I think of the ’80s as the neon lights era, but this mall is all country village, with stores tucked into two-story “houses” painted in pastels; the vast cream ceiling is held up by red brick pillars that match the cobblestone floor that runs through a fake park, complete with trees. They’ve worked really hard to make an indoor mall look like an outdoor mall and I guess that’s hot these days, because it is crawling with people.

There’s the JCPenney, its window full of norm core, and a Kmart, which will be cheap, but then I see it: Chess King. Oh my god. I have literally shopped vintage Chess King on eBay and Depop. My favorite bomber jacket—butter yellow—is Chess King. I have to go in.

Oof. Some of this stuff is garbage. I mean, I can’t even tell what the skinny ties are made of—it’s like the intersection of sateen and plastic. But the zippered parachute pants are the same material parachute pants are always made of, and they’ll be so cute with a black bomber that I know is not remotely leather but has red epaulets, and I’m thinking: ensemble.

I count the cash Ms. Silverthorn gave me and realize that this purchase will eat up a third of it. I ditch the pants and snag only the jacket; it has a point of view. I’ll wear tees and polos and jeans for the rest of my sentence in 1985, but at least I’ll have a signature item. It makes me feel more like myself just thinking about it.

An Asian girl with a braided headband rings me up. “STYLISH!” she says. I’m so happy to talk clothes that I tell her I already have this jacket in yellow, and she’s amazed. They haven’t even SEEN the yellow in this store—when did it come out?—and I’m off to the lying races about how my cousin lives in the city and they get everything first.

“You may be too cool for this mall,” she says, winking and opening the drawer. “I don’t think you’ve been in before. I’d remember YOU for sure!” She’s taking an awfully long time to make change.

Is she flirting? I smile nervously. “Thanks … I—I’m from Connecticut.”

“Really? I’ve heard it’s pretty there! I’ll have to go someday.”

My god, she is flirting. I’m somewhere between blushing and fleeing. Is Gordo the only person in 1985 who knows a gay guy when he sees one?