What to Wear?
My room was nothing special but it was my sanctuary. It was bohemian/alternate style with sea foam blue walls and white paper lanterns floating in mid-air. I placed my soda on my nightstand and walked to my dresser that was cluttered with various jewelry boxes full of stuff I don’t wear and a few Bath & Body Works perfumes. I pulled open the second compartment on the right that held tee-shirts and shuffled through them. I slammed it shut. Nothing. I moved the rectangular closet that hung my dresses, shifting through them quickly.
Eventually, at the very back, I found the sweetheart 1950’s Van Gogh Starry Night Dress I got the Christmas before my parents went splitsville.
I wonder if it still fits, I asked myself. Guess, the only way to find out.
I yanked it off its hanger and threw it on my bed and stripped down to my bra and underwear. Unzipping the back all the way, I stepped in the hole, pulling the straps up over my shoulders and then sucked in as much as I could and zipped it up as far as I could.
The zipper got shuck a quarter below my breasts but after a few tugs, it went all the way up. I let out the breath I was holding and walked in front of my mirror. It was definitely a little small, especially in the breast area in which they looked like squished watermelons. A little too riskey for my taste. But, I could fix that by taking off my bra or wearing my long black cardigan with it. Otherwise, it is a tad tight in the waist, it wasn’t too bad a fit since I had since freshmen year of high school.
It could definitely be a contender, I thought and unzipped the dress and threw it on my bed.
I continued searching through my closet but only found my cream lace prom dress which obviously wasn’t appropriate and then a hammy-down tight leather black dress that barely reached past my but cheeks. This one also got an instant rejection. It not only made my ***** look like monsters but my but as well, which not only made me uncomfortable but, seriously, no one needs to see that. So, the Starry Night dress it was. I placed the dress carefully on my purple chair and threw my mother’s leather booty dress in the trash.That decided I took a sip of my ginger ale and opened my book bag and started to review my passive tense verbs for my Latin quiz on Monday. I was debating whether or not the ending for the Second Person Singular was “ris” or “rt” when my door banged open.
“You know, you could knock. It’s a good thing I wasn’t getting undressed.” I said, double-checking in the book for the answer. I was right, it was “ris.”
“Now that is something I don’t need to see,” my brother grumbled and I looked up.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
“Mom wants you,” he answered, crossing his buff arms.
I sighed and rose from my bed, the springs of the bed squeaking.
“Wow, you must really weigh a lot for your bed to creak like that,” he commented and I scowled.
He held his hands up in mock defense and said, “Hey, it’s not my fault your married to food!”
I walked past him without answering. Sure, being called fat isn’t great for one’s self-esteem but I have bigger fish to fry. Life completing college and getting a job as screen-writer and buying myself two lovely golden retrievers and a nice apartment in New York. Not that being healthy isn’t important but, I honestly don’t think I am that fat. Sure, I’m not skinny but I don’t think I am overweight.Entering the living room, I saw my mother sitting on the love seat with, surprise, surprise, another man. She was batting her fake eyelashes like crazy and he was, like every other ******* guy my mom has brought home, falling for it.
I coughed loudly and they both jumped and looked at me.
“You wanted me, mother?” I asked, wanting to flee back into my room.
For a split second, my mother frowned a look of annoyance present through her two skinny eyebrows. Then, her eyes widened with realization.
“Oh yes, sweetie. Sorry, I forgot what I sent your brother up there for. You need to make the food for the party tonight. I have plans,” She said and smiled seductively at the man beside her.
I sighed, not again.
“Mom, I can’t. I have a huge paper due Monday and loads of other homework.”
She pursed her red-lipstick lips and then whispered something to the man. He smirked, revealing a row of nasty yellow teeth and winked at me as he left the room. I shivered inwardly.
“Now, honey, can’t you do your homework tomorrow?” my mother pouted, studying one of her nails.
“No, mom. I have work tomorrow and the work is due Monday,” I answered.
“Well, honey, it shouldn’t be difficult to make the food. I left the recipes out on the counter and everything,” she gestured with her thin arm to the counter that now housed a thick stack of recipes.
“Mom, the last time I cooked, it took four hours,” I gritted through my teeth.
“Oh c’mon, it didn’t take that long,” mom said, crossing her arms.
“Yes, it did. I would know because I had to say up until 4 am to finish my homework.” I snapped.
Mom frowned and steadily made her way over to me. I swallowed, hard. There was a glint in her murky golden-green eyes, I didn’t like.
“Are you giving me lip young lady? Do I need to remind you who is paying for college,” she questioned, hands on her hips.
I bit back a retort and shook my head.
She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Good. The food needs to be ready by eight.”
“As you wish,” I muttered, watching her walk away to the garage door, where her mysterious man waited for her.
“I’ll be back Sunday Night,” she yelled and grabbed a jean jacket to pair with her lace tight maroon dress.
“Ok,” I replied.
The door slammed shut and I groaned. Guess I better start cooking if I want to go to college.