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Carly:Do you know what he’s wearing this weekend? Not that it matters, he’ll look fuckinghot
Her first texthas the hairs on my neck rising, but the final one breaksme.
Carly’s never texted me in the two years I’ve been at this school. Yes, she’s mocked me, played pranks on me, and done her best to get me intotrouble.
All of which is fine by me. I don’t need them to accept me, and it doesn’t hurt at all that they’ve acceptedTyler.
But you didn’t think he’d want themback.
Inside the house, I take the stairs to myroom.
I got coffee on my blazer cuff, and I need my sparetomorrow.
I stalk into my walk-in closet, but my blazer’s nowhere insight.
What is there is my Strawberry Shortcakecostume.
I hold it up and inspect every inch, from the tights to the skirt to the cupcakehat.
It’s quirky and fun, I remind myself.Even if I don’t win, I loveit.
I run down to the laundry room. Sure enough, my spare jacket’s hanging on the rack of clean clothes by thedoor.
So is a familiar garmentbag.
I reach for it, unzipping the bag to take in the dress I bought recently and hadtailored.
My hands smooth over the sleek fabric, holding up the bodice. It’s black satin under lace, a cocktail dress, with tiny straps and a hem that hits halfway down mythighs.
I hold it up in front of me in the floor-lengthmirror.
All I can see is my pale face, the hint of freckles I’ve made peace with across my nose. My eyes are big and clear, my hair a mess of waves around my shoulders. Not the tidy kind, the unrulykind.
The last few days, I’ve noticed the popular kids more than usual since Tyler’s been embraced bythem.
I decided a long time ago they were corrupt and shallow andinsecure.
But maybe that’s not it. It could be that they’ve made peace with the world, and their outward perfection is only more evidence ofthat.
I shut the door behindme.
In two seconds, my top is on the washingmachine.
My skinny jeans take a bit longer to wiggle off, but I manage to get them off one foot, then the other, and drop them next to mytop.
I step into the dress and tug it up my hips before daring to look in the full-length wallmirror.
My skin tingles as I take in my reflection from head to toe. The dress makes me seem older. When I lift my chin, I look composed.Confident.
I fish in the pocket of my jeans for an elastic and twist my hair up into a messy bun on my head. When I turn my head to the side, arch my neck, I could pass for at leasteighteen.
God, to be eighteen. I could do whatever I wanted. Wherever I wanted. With whomever Iwanted.
Before I can react or even think, the door opensinward.
I screech as I spin to face it, grabbing a bottle of Febreze off theshelf.
“What the fuck?” Tyler stands in the doorway, framed by light. His hair is messed up, eyes startled, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans and is in his sock feet. His attention lands on the bottle extended between us like aweapon.
