Maxine pokes her head inside my room. “Hey, Ness, wanna go shopping?” she asks, throwing her long, sleek body onto my bed.

“Sure. I need a new dress. Sunday I’m meeting Trace’s parents.”

She jumps off the bed, telling me to get ready. I put on jeans and a pink ruffled tank top. Long silver chains complete my outfit; I place pink sandals on my feet.

My makeup is non-existent, so I reapply. Long, soft curls fall across my back as I head out the room.

Maxine waits on the couch, running a finger through her wavy brown tresses.

“Ready to go?” she asks, throwing her big aviator shades on her head.

“Yep.”

With our coffees in hand and our credit cards ready to be used, we walk inside the mall. Maxine is an expert shopper. She knows all the right stores and who has the best deals, an art she has studied for many years. She loves to pass this knowledge along to me. Loud colors and bright patterns scream at me from the racks as we enter the first store.

“Really? Here?” I swipe a hand over a leopard-print shirt hanging on the wall.

“Yep, they have great clothes in the back.” She leads me deep into the store where we try on numerous outfits, then shake our heads at each other and head on to another store.

The next few shops are exactly the same, me trying on outfit after outfit and Maxine saying, “Nope, not good enough.”

Maxine is serious about her mission to find me the perfect dress.

We head into the next store where Maxine oohs and ahhs at the clothing hanging from the racks. She pulls out a simple thin-strap pink maxi dress with brown trim and a small brown bow in the front and pushes it in my hands.

“Perfect. Try it on.” I admire the hemline. Exquisite. Absolutely beautiful.

Walking over to the fitting area, I step inside the tiny room.

It fits nicely and hangs low to my ankles. The material is lightweight and flows over my body. The dress and I have a love affair, and I promise myself to adore it forever.

It’s difficult to return to my normal clothing after wearing the masterpiece, but I do. I exit the dressing room and look for Maxine.

“Um, go back in there right now and put it back on so I can see,” she says, pointing her finger towards the room.

“It fits and looks great.”

“Well now, isn’t that fan-fucking-tastic. Now go, missy. I want to see.” She huffs and puffs, angry I didn’t come out to model for her.

Marching back in the dressing room like a good little girl, I do it again. When I put the dress on, I’m once again smiling.

I step out of the room, and Maxine’s eyes lighten.

“Damn, hooker, you look hot.” She laughs.

“I know, right?” I’m not trying to sound conceited, but you know how sometimes you see a dress and you just know it was made for you? Well, when they designed this dress, they had me in mind.

“Don’t be a prima donna. I wonder if they have that dress in blue.” She looks over to the rack.

“We can’t own the same dress. That would be fashion suicide.” I wiggle a finger in her face, and she slaps my hand away.

“Yeah, but I want to look hot, too.” She frowns, picking up her coffee from the side table. The glower lasts only a second before she flings her long brown waves over her shoulder and laughs.

“Please, you would look hot in a moo-moo.”

She puckers her lips, tries to do a moo-moo jig in the middle of the dressing area, and loses her footing.

She rushes towards me for balance. One foot trips on a discarded hanger lying on the floor, and she slips again. Have you ever looked into someone’s face at the exact moment when they realize they are going to fall? At the precise moment when they know there is no hope for them? Very comical, but only afterwards, when you can recall the memory. In the moment, it is the most dreadful thing.

Her eyes panic, and the next thing I see is brown coffee shooting from her Styrofoam cup and landing dead center on my gorgeous pink dress.

The warm coffee soaks through as I try to rub it off. Maxine regains her composure and runs her fingers through her hair.

“What are we gonna do?”

She shrugs her shoulders and rolls her eyes. “Well, we can’t buy this one.” She points to the dress with coffee spilled down the front and turns her nose up in the air.

The sales attendant, with a snooty pointy nose and her hair bun twisted in a tight knot, glances our way.

The harder we try to control our laughter, the louder we become, like two middle-school children trying to keep quiet during a sleepover.

“Shhh. Okay, take off the dress, and I’ll hang it back up.”

Tears water my eyes as I try to regain my composure. “Really? What if…?”

Maxine places her coffee-soaked hand over my lips to quiet me. We stand close and our voice level attracts the attention of a few passersby.

The sales attendant turns her head back to us, rising on her tiptoes and scowling in our direction. Her haughtiness is distracting, but I need to think what to do.

My heart is trying to escape from my chest, it’s beating so hard, and Maxine’s volume just gets louder.

What do I do? Will this sales attendant get mad? Kick us out of the store and not let me buy the perfect dress, minus the stain, of course?

“Okay, okay, I am going.” I head into the dressing room and shut the door just as the sales attendant approaches.

“Anything I can help you ladies with?” I hear her arrogant voice reach an all-time level of ultra-snoot through the door. Her finishing school would be proud of her today.

“No, we’re fine,” Maxine answers back, just as snobby.

I step out of the dressing room, tarnished dress in hand and look at Maxine. “What now?”

“I don’t know—maybe hang it back up on the shelf?”

“We can’t do that, can we?” Oh no, the situation is precarious, and we should proceed with caution. I sneak a peek at the store clerk. She is busy folding clothes near the front of the store.

Maxine grabs the dress in question and marches over to the shelf, then hangs it back up.

“There. Now here.” She grabs the same dress in my size—minus the coffee stain—thrusts it in my hands, then turns on her heels and makes her way to the check-out counter.

I laugh at her swagger: she’s always the little diva with all the answers.

We pay for the unsoiled dress and dash out the store, giggling the entire time.

Next we head through the mall, searching for food.

“Burger or burger?” Maxine asks, looking at the burger joint in the food court. Burger Heaven is always her first choice.

“A burger is fine with me.”

“I love burgers.”

“I know you do. Hey, I’m gonna run to the restroom,” I say.

As I enter the restroom, I pass a seating area to my right with two cream-colored couches on each wall. As I leave the stalls, I check my hair in the mirror as I wash my hands. My hair is frizzing again. Why won’t the twenty-four-hour serum last the actual twenty-four hours as promised? I’m alone at the hand dryer and don’t hear someone enter the room, but I feel someone come up behind me and I startle. The person yanks my hair suddenly, and I cry out in pain. Then the assailant slams my head into the wall, and I feel blood trickle down my cheek. I try to regain my bearings and catch sight of my attacker. “Please,” I whimper.

My brain is cloudy and, as if in slow motion, my legs go out from underneath me. I fall to the floor while the attacker still has ahold of my hair. Pain, hysteria, and panic flood my system.

I try to turn around and flail my arms and legs, my fight-or-flight reflex kicking in. I’m fighting for my life and make contact with the assaulter, kicking him hard in the knee. He lets out a thunderous wail.

Adrenaline pumps through me as if I’ve turned into She-Ra, so I take advantage of his moment in pain to wrap my fingers around his hand gripped tightly around my hair. I dig my nails into his wrist, and he finally lets go. Then he flees at record speed, almost knocking over an older woman on his way out the door.

She rushes over to me, asking, “Oh my goodness, dear, are you all right?”

I wipe at the stickiness of blood along my temple.

“I… I don’t know.” Trying to get to my feet, my legs buckle.

“No, stay here. I will go get help.” She rushes out the door.

A few moments later, a security guard blasts into the restroom and comes directly to assess my injuries.

“Are you okay, miss?” He’s an older gentleman with gray hair. His warm, inviting eyes show me he cares.

“I think I’m bleeding.” Pain shocks me when I touch the side of my temple. My head throbs, and I want to lie down.

“Did you see what happened?”

A crowd starts to accumulate around me and finally I hear Maxine’s voice echo off the tile floor.

“Oh, Vanessa!” She comes sprinting in and kneels by my side.

I try to smile but am so confused.

The older woman who found me explains in vague detail the events that occurred, then I tell my story to the security guard and Maxine. He offers to call the police. The walkie-talkie on his shoulder bleeps, and he speaks into it to let someone know to be on the lookout for a man in a black hooded jacket.

Water on the bathroom floor is seeping through my jeans, so Maxine helps me to my feet, then starts to clean my bruising temple. She uses tissue after tissue and tells me I may need stitches.

We wait for the police as the crowd in the restroom grows, everyone trying to catch a glimpse. “Someone was attacked,” they say, trying to get a closer peek. I’m fortunate to have Maxine by my side: she yells at anyone who looks for too long. My brain starts to cloud over, and Maxine has to help me stay on my feet.

“I’m so glad you kicked that fucker right in the knee. That should teach him,” Maxine says, running some paper towels under water and touching them to my head.

The police arrive and ask me more questions. So far, no one has seen anyone matching the description of the man described by either me or the older lady.

“I’m calling Darren.” Maxine grabs her phone. My purse lies forgotten on the floor, and I think of Trace. I want to talk to him, have him here holding me and telling me everything will be okay. The police move us into a little room next to the bathroom that has those couches, and we take a seat. They continue to go over the story with me and the older lady, whose name I learn is Grace.

Maxine enters the room, waving her phone in the air. “I just got off the phone with Darren. He and Trace are on their way.”

The paramedics examine me and tell me I won’t need stitches. I breathe a sigh of relief.

My phone rings. Maxine finds it and says, “It’s Jordan. I’ll answer it.” She has a disgusted look of annoyance on her face.

“Hello,” she says into the phone. “Yes, yes, she’s here. Listen, she can’t talk right now. Yes.” I try to listen to the one-sided conversation while the police continue to ask me questions.

Her eyes bug out as she hangs up the phone. “He’s here at the mall and coming to find us.” She shrugs her shoulders and puts my phone back into my purse.

The paramedics are still taking my vitals and bandaging my head when Jordan comes barreling into the woman’s restroom.

“Vanessa, are you okay?” He rushes to my side. As he looks me over, I hear a whimper escape his throat.

“No, she isn’t okay. Someone attacked her,” Maxine says, pushing Jordan out of the way so the paramedics can continue their work.

The room starts to spin; it all becomes too much. The paramedics tell me I have a concussion and shouldn’t sleep for at least six hours, plus should be closely monitored for twenty-four hours.

Maxine listens intently as Jordan paces the room.

“Will you knock that off, Jordan?” Maxine screams. The piercing tone hurts my head, and I want to sleep.

The activity in the room makes me dizzy, and I want to find my center. Just as I’m thinking this, Trace and Darren rush into the restroom. Trace’s eyes meet mine, and he grinds his teeth together. As he walks over and sits beside me, I instantly feel grounded.

“Vanessa, are you getting into trouble over here?” He winks and wraps a strong arm around me. I give him my best smile as Jordan grabs at the back of his neck.

Trace turns to watch Jordan walk back and forth while Darren puts Maxine in his arms and reaches for his phone. He taps away, oblivious of the surrounding scene. Maxine nudges him in the chest, and he puts the phone away.

“Sorry. Do they have any idea who did this?” Darren asks the police.

With serious faces and clipboards in hand, the police walk over to where I sit and kneel down to eye-level. “We’re going to file this report,” they explain. “We will call you when we have something.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Trace and the officers rise to their feet and shake hands.

He turns his attention back to Jordan. “What happened exactly? The three of you were shopping and someone attacked Vanessa?” Trace asks.

“No, just Vanessa and I were shopping,” Maxine says, taking a seat on the sofa beside me. “She came in here to use the restroom while I stayed in the massive line at the Burger Bar. Jordan came after it all happened.” She wraps an arm around me as Trace paces the floor, like in Matlock. He’s wearing khaki cargo shorts and a yellow T-shirt with a surfing logo plastered on the front. His hair stands on end, like he’s ran his fingers through it for hours. Darren looks at Jordan as Jordan freezes, then leans against the wall with one foot.

“What?” he asks, all eyes on him.

“How did you get here so fast?” Darren asks as he looks from Trace to Jordan.

“Yeah,” Maxine says, trying her best to support her man.

Trace rubs the back of his neck as he looks at my battered head, then kneels down on his knees and runs his hands up my arms. “Do you need anything?” he whispers.

Darren, Maxine, and Jordan exchange tense looks as they wait for someone to speak. After a while, Jordan releases his foot from the wall and says, “I was here at the mall. I came here to pick up some stuff.” He rushes over to where I sit but Trace stands up, blocking his path.

“Whoa there, buddy. Slow down.” Trace puts his hands out to block Jordan from getting any closer.

“Vanessa, I didn’t do this. I was here shopping today. I heard someone was attacked in the bathroom. That’s when I saw Maxine rush into the bathroom, and I tried to get closer. Then I called you,” Jordan says in one breath.

A mysterious look passes between Trace and Darren, and then Jordan steps back away from Trace and leans against the wall.

“Can we go home?” I ask, peeking through the bandage at Maxine.

She smiles and then smacks her forehead. “Shoot, I forgot. I have to work tonight, and you need someone to watch over you. I can call out.” She fiddles for her phone.

“No, she can stay with me. I’ll take care of her,” Trace says to Maxine. I just sit on the couch all bandaged and bruised. My head pulses and my heart flutters at the thought of Trace taking care of me. I smile at him as Maxine sits down next to me.

“Watch her close. I mean it, Trace. Watch her.” She wags a finger at him. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I see a twinkle in his dark eye that makes me weaker in the knees than I already am.

“I plan to do just that.” He lifts the corner of his mouth into a half-grin.

Jordan crosses his arms, too, and looks over, catching my eye. “Vanessa? Can we talk?”

I look at everyone’s faces and smile at Jordan. “Sure.” I attempt to stand, and Trace helps me, keeping me steady. Darren and Maxine come over and stand near me.

“Okay, we’re going to go,” Maxine says, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Call me if anything, and I do mean anything, happens. Call me tonight, call me tomorrow. Just call me.” She kisses her hand and touches my cheek with it.

“Thanks, Maxine. Now, did you want me to call you?” I joke.

Her face doesn’t budge into a smile. “I’m serious, smartass.” She looks me square in the eyes.

“Okay, okay. Yes, Mom, I’ll call you.”

She ushers Darren out of the ladies restroom, and I’m left standing between Jordan and Trace. I look at Trace, who doesn’t look like he has any intention of leaving.

“I’ll be okay,” I say as he leans in, placing a kiss on my undamaged temple.

Then he walks out of the restroom, taking one quick glance back at Jordan and saying, “Hurt her, and I’ll hurt you.”

“I have known Vanessa for longer than you. I would never hurt her,” he barks.

I smile at Trace and nod my head. “I’ll be fine.”

As he leaves Jordan and me alone, Jordan lowers himself onto the couch. I take a seat next to him and wait for him to say something.

Jordan was one of the first friends I made when I moved to Florida. He has always been loyal, and he would never hurt me.

“Vanessa, I don’t like this.” He points to my injuries and places his hands over mine in my lap.

“Well, neither do I.”

I glance down to check his wrist and breathe a sigh of relief: he has no claw marks.

“I want you to know I’m here for you.” He smiles.

“I know.” I lean over and give him a friendly hug. Patting his hands, I get up from the couch. Jordan steadies me and guides me out the door, where Trace waits outside, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, looking like a movie star. He sees me exit and rushes over to stop Jordan from touching me any longer.

“You ready to go?” he asks, taking my hands and looking to Jordan.

“Remember, Vanessa, I’m here for you.” Jordan releases his hold and walks away.

“Thank you, Jordan,” I say.