Sometimes, like now for instance, I wonder why we’re even friends at all. She and I are so different. I think what initially drew me to her was her bravado and just how unreserved she was. There really was no filter with Mallory. She didn’t necessarily process her thoughts before she said them. That still hasn’t changed. I remember thinking how nice it was when I first met her that she was everything I wasn’t. Everything I wanted to be. Sociable, smart, sexy, and above all else, uninhibited. Her small bouts of narcissism and shallowness never bothered me before. But now I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore them. With a sigh, I sweep my hair behind my ear and resignedly take her for what she is. She’s Mallory. She’s always going to be Mallory. Rude, selfish, and self-absorbed, but deep down beneath all that she’s still my best friend. She’s still the girl who befriended me in eighth grade. She’s still the girl who makes me laugh at the stupidest things. Besides, who am I to judge her just because I sin differently? I have my own horrible qualities. My own ugliness is buried just beneath the surface. The only difference is that Mallory is more transparent about hers.
“He doesn’t want me like that,” I say, after a moment.
“Well, who cares? I’m going to find you some much better prospects at this party. But first, you’re changing your outfit.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
She rolls her eyes. “Only everything. You dress like a fucking sister wife. You’re eighteen. You’re pretty. So let’s just thank fucking Jesus first of all that you don’t belong to some lecher named Jim Bob who lives on a compound somewhere. Now come on,” she finishes, giving a tug on my arm as she pulls me off the bed and drags me to her closet when I’m on my feet. “I know exactly what you should wear.”
Fifteen minutes later, I come out of Mallory’s bathroom fully dressed. Although I’m sure what I’m wearing barely constitutes as nothing at all. It’s a typical Mallory outfit. And if Rachel saw me now, she would undoubtedly ban me from ever seeing Mallory again. As I slip and wiggle my left foot inside the black bootee Mallory lends me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m not usually fond of mirrors, but this one…
“I look…”
“You look good.”
She isn’t wrong. It’s odd seeing myself in these clothes. But I can’t say it’s a bad thing. I can’t say I don’t like how I look in them. When she’d pulled me to her closet, Mallory tossed clothes at me she expected me to put on. Including the short skater skirt she had looked at a bit ago. And although she is my best friend and I assume girls undress in front of each other, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to do so in front of anyone, not even her. Nonetheless, she’d taken it for another one of my countless eccentricities and while I hurried to the bathroom, she waited patiently. Once I was behind the closed door, I breathed better, silently grateful that she wouldn’t see my scars. While I dressed, I worried the skirt she wanted me to wear would reveal just that. But the stockings were long enough to cover my healing wounds.
Now here I am loving my reflection. With an objective eye, I take inventory of my appearance. I’m wearing the same outfit I suggested she wear. And while she thought it wasn’t hot enough, I do. I like the way the black skater skirt falls about mid-thigh just a few inches higher than the pair of burgundy red thigh-high knee socks I’m wearing. It’s indecently…sexy. I blink in silent shock. Me and sexy are a combination of words I never thought I’d use to describe myself. But here and now, it fits. The skirt is paired with a scooped-neck, short-sleeved white lace shirt that shows just a sliver of midriff. It’s a tantalizing flash of my skin. Modest Aylee is nowhere to be seen.
“Do you want me to do your makeup?”
I shake my head before turning my back to the mirror. “No.” I have to draw the line somewhere. Tucking a few strands of my unbound hair behind my ear, I drop back down onto Mallory’s bed to wait for her.
When she emerges a little later from her closet, the dress she has on flirts on that precarious line between sexy and trashy. The crimson red micro-mini-fit bandage dress is the furthest thing from subtle. But then subtle isn’t what she’s going for. Stopping just a few inches above mid-thigh, the dress clings to her lithe frame like it’s a second skin leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It is so tight that it squeezes and lifts her breasts nearly to her neck, displaying an ample amount of cleavage.
She rakes her fingers through her layered locks, turning a few times in the mirror to admire herself before returning an expectant gaze at me. “Well?”
Well indeed. “Very hot.”
Her eyes brighten. “I do look hot, don’t I?
“Muy caliente.”
She tosses a wry grin my way before turning back to the mirror. It appears her reflection is far more giving than my brief Spanish comment as she proceeds to make pouty faces and again raking her fingers through her hair over and over. It takes her another fifteen minutes to reapply her makeup.
“You need to let me put this vampy red lipstick on you, at least.” She heads my way, holding the aforementioned tube of lipstick. “I promise it’ll look really good.”
With resigned sigh, I let her. “Not too much.”
“Shush, just trust me.” She carefully applies the lipstick to my mouth before pulling back with a beaming smile. “Damn, I’m good. I knew this was your color. Go look.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’ll take your word for it. Ready?”
“Yup, let’s get out of here,” she answers, slipping inside a pair of expensive red-bottomed black heels.
Chapter 15
Aylee
The white Mercedes parked in the circular driveway is an early birthday present from Mallory’s MIA father. It arrived about a week ago just in time to soften the blow of what would ultimately be his absence. This is the latest extravagant gift from Gregory Peters. A corporate attorney who has gone through a much publicized divorce with Mallory’s mother after it’d been discovered that he’d had an affair with a client. Needless to say, Darla Peters has come away with a fortune, but deep-seated psychological issues have force her into seclusion where, according to Mallory, she pops pills and bathes in alcohol all day long. She pretty much ignores Mallory, allowing her to do whatever she wants. It’s kind of sad when you think about it, and I know it hurts Mallory more than she lets on, but according to her, she has the best of both worlds. She has the parental guidance without the unnecessary baggage that goes along with it while conveniently tapping into the Daddy ATM whenever she feels like it.
“How’d you get your car fixed so fast?” I ask, slipping inside the passenger seat after she unlocks the doors.
“Your dad pulled a few strings and got his mechanic to take a look at it for me.” Mallory swiped another car the day after she got the Mercedes. She’s an atrocious driver. And in typical Tim fashion, he goes out of his way for other people but refused to fix the chain on my bike when it broke twice last year. Adjusting her rearview mirror, she puts the key in the ignition, starts the engine, and flies down the street. She takes the ramp onto the highway and goes from zero to seventy in six seconds flat. I’m used to her driving this erratically since getting her license two years ago. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gripping the inner door handle for dear life or that I’m not nervously peering behind us, almost certain a hidden police car will drive out of the woodwork any minute to pull us over. The exit to our destination comes quick, a few turns later and we’re driving down Route 127. Separating the factories and auto shops lining the road is Corwin River, infested with trash and reeking of sewage.
Turning the volume down, I glance at her, “Where exactly is this party?” My brow knits as she turns on a barely lit dirt road. “I thought we were heading to someone’s house.”
“Nope.”
I wait to see if she’s going to provide any more information. She doesn’t. My eyes return to the view outside as she pulls behind a massive red-brick building that’s mostly broken windows with a small sea of cars parked in the dirt lot in front of us. There’s a crowd, teenagers like ourselves wearing white rabbit masks as they make their way inside a dark entrance. Though with a quick second glance, I do spot a few older people that look over twenty-one.