Well, my chances of picking out something quick and easy at Macy’s just went out the window. “Where, then?”

“Oh please; Montana Avenue, duh.”

“Huh?”

Her mouth dropped open and she gave me her best you are an idiot stare. “You don’t know Montana Avenue? Everyone knows about Montana Avenue. It’s the hottest place to shop.” She settled back in her seat. “We’ll find something fabulous there.”

The light was still red, but it was going to turn any second. “Which way?” I asked, ignoring her lecture.

“I can’t believe you don’t know this.”

“Get over it. Which way?”

The light changed and the Mercedes behind me honked.

“Which way?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel.

Kimberlee looked at me like I was a particularly gross bug, and the Mercedes honked again.

“Straight it is,” I muttered, peeling out.

“You should have gone left,” Kimberlee said with no change of expression.

I gritted my teeth and reined in my temper as I casually, slowly, thoughtfully cut off about six cars, flipping a U-turn that left an arc of black tire marks across three lanes of traffic.

I was going to have to apologize to Halle later.

Kimberlee shrieked and attempted to grab hold of something, but she ended up sprawled across my lap. Well, sprawled inside my lap, since she sank right through my thighs. I gasped as ice shot up my spine and I was wracked with a bone-grinding chill that almost made me let go of the wheel. After that, she quietly directed me down the Santa Monica 10 to Lincoln Boulevard. My nerves were somewhat recovered by the time we reached the outdoor strip-mallish street that looked about two miles long.

At least Kimberlee was excited. She got out of the car, straightened her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” she said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

I shuffled after her.

I have to admit, Montana Avenue was impressive, though I tried to act all nonchalant. Every kind of store you could imagine lined the streets, their displays so bright it was almost hard to look at. Hundreds of people milled around, most of them looking either like dazzled tourists or runway models.

Guess which category I fit into.

We passed a store with tailored suits and colorful dress shirts hanging in the window. “Let’s go in here,” I whispered to Kimberlee. This was classic and chic, wasn’t it? Girls go for that metro look. I think.

But Kimberlee just wrinkled her nose. “SEAN? Oh please. What are you? A future MBA? No, don’t answer that; I don’t even want to know. Come on.” I took one last glance at the window before trudging after her.

“Here,” she said, surveying the front of a funkily decorated store, her hands on her hips. “This looks promising.”

I looked up at the sign. Citron. My eyes went down to the window display. I wasn’t even completely sure it was clothing. I mean, there was fabric on mannequins, but it was all drapey and covered with strange designs. Lots of snakes, flowers, and . . . Buddhas?

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“In, in!” she ordered.

Someone help me. Pushing open the door sounded a very soft tinkle in the back and a tall, thin woman with dark brown lipstick came walking up to me with a huge smile on her face. “Welcome to Citron. Can I help you find something?”

“Tell her you’re just looking right now,” Kimberlee said, already studying the racks of clothing.

“Just looking, thanks,” I mumbled. “So what now?” I asked, flipping through the rack Kimberlee was eyeing.

She snorted. “I suggest you start by going to a stand with men’s clothing on it.”

“How can you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and strode to the other end of the store. I looked around, comparing the two sides. I guess there was a difference. The male side looked a little more brown. I squinted. Yeah, definitely more brown. I sighed and went over to stand next to Kimberlee.

“Hold this up,” she said, pointing to a hideous yellow button-up shirt with brownish swirls all over it.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She sent me a look full of fire and I yanked the monstrosity up to my chest. “Nope,” Kimberlee said. “Put it back.”

Thank you, universe.

She had me hold up several more shirts—some were a little less hideous and some a little more, but none were anywhere near the range I’d have considered wearable. I held up a semisheer, long-sleeved black thing with an intricate silver design on it, and Kimberlee paused. Then she walked all around me and continued to stand in front of me and stare. I was starting to get uncomfortable when she nodded.

“Get that one.”

I looked around me. “This one?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t want me to try it on or anything?”

She laughed like that was the silliest idea in the world. “I know what size you wear. Just go buy it.”

“Fine,” I huffed.

I took the shirt to the register without looking at it again, and the saleswoman gushed that it was the newest thing from some spring lineup, or something, and then took about ten minutes folding it into an oversized paper bag with tissue paper and everything.

“Here you are,” she said with that fake smile. “That’ll be eighty-four ninety-nine.”

I turned and shot a wide-eyed look at where Kimberlee had been about two seconds before, but she had conveniently disappeared. I dug out my credit card, glad my mom had mentioned just yesterday that I should get some new clothes. Maybe she’d understand.