It only got worse. The music switched to just a woman moaning, over and over again, and one girl actually came out in hip-length black leather boots, which sent a flurry of exclamations down the crowd and another set of people packing up and leaving. The models were oblivious, most of them making a point of playing specifically to Gwendolyn Rogers as if to prove they were just like her, real models. Gwendolyn’s head, however, bowed forward, as if even watching was too much for her.

For the grand finale, which was always a showcase of evening wear for Christmas balls and dances, the models came out in tight black dresses and spike heels, with their hair pulled straight back and lips bright red, the rest of their faces white and pale as if they were very sick. They stopped to pose, waiting for the applause to thunder down upon them.

We applauded, those of us who were left, and watched as the director of the show, a young guy in a purple suit with a walkie-talkie in his hand, came up for his bow. I wondered if he realized that the entire board of the Lakeview Mall was probably waiting for him offstage, ready to wring his neck. When they brought Gwendolyn back up to address the models there weren’t that many people left in the audience, which was probably a good thing.

They stuck Gwendolyn in the middle and the models giggled and panted and shuffled around to get closer, their lips red and bright. As the photographer took pictures, she was pale in the center, towering above them all with their black dresses and pulled-back hair, their pale skin and scary Halloween lips, looking down at them as they crowded in around her. And then, just as they were all saying cheese once more, smiling for the camera on their big day, Gwendolyn Rogers burst into tears.

No one knew how to react at first; she was just suddenly crying, tears running down her face as she stood there, surrounded by these girls who wanted to be just like her. The models moved away, uncertain, as if by proximity they could catch whatever she had, as if sorrow was infectious. No one did anything to help her.

Then I saw Mrs. Rogers; she was coming up the center aisle, her purse clutched against her hip, almost running but trying to look calm. She climbed the stairs and came up behind Gwendolyn, who was making little whimpering sounds that embarrassed me for her. I didn’t even watch, focusing instead on a wad of gum that was stuck on the floor. I heard them passing: Mrs. Rogers’s voice soothing and calm, saying, “All you need is rest, honey,” and Gwendolyn’s jarred and ragged, replying, “It’s so awful, they just don’t know how awful it is, those poor girls.”

Casey watched them, attentive, then tapped my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

I nodded and followed her, and we wove our way down the middle aisle, which was now suddenly crowded with models’ mothers (most of whom were biting their lips and looking irritated), a few men in suits with strained looks (I was sure they had to be the contingent of mall management), and a bunch of women talking in hushed voices about how shocking it all was. I lost Casey in the blur of perfume and general mayhem, then found her waiting for me by a planter full of ferns.

“Can you believe that?” she asked me as we started walking down in the direction of Little Feet. “A total breakdown, right in the middle of the Fall Fashion Preview. She has to have totally lost it. She’s nuts.”

“God, Casey,” I said, suddenly nervous that Gwendolyn was still in earshot. “She’s sick.”

“She’s nuts, Haven,” she said with authority, pulling out a pack of gum and offering me a piece. “Beautiful and nuts. What a combination.”

We were coming up on Sumner now, who was busy talking with some woman who had a baby attached to her hip and a toddler linked to her wrist by one of those baby leashes. The kid was straining on it, yanking towards the toy store, but kept getting jerked back, losing his balance, and crashing to the floor. The mother was too busy fussing at Sumner to even notice.

“I’m not the kind of person who usually complains,” she was saying as we got within earshot. “But I really feel like that was just a disgusting display and completely unnecessary. Those aren’t the kind of clothes a girl would wear back to school. What happened to plaid jumpers? To tights and slacks? To those nice sweaters with the reindeer prints on them?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Sumner said in a deep voice. “I can’t really say.”

“Well, it just upsets me.” She yanked on the leash, plopping the toddler, who had managed to make some headway, back to the floor again. “I feel like it just sends the wrong message, you know? I don’t associate gyrating with homework, myself, and I don’t think any other mother who spends money at this mall does, either.”

“I completely understand,” Sumner said, and then saw me and smiled. “I would suggest contacting mall management. I’m sure they’d be very concerned about what you’re saying. Here’s the number right here, or if you’d like to write a letter—”

“Yes, a letter might be better,” she said. “It’s always better to put it in writing, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.” Sumner wrote something on a card and handed it to her. “That’s the man to address, right there. In case you decide to call, he’s not in on Tuesdays.”

“Thank you.” She put the card in her fanny pack and leaned over the toddler, who was now sitting on the floor eating a dirty candy wrapper. We watched as she got him to his feet, adjusted the baby to her other hip, and they walked off down the mall together, the leash hanging between them.