Even the expressionless mannequins in the store window at Le Chateau exuded a hostility that my Grade 9 self understood as being beyond cool. My hand gripped money my mom lent me, all 40 dollars of it, in the pocket of my jacket as if it would escape if it had the chance, dashing to the less intimidating Mariposa, a store my friend Cindy and I deemed being for “teeny boppers”, or pastel sweatshirt haven of Cotton Ginny. We stood outside Le Chateau for minutes, working up the bit of nerve it takes for 13-year-old girls to go somewhere cool when they know that they are absolutely not.

Cindy and I stepped inside and immediately let ourselves be absorbed by the nearest rack of clothes. We pretended to be keenly interested in running our hands over the hangers but, really, we wanted to take it all in – the beat of the booming dance music that set our own heartrates, the girls at the cash register with their yellow hair and black lipstick, the pods of curated clothing displays all over the store. It was clear Le Chateau did not sell anything like the clothes we were wearing – blue jeans and, in my case, a t-shirt with an overly earnest graphic from the local SAAN.

I was determined to find something as long as it was black. Black is the only thing Nicole from my grade wore and I wanted to be like her from, the thick circles of eyeliner around her eyes, pointy shoes to the t-shirts emblazoned with the names of bands I’d never heard of – The Cult, Depeche Mode, INXS.

“You look like you’ve been up on the tiles all night,” my mom remarked after I made it clear black was all I was ever going to wear for the rest of my life. I didn’t even know what the comment meant until a couple years later after I had downed a full bottle of peach schnapps in the arcade parking lot. The only thing my mom hated more than black was me wearing black. She repeatedly told me it wasn’t the right for me, even dragging me to a lady who “did my colours” for my 16^th birthday. After being draped with multiple fabrics, I was cheerfully declared a summer and provided a little wallet that contained tiny fabric swatches of all the colours that looked good on my pale and freckly skin tone. Black was not included and it was then I became just a little resentful of those winter people who could wear black without being told they looked like they’d been sick on the bathroom floor. Thing was, even though I tossed aside that little wallet at first, it followed me through adulthood and found a permanent place in my purse. I still use it every time I shop.

I bought the cassettes of the bands I’d memorized from staring at the back of Nicole’s shirts in class. Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration, INXS’s Kick, and The Cult’s She Sells Sanctuary. The Cult was my favourite and I declared my blinding love for Ian Astbury by dressing just like him. Everybody else had moved in to New Order and Prince but I remained loyal to Ian, proving that no matter how much I chased cool, I’d never catch up to it. When I started underaged clubbing, I was still under the influence of Ian Astbury, confidently swaying on top of one of the speaker boxes at Luv-A-Fair in my black bellbottoms with slits up to my thighs, a white frilly blouse, long black fake leather vest, and a head scarf. All from the coolest store at the mall.

That was the last time I bought anything from Le Chateau. I’d hung onto Ian for too long, now he was replaced by the angry and disheveled Courtney Love. Around the time I started going to thrift stores and refashioning lingerie into baby doll dresses to wear with combat boots, Le Chateau started selling clothing that I felt was more geared towards, well, teeny boppers.