AS I RARELY go to parties, I have no idea what to wear. Jeans and a t-shirt will just get me sent back to my room by Iris. She is definitely of the “if it ain’t tight you ain’t wearing it right” school, especially if she’s planning to hit up clubs afterwards. However I am just as definitely of the “I refuse to be uncomfortable in the name of fashion” school of thought. So where does that leave me?
After forty minutes of cussing and general clothes throwing, I’m in a black camisole with a built-in bra, which is fairly daring for me, considering the size of my boobs, and a soft, A-line skirt that hugs my hips but swishes around my thighs and ends a few inches above my knees.
Not wanting to leave my room, I procrastinate by peering into the mirror. My hair has a fuzz factor of three, which is acceptable, and my skin is clear. I apply a sweep of smoky-lilac shadow to make my eyes appear greener and dab a berry lip stain on my lips. So then, I’ve done all I can.
I tromp out to the living room for inspection time. Iris, as usual, looks fantastic. I don’t even know how she does it; she’s wearing tiny black leather shorts and a silky indigo top that hangs over one toned shoulder and is open in the back. If I wore something like that I’d look horrible, but she’s so lean and small, perfection on platform stiletto ankle boots that remind me of horse hooves for some reason.
Her dark eyes narrow as I stand there.
“What’s with the boots?” she finally asks.
“You’re wearing boots.”
“Ankle boots. Totally different.”
“These are Fluevogs,” I protest. “Victorias.” Black-rubbed emerald green leather, they lace up to mid-calf and have an ornate heel that resembles the legs of Victorian furniture. They are quirky, and the most expensive shoes I own. My mother gave them to me for my twenty-first birthday, and I kissed her for it.
Iris lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You look like you’re going to a vamp ball in them.”
“Watch it, Little Miss Belieber. I can still stay home.”
She cringes. “Sorry. You know how I get before going out.”
Yeah, crazy. Because she might disappoint Henry the Dickhead.
She strides over to me, taller now in her insane shoes, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. The light, flowery scent of her perfume surrounds me. “You look gorgeous,” she says. “God, I wish I had your curves.”
“We can do an exchange, because I’d love to rock those shorts without terrifying the populace with my thighs.”
“Fine, my thighs in exchange for your boobs.”
“Deal.” We both laugh, having made this deal numerous times before.
We take Iris’s car because I don’t trust Henry to drive me home, and I have a feeling she might go off with him later. So I’ll drive hers back. I’d take my Vespa, but Iris doesn’t like to drive to parties alone, and frankly, I’d get helmet head if I did.
Iris taps nervously on her steering wheel as we drive along listening to Adele.
“Why are you so worked up?” I finally ask. “More so than usual, I mean?”
Her eyes are wide as she glances at me. “No reason.” And then she turns down a street.
Frat houses line the block. “Iris! You said this was an off-campus party.”
But it’s clearly one of Henry’s horrible team bashes. Which involves beer bongs, guys pissing on the lawns—among other lovely locations—and basic imbecilic behavior. I was suckered into going to one once before and vowed never again.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Her expression is desperate. “But Henry really wanted me to go, and you’ve been moping around the house lately.”
“I have not been moping!”
“Staring out the window,” she insists. “Like some tragic Jane Austen heroine.”
“Austen’s heroines aren’t tragic. They are empowered.”
“Says you. All those repressed feelings and prideful denials.” Her snub nose wrinkles. “Pathetic. Just own your emotions already.”
“Stop trying to change the subject. You kept this from me on purpose. Not cool.”
Iris sighs as she pulls up in front of a big old colonial that’s lit up like summer. People spill from the open door, and a girl, laughing manically, tumbles onto the lawn in a pile of limbs.