Leah Mitchell isn't the same shy, poor girl anymore. Now a college student, she is enjoying her life in the city and the freedom she longed for. She works hard and knows her worth. She has it all, but her heart aches for the only person from her pas...
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"Miss Spencer," the sales clerk acknowledges Taryn as we enter yet another boutique, Taryn's three-inch nude heels clicking on the polished floor. She smiles at him, then looks at me, silently prompting me to follow her.
We stop by the shelves with purses. The expensive leather glistens under the store lights. Taryn inspects each purse and settles on a small, black one.
"This one's perfect for you," she says, giving it to me.
I love it, but there's no way I can afford the price I managed to read on the tag that was carefully hidden in one of the side pouches.
"Taryn, there's no way I can pay," I say.
Taryn laughs. "You won't pay. I have a gift card I haven't used. I don't need anything, so let's pick something up for you."
"I don't know..."
Taryn rolls her blue eyes at me. "Listen to me. Money. Is. Not. An. Issue. You're my roommate and my friend, and we're on a makeover mission. Let me do my job."
Finally, I give in. She hands the card and the purse to the clerk. Five minutes later, the shopping bag with my first designer purse is in my hands.
Before leaving the apartment to go shopping, Taryn had studied the contents of my closet. After furrowing her brow and shaking her head, she said what I wore didn't do my body justice. According to the blond girl walking next to me with her back straight and her head held high, clothes are meant to bring out the best in us.
My old, shapeless ones never did. If anything, they made me look even more miserable and poor. What I bought with Taryn's help is different. The dresses and skirts hug my curves, and the tops show off my cleavage without being too much.
The Leah I saw in the fitting room's mirror was the girl I'd like to befriend. She looked more confident and adult, and her eyes shone. I tucked that image in one of the corners of my memory to retrieve it when my confidence faltered.
"So, are we going to that party?" Taryn asks as we stroll to the parking lot where she left her convertible.
"I want to. I've been studying too much."
Taryn tosses the shopping bags onto the back seat. I do the same before getting in the car and buckling up.
Taryn is an expert driver. She doesn't speed up—perhaps for my sake—but she knows all the shortcuts, which allows us to arrive home in less than half an hour.
Once we're there, I take the new clothes out of their bags and hang them in my built-in closet—everything but the short black dress I'll wear to the party at the frat house.
I try it on and head to the living room, where Taryn is painting her nails.
"What do you think?" I ask.
She gives me a once-over, grinning. "That's the one. Take my stilettos. The red ones."
I smooth out the front of the mini dress and look down at my feet. "Do you think that's necessary?"
