother had said, while collecting the things he left behind to pawn at the shop around the corner.

Parched and ready to get to the best part, she wipes the sweat from her brow and turns toes toward the self-checkout line. Each step echoes in her ears. Each breath threatens to burst right out of her chest. The pitch and timbre of each beep from the register dances down her spine.

$55.49.

She taps her credit card.

Unfolds her 2 large totes and smoothly, inside the cart, she slides her booty into them. There is nobody in the world but her. 

Until a pop like a champagne bottle. A slight boom. A revelry? Where is that coming from?

Right then, the self-checkout stand itself speaks metallic, with a flair: “Congratulations, you have stolen five thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise! Please, wait here to be escorted by security!”

Its face goes red. The doors just a few feet away shut with a terrible clang.

And standing there, red-handed, Reina freezes, and her mind goes black.