“Oh my gosh, you look awesome! I just hate you!” At least she was honest about the latter part of her comment. I giggled with her. It meant nothing. She did hate me. It was obvious, even if she thought this plastic little ‘friendship’ told me otherwise. I was smarter than that. Just as I was smart enough to know that my outfit didn’t look awesome. I looked terrible actually, but she liked that. I stood there in the mirror looking at the image that looked back at me. Me in my mother’s washed up, bulky buttoned up, collared shirt. It was over crowded with flowers of various colours – reds, blues, yellows, greens – all of which made the shirt near blinding, not to mention, unflattering.
“Come on, let’s go. I hear Chad is supposed to be there after work and he finishes in like 30 minutes.” She grabbed onto my hand in an attempt to direct me out of my room. I yanked my hand back.
“Uhm…no. I think I’m going to change.” She turned around with a look of guilt and confusion.
“But why? I told you you look good. We don’t have time to change.”
“You’re right,” I stated, as I watched her face turn from concern to content. “I’ll just take this off.” I unbuttoned the shirt to reveal a fitted V-neck camisole that hugged every curve of my upper body. She froze – her face riddled with a little bit of shock, envy, and a little bit of pissed off. She slowly gave me the one over, allowing nothing but her eyes to move, scanning me from head to toe. With a heightened sense of pride, I grabbed my purse and pranced out of my bedroom, trying hard to conceal the wide smile that adorned my face. Just imagining the look on her face made that smile grow even wider. But funny enough, as entertaining as this was, I actually hoped that she would get well soon.