So, I was staring down the saleswench when a gaggle of terrifyingly perky high school children walked in. Many of them wore skin-tight clothing, which was more than a little frightening. They did have a token goth friend, though goth just didn’t mean what it used to. She was wearing a frilly pink shirt with a purple skirt, trimmed with lace and elaborate beading.

They stopped when they saw Alphonse and I, and quite abruptly fell silent. I flipped casually through a few blouses, some tshirts (I hear our style is fairly similar to that of 80 years ago, or so?), and a select pair of super-stretch denim. The girls giggled a little as they passed me on their way past. I shrugged it off, they’d grow up eventually. I self-consciously rubbed the raised pink scar on my arm and continued rifling past hideous mustard-colored shirts.

“I can’t believe they’re allowed to shop here.” One of the too-thin babies whispered, her blue eyes glimmering with that “I’m so cool” attitude reserved for horrid teen girls. “Gross.”