Bad For You

three

It isn't until that night, long after my mother has gone to bed and I'm rummaging through my closet, do I realize that I don't own a single pair of jeans.

Which is just ridiculous.

I own plenty of leggings, athletic and non-athletic, skirts, dresses, and an entire drawer full of tights and spandex.

But no jeans.

I try to remember the last time I wore jeans, and to my dismay I don't think I ever have. It shouldn't bother me this much, but it does. It's just another aspect of my life that my mother managed to take complete control over.

Annoyed I pull on a pair of black leggings and an oversized off the shoulder baby blue sweater. I start to tie my hair up, then at the last second let it fall back down and shake it out. Frowning at my reflection in the mirror I attempt to tousle my hair in that sexy way supermodels seem to achieve on the runway. But instead of that sexy bed head look, it looks like my hair got into a fight with a birds nest and the birds nest won.

I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to cry.

Just as I'm about to text Hannah that I changed my mind about the party, she texts me first and says she's outside. Great. I quickly reply that I'll be out in a minute before running a brush through my hair and tucking both sides behind my ears. I open my sock drawer and retrieve a pair of baby blue leg warmers that match my sweater and tug them over my leggings. After putting on socks and sheepskin boots I pull on my coat and quickly swipe on some chapstick, rubbing my lips together. Then I square my shoulders in the mirror.

It's fine. I look fine.

I tiptoe over to my window and as quietly as possible begin to pull it open. The pane squeaks loudly and I pause, wincing. After a moment, when I'm sure my mother isn't going to burst through my room door, I steadily slide it open inch by inch until there's enough room for me to climb out. Thank God we live in a one story.

As gracefully as possible I climb outside and shut the window, leaving a small sliver open at the bottom so I can sneak back in. Then I hurry across the street where Hannah is waiting five houses down.

"Finally!" She exclaims as I clamber into the car.

"Drive!" I yell, banging the dashboard and glancing back, afraid my mother will emerge from the house any minute and catch me.

Hannah floors it, laughing as we peel off down the street. "Isn't this exciting?" She asks with a grin.

I exhale and try to calm my nerves, clicking on my seatbelt. "Positively thrilling."

___

Lauryn Hill was one of the richest kids at Interlochen Academy. Her dad was a real estate agent and her mother the manger at the city bank. As such, she did not just simply live in a house like the rest of us poor peasants, she lived in a freaking mansion.

"I can't believe people actually have this much money," I mumble to myself, taking in the extravagant decor and tasteful interior of her home. Except tonight, it's hosting a teenage rager. And there's nothing classy about tacky disco lights, red solo cups, beer breath, and horny teenagers grinding against each other. All on a Monday night.

Very smart.

Hannah and I make our way to the kitchen, squeezing past what feels like hundreds of bodies. Seriously, the living room is huge, and it's been turned into a makeshift dance floor, the speakers blasting Nonstop by Drake so loudly I can barely hear myself think.