"But she is a student! Can't you tell? She looks 13."

But the woman at the cash register remained adamant. "I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said, “but in order to take advantage of the discount, you need to show me your child’s Chinese student ID." Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. But having switched to an American school a month ago, I no longer have a Chinese student ID.

I was at Hollister’s with my mom. In my hands, I held a pair of tie-dye sweat shorts that looked similar to what I have seen Kendall Jenner wore in an Instagram picture. I remember seeing at least half of the girls in my high school going to class wearing facsimiles of her shorts the day after Kendall posted that picture. The pair I had picked, originally 170 kuai, would be 136 with the discount.

Mom, it's just 40 kuai. That is what I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. My family always stuck together in public. 

Since entering high school at 13, I became acutely aware of the standards for popularity: varsity hockey, 2,000 followers on Instagram, skirts from Love Shack, a large group of friends. As absurd as these standards sound in retrospect, they remained unspoken rules among my friends. Every girl wanted to be Kendall Jenner.

"This is ridiculous. No other store has this requirement."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't have a say over our brand's policies. You would need to speak with our manager."

If 30 is the beginning of finding yourself, 13 is the onset of copying everyone else. As a newly-minted teenager, I felt that any deviation from the norm made me the center of everyone’s attention. That mindset bred constant anxiety. I feared that embracing my own individuality would cause me to be excluded. 

At this moment, I felt like my mother and I were subjects of the entire store’s scrutiny. My mother, angered by the inability to acquire a 10% discount, was steadily raising her voice in the face of a smiling cashier, who is sitting quietly behind her desk and consistently nodding. 

“I understand mam, this indeed is very frustrating.”

“You don’t understand. This is simply ridiculous. This is outrageous!”

My initial excitement at becoming one step closer to Kendall Jenner has vaporized, giving way to a deep-seated embarrassment. 

“Why don’t I go and ask the manager about this?” The cashier leaves. 

I'm torn between befitting the standards of popularity and standing by my mom. 

"I'm texting your aunt to send me your cousin's student ID." My mom pulls out her phone, "They didn't say it needed to be yours."

Every pore of my body is itching for escape.

I've been stalking Kendall Jenner on Instagram lately. A picture of her with Bella Hadid is indelibly written into my memory. In the picture, their hands are holding glasses of campaigns, their faces full of bliss. It's a beautiful, celebratory image of human existence, as saturated with joy as anything seen through the orderly square of an Instagram post could be. It makes me feel bad about myself in two ways. I feel bad about my outfit and my academic lifestyle. I wish I were on a private jet with friends. That looks so idyllic. I also realize that I'm a very petty person, lusting after her outfit and lifestyle while trying to comfort myself with words of self-righteousness and the cliche admonishments to "be you." But ultimately, the end result that comes from my stalking is always the same: a poignant desire to be her. 

I'd like to think of myself as one who is immune from teen social conventions. But here I am, buying tie-dye shorts, despite my dislike of tie-dye, while trying to convince myself that I'm merely switching up my style. I'm definitely not submitting to the trend. 

The cashier returns with news that the manager is at lunch. My mother tells her all is good and shows her the picture of my cousin's student ID.

We end up buying the shorts with a 10% discount. 

Having left the cashier, my mom tells me to hold her bag as she bends down to tie her shoelace.

The bag was bought at a thrift store when I was 4. The cracked vinyl reveals a thin layer of foam underneath. I remember feeling embarrassed when mom brought the bag with her on my freshman year move-in day. I saw the other mothers at my school wearing Tiffany & Co. or Chanel, and I thought I saw them casting disapproving glances at my mother. But now the discrepancy between her spending on herself and on me becomes apparent. 

My mom wears old bags and shirts because she spends all the money, quite literally, on me. Ironically, I feel embarrassed that my mother is doing everything she can to ensure that I live up to the superficial standards that my peers set. Guilt washes over me so suddenly that the strength of it keeps me pinned in place. 

I felt ashamed of my mom when I was 13 and ashamed of my shame ever since then.