September 23, 2024 — 3:17 PM
Location: Lower Manhattan → Chauffeured SUV → Target • Staples • TJ Maxx
Weather: Sunlit with a side of shop‑air conditioning
Mood Meter: 🟢 Focused, edges of 🟢🟡 (group outing + public fluorescent lighting)
Sensory Notes: Fluorescents 6/10 • Cart wheels 5/10 • Barcode beeps 7/10 (oddly soothing)
Mission: Council supply run (posters, tape, extension cords, “non‑fog ambiance”), return with dignity intact

There are school errands and then there are School Errands—the kind that masquerade as productivity but are secretly about friendship, laughter, and whether the cart can survive three teenagers who steer like they’re piloting a tugboat through chaos. Today is the second kind.

Chloe meets me in the lobby with a clipboard so official it could run a small country. “Inventory list,” she says, like an oath. “We’re cost‑comparing tape and checking wattage on fairy‑string lights because I refuse to let the Treasurer buy anything that spontaneously combusts.”

“I respect this,” I tell her, accepting a pen as though I’ve been knighted. My phone buzzes with a text from Dad—AeroJets keeps his world spinning even on quiet afternoons.

Dad: Prototype cleared runway tests. Dinner later?
Me: Supply run w/ council. Back by 7.
Dad: Buy something that makes people smile. Business and life both need that.

I pocket the phone, feeling the small glow of a text that sounds like a hug.

“Ready?” Chloe asks.

I’m always too ready when it’s her.

Target (Where Carts Go To Learn Fear)

We step into Target’s automatic doors and the air changes—fluorescent lights, a shampoo aisle that smells like twelve versions of coconut, and a thousand red signs promising deals we didn’t know we needed.

Zara and Kaylee appear from behind a display of throw pillows, as if summoned by the spirit of impulsive home decor. Zara wears sunglasses indoors again (decision unclear), and Kaylee holds a notebook labelled OP: SUPPLY CHARM in block letters.

“Rhythm of the mission,” Chloe says, tapping her clipboard like a metronome. “Lights, tape, poster boards, extension cords, Command strips, snacks for volunteers. We’re in, we’re out.”

“We’re stealth,” Zara announces.

“We are absolutely not stealth,” Kaylee says at the same time, then elbows a wire basket so it rattles like a confession.

We take a cart. I let Chloe drive because she looks like she could parallel park a yacht with gentle confidence. We skim down the seasonal aisle first, where rubber pumpkins stare at us like they know our secrets. Chloe pauses to touch a copper‑leaf garland.

“Warm light, warm colours,” she murmurs. “No fog, just glow.”

“Brand statement,” I say.

She grins. “Exactly.”

We stack two boxes of amber string lights into the cart, then head for the arts & crafts aisle for poster boards. Barcode beeps pop like calm percussion. Kaylee takes notes on prices with the aggressive precision of a grad student. Zara tests a handful of metallic gel pens on the “try me” pad and somehow makes the word COZY look like a fashion label.

The tape section becomes a battleground of personal ethics.

“Duct tape solves everything,” Kaylee declares, grabbing a roll the size of a life raft.

“Duct tape ruins paint,” Chloe counters, sliding it back like it bit her. “Command strips.”

Kaylee pouts for exactly three seconds, then nods. “Science bows to wall integrity.”

We bump into the home electronics aisle for extension cords and surge strips, and that’s where the cart choreography goes from efficient to hilarious. The aisle narrows; two other families block us in a polite standoff; a toddler develops an immediate passion for the exact surge protector Chloe is holding. We navigate with tiny micro‑negotiations and a shared, slightly panicked laugh. At one point, Chloe’s hand brushes mine as we both reach to steady the cart—pure instinct, pure spark.

We don’t comment. We don’t pull back quickly either.

“Look,” Zara says, attempting nonchalance from five feet away, “two people can steer a cart at once without it being a metaphor.”

“Can they?” Kaylee asks, too loudly.

Chloe and I exchange the faintest glance, the kind that feels like a secret handshake.

We roll past home decor—neutral throws and soft lamps. Chloe halts, eyes on a small table lamp with a fabric shade.

“What if the entrance has lamps?” she says. “Like… living room cozy. It would slow the rush at the door. People walk in and feel safe.”

I look at her, then at the lamp, then back. “I think you just invented a new genre of school dance.”

“Domestic disco,” she says.

“House party without the mess.”

We add two lamps to the cart, because of course we do.

It’s right around hoodie mountain that the spy comedy begins.

Kaylee, determined to test her newest theory—that surveillance is most effective at sweater-level—climbs halfway into a folded stack of hoodies. She vanishes to the shoulders, then peers out like a textile meerkat.

“Observation point acquired,” she whispers.

“You look like laundry that achieved consciousness,” Zara informs her.

A passing kid points and whispers, “Mum, that pile blinked.”

Kaylee tries to retreat deeper. The stack slumps. The top layer slides in slow motion, like a tiny, fleece avalanche. She flails. The cart wobbles. Chloe grabs the handle. I grab Chloe’s wrist. Everything rights itself at the last second.

Zara hurries to help, misjudges the shelf height, and bonks her forehead on the metal edge with a small, dignified thunk that echoes louder than anyone wants.

“You okay?” I ask, trying very hard not to laugh.

“I meant to do that,” she says, rubbing the spot like a queen who refuses to admit marble is harder than cheekbones.

Kaylee pops up from the hoodies, hair full of lint, triumphant. “Data collected.”

“What data?” Chloe asks, bewildered.

Kaylee stares at us, then at the hoodies, then back. “Comfort… theory.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow—the polite kind. I cough, which is code for we both know what we’re not saying, let’s not say it here.

We herd ourselves to checkout like we’re shepherding chaos in a red cart, and somehow end up with precisely what we came for, plus two emergency chocolate bars that I definitely did not add when no one was looking.

Staples (Where the Beeps Are Beautiful)

Staples is the sound equivalent of a white‑noise playlist for my brain: barcode beeps, soft printer humm, the papery whisper of reams being slid into boxes. If Target is a chaos carnival, Staples is a quiet library that sells organization.

“We need poster boards in two sizes, pastel and brights, plus those little easel‑back stands,” Chloe says, already in motion. Her joy is contagious; I catch it like a good cold.

Zara tries to walk in stealth but gets magnetized by a display of highlighters the way birds get confused by glass. She tests five, writes NO FOG EVER on the sample pad, admires her own lettering, and snaps a photo for stories—no filters, just victory.

Kaylee discovers a stapler labeled No‑Jam Technology and makes a face like she’s found religion. “Do you hear it?” she whispers, clicking it once. “That is the sound of progress.”

We split the list into columns and rendezvous at the front, where the cashier is playing a game of Scan Tetris with our supplies. Chloe compares prices with the discipline of a forensic accountant. I bag with a system that would make airport logistics proud. Zara says, “This is a surprisingly attractive version of adulthood,” and Kaylee pockets a tiny notebook labeled FIELD NOTES like it’s a badge.

Outside, the air feels friendlier. We balance bags. The SUV smells lightly of cedar and new plastic when we climb back in, and for a full minute we are a tiny, victorious team in a moving bubble.

TJ Maxx (Pillows, Candles, and Chaos Energy)

If Target is a bold chorus and Staples is a steady beat, TJ Maxx is jazz—improvised, slightly chaotic, often brilliant. The aisles meander. The merch winks. The candle section is a personality test disguised as home goods.

Chloe goes straight to textiles. “Entrance hallway needs softness,” she decides, touching a knit throw like it might purr. “One bench, two pillows. People should sit if they want.”

“Radical,” Zara says. “Let them rest.”

We test pillows by squishing. We test candles by sniffing. Kaylee inhales Pumpkin Harvest and immediately sneezes so violently an employee says, “Bless you” from two aisles over. Chloe, between laughs, gently steers her away from cinnamon. “Let’s stick to clean cotton and ‘library.’”

“‘Library’ smells like aspirational dust,” I say.

Chloe smiles sideways. “And you love it.”

I do.

Zara’s trench gets caught on a display hook and, in her levitating attempt to free it gracefully, she spins ever so slightly and tips backward into a pile of throw pillows—landing like a queen into a throne of fluff. She does a little wave from the pillow mound as if this is precisely the outcome she intended.

“Ten out of ten,” I tell her.

“I commit to my choices,” she replies, sitting up with regal dignity and precisely one pillow fiber on her lip gloss.

We choose a cream knit throw, two sunset‑gold pillows, and a small wooden letter board we’ll use at the entrance: WELCOME — LIGHTS, WATER, BREAKS — NO FOG. Chloe grins like a mission patch just arrived in the mail.

Return (and the Small Thing That Wasn’t Small)

Back at the building, we carry bags like a parade of responsible goblins. The elevator doors open and we all pile in, suddenly quiet the way you are after a shared adventure, the kind where everyone expended the exact right amount of energy and no one is secretly mad.

On Chloe’s floor, the doors ding. She tugs one of the heavier bags closer and, without ceremony, I reach out and take it. Our fingers overlap on the handle for a heartbeat. Warmth, steady and unshowy.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Anytime,” I say.

Kaylee watches this exchange with the hawk‑eye of a person who plans to annotate it later. Zara watches with the satisfied half‑smile of a matchmaker who refuses to admit it.

The doors open. We step out with bags and a feeling that might be called glow if we were being dramatic, which we are not, except maybe a little.

Mr. Luis takes one look at the mountain of supplies and raises an impressed eyebrow. “Council,” he says, as if the word itself is a team. “Looks like a disco is being saved.”

“No fog,” Chloe says solemnly.

“Bless you,” he replies, as if she has declared spiritual doctrine.

Night Log — 9:04 PM

• Target: lamps, lights, command strips, and the birth of Domestic Disco
• Staples: the beep symphony; acquired No‑Jam stapler (Kaylee is now clergy)
• TJ Maxx: knit throw + sunset pillows + letter board = entrance softness achieved
• Hoodie mountain attempted to eat Kaylee; Zara bonked her head; both survived with comedic flair
• Hand brush on the cart handle; bag pass in the elevator; gravity lasted longer than necessary
• Dad texted to “buy something that makes people smile”—mission accomplished, scientifically speaking
• Crush status: steady climb with good oxygen; zero turbulence; seat belt sign on only for safety not fear

Action item:
Draft letter‑board message options with Chloe tomorrow.
Top candidates:

• Welcome In. Breathe. Dance. Water to the left.
• Glow > Fog.
• This space was built to be kind.

Secondary action item:
Remember that helping someone carry a bag is not a love confession, but it might be one of those small screws that holds up the whole stage.