Jan got the idea to film Stevie's third feat of courage after Jesse showed him the footage of me dancing in the HalloweenTown. He called it "viral gold," and said he wants to "mine [us] for hits." I was stunned Stevie agreed to it. I mean, she doesn't have a choice whether to perform the dare, but to allow herself to be filmed for posterity? And possibly YouTube? The girl is turning into quite the bundle of surprises. Anyway, that's what we were doing after school, on a Wednesday. Carla got suckered into tagging along. She heard me telling my mom over the phone that I'd be late coming home because we were going to get 'Pumpkin Spice Lattes' (as if that's a thing I'd ever want to drink. Coffee is gross. I don't care how grown up it makes you seem). When Carla saw the Starbucks pass by her backseat window, she realized we were up to something, and moaned about how she 'hadn't signed up for any abject stupidity.'

It was too late. By then, we were already en route for Center City. I wasn't about to turn Gus around just to chauffer her home. Abject stupidity it was gonna be.

***

Part of Jan's plan was to test out the new Audio-Visual equipment he got for his birthday in August. He had affixed a microphone to Stevie's chest a half an hour ago, when we first left school. He was now wearing a go-pro he had mounted on a MAGA baseball cap. His dad is a Berkley PhD, and the chair of the sociology department at Packer College. I assume the Trump merchandise was one of Jan's earlier, cruder attempts to rebel. He stopped going to his piano lessons spring semester sophomore year (the only reason why he still plays the oboe I think is because he gets to make out with Carla on band trips). The comedy career, of course, is the latest, more sophisticated way of screwing with his parents.

Carla and I were sitting in Gus, her trying to make sense of her ongoing attraction to Jan and me trying to scope out what was going on through the large front windows of BIG ALADDIN'S CARPET EMPORIUM.

"Why is the MAGA hat necessary? Why couldn't he just, like," Carla played with her seatbelt, "watch baseball or something?"

The problem with carpet emporiums is that they hang carpets in their front windows. One, the sun will probably fade the color of the carpets (I suppose the windows might be made from some kind of special UV protection glass, but, if not, it's bad business to destroy your inventory). And two, you can't watch your best friend make an idiot of herself through a carpet.

"Or just be like, normal?" Carla squinted.

THAT WAS IT. I HAD TO GO IN.

"Normal is overrated," I hopped out of Gus. I passed Jesse, still getting ready in his Ford Focus (he couldn't carpool with us because after this stunt he'd have to go straight to his job at Fiesta. Miserable life, he has). I cut over a yellowed, square lawn and the sidewalk, and opened the front door. A bell jingled overhead as I walked inside. A dark-haired salesman sitting on a stool in the center of the showroom looked at me. He wore a low-cut V-neck t-shirt, gold chains, and tight black jeans, like a faded Eurotrash hair-metal rocker.

"Hello, welcome," his monotone was inflected with a posho English accent.

I busied myself with the nearest throw rug. Beside me, a couple of middle aged ladies inspected a black and gold carpet. Jan stood about five feet away from Stevie, who was staring at one of the Isfahan carpets draped over the back wall. I knew it was an Isfahan carpet, because hanging beside it were those wall-art wooden decorative letters, spelling out the word Isfahan. Stevie glanced over her shoulder at me. She was wearing a damn hoodie over her Jasmine costume. I wasn't having it. When she looked at me, I mouthed take it off. She sucked in her lips, but obeyed. With the hoodie removed, it was go time.

Here was the scene that unfolded:

Stevie walked over to the salesman. His eyes bugged when he realized what she was wearing. Jan positioned himself at a spot where he could catch both Stevie's back and the clerk's face, at least, that's what he said was his plan. He didn't seem frustrated, so I assume he had a good shot.

"Hi," she said, weakly at first. "I just moved into a new place and I need some help picking a carpet."

"I'm here for that," the salesman recovered from his initial shock. Quickly, I might add. He was a seasoned professional. "You want an Isfahan carpet?" He walked Stevie to one lying nearby. Jan shifted around to maintain his winning camera angle.

"Here is a splendid one," the salesman lifted one corner. "Notice the fine quality threadwork. How big do you need?"

"Well, at least as big as to accommodate two people," Stevie said.

The salesman furrowed his brows.

"Two people can fit on this, but," he waved his hands around, "what size is the room?"

"Well, I've got a pretty big garage."

"Garage?" the salesman sounded offended. "This is high quality, from Persia. It doesn't belong in a garage!"

"Yeah, you're right," Stevie knelt to the floor and examined the carpet. "This is one you want to show off."

"Today is a one-day only sale, five-fifty." Poor guy hoped to close the deal.

"What's the mileage on this baby?" Stevie looked up from the carpet.

The salesman glanced around the showroom. Jan briefly darted his head toward me, in a somehow-successful attempt to hide the Go-Pro on his hat. I gave the camera two thumbs up.

"It's brand new," the salesman said. "Imported, originally from Persia. It stopped in Amsterdam, and it flew here after that." He scratched the skin beneath his ear. "You can't directly import things from Persia-"

"That doesn't sound great," Stevie flipped up the corner of the carpet she was holding and inspected the underside. "I'm just trying to find an odometer here-" she trailed off. I don't believe the salesman heard her, because despite the increasingly-apparent stupidity of the situation, he persisted:

"Are you interested in buying?"

"Do you have the Bluebook value?" Stevie bit her bottom lip.

"It's high quality, premium silk!" the salesman insisted and the English accent slipped, "I have a PhD from the Philadelphia College of Textiles. I know my shit!"

"I tell you what," Stevie said, "let me take her for a test drive."

The salesman blinked.

"Do you have the keys?" she held out her hand. "I've got a license, if you need to scan that. I've got proof of insurance-"

The salesman blinked again.

And right about then the bell above the door jingled again. Everyone in the store- Stevie, the salesman, Jan and his Go-Pro, the middle-aged ladies, and me- all turned to see Jesse standing on the front threshold. Cream harem pants. Red fez on his head. And a purple vest over his bare chest. Stevie's gonna lose control of all her faculties, I thought when I noticed his nipples.

"Jasmine!" Jesse ran over to the Isfahan carpet. He lifted his left hand in the air. "What did I tell you?"

Stevie stared at him. For the first time during this exemplary feat of courage, she looked like she might have passed out. I told you so.

"Aladdin?" she stammered.

"You gotta be assertive with these people." Jesse turned to the salesman, "You better show us the Carpetfax!"

And then, the salesman broke down laughing.

"I thought you were a schizophrenic," he wiped his eyes, "but you're just punk ass kids."

"Hey, since my name's on the sign out there," Jesse patted the salesman on the arm, "do we get a special discount?"

"Okay," the salesman peeled off Jesse's hand, "get the hell out of my store, before I call the police."

***

After I had dropped Carla and Jan off, Stevie and I spent a good ten minutes discussing the large beauty mark Jesse has just north of his belly button (it's not cancerous, I guaranteed her). I had just parked Gus in my driveway and glanced over at her when I saw this stupid smirk on her face.

"I can die happy now." She looked like one of those smiley face popsicles that you used to get from the ice cream truck, half-melted and drooping off the stick.

"Pull yourself together," I said. "You haven't even kissed him yet."

"Unnecessary," she did not even make a preliminary attempt to pull herself together. "Ours is the pure, chaste love of Disney romances. Aladdin and Jasmine, getting kicked out of a carpet store-"

"CHRIST," I grabbed my book bag from the second row of seats. "You just shamelessly ogled his dweeby body. Pure and chaste my ass."

"I love my life," Stevie murmured.

I jumped out of Gus and slammed the driver's side door, so Stevie couldn't see how damn pleased I was.

***

A/N: Thanks for reading, voting, and commenting! Next update, Friday!