A block before the mall we climb down the back stairs of the bus, Morgan carrying the wheel rod of the stroller and me holding the handle. The doors fold closed behind us as we head for my bank, Luanne still sleeping.

Withdrawing from an ATM makes me feel tense. I’m spending money, after all, drawing from my safety nest egg. It’s been so long, I have to think about my birthdate password. Is it month, day, year or day, month, year? My fingers tremble as I finally count three crisp twenties fresh from the machine.

“What’s wrong now?” Morgan asks when I stare at them.

“I need this money to go to medical school. My parents can’t even afford rent.” I look down at my watch. Will I even get to go to school?

“You’re a brain.” She pats my head. “You’ll get a scholarship.”

She’s so irritating. I duck from her hand. Can I win a scholarship? I can’t even learn how to swim. But she’s still right about the bathing suit. I can’t be seen in public in Little Mermaid anymore.

We power march the rest of the way to the mall, me anxious that I’ll back out if we don’t hurry. If we slow down, Luanne might wake up, too.

The parking lot looks full, and the moment we step through the doors the air conditioning blasts us. Racks of clothing and tables with markdowns line the halls. Too many people crowd and paw through the offerings.

“Let’s go to Economart. That’s where Aunt Cathie gets all her bargains.” I don’t wait for an answer, just steer the stroller in that direction.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Morgan asks as we pass through the open door of the store and I head toward the children’s department. “The ladies’ department is in that corner.”

“Ladies’ won’t have my size,” I tell her. She follows me to a rack of strawberry and banana-coloured suits, some of them with Disney Princesses on them, others with Paw Patrol. “What about this one?” I hold up a deeply discounted yellow suit with a blue Cookie Monster grinning from the middle.

“You are not wearing kiddie characters. Even if we have to go to a special midget shop.”

“Midget, Morgan? Really. You mean a boutique for petites.”

“Whatever.” Morgan grabs the stroller away from me and forces me to follow her over to browse the ladies’ corner.

A 40%-OFF sign draws my attention. I shuffle through racks of boulder-holder bra-style tops and circus-tent skirts and bottoms. This shouldn’t be so hard!

“Over here!” Morgan hisses from a rack of tankinis.

Better choice there. Leopard prints, black spandex with zippers all over, blue denim shorts and halter tops. Frantically, I check the tags — all size ten and up. “Too big, too big,” I tell Morgan as I slide them across the rack.

“What size do you wear?”

“I don’t know. Zero?”

“Ohmigosh. How can you be a size nothing? Everybody has to be a size something.” She steps back from the bathing suits and tosses up her hands.