Prom Queen ⚢ [EDITING]

↻ ◁ eight ▷ ↺

"everybody's looking up
when she walks by"

Such an empty house after such a chaotic party was almost serene. The windows reflected the gorgeous beams of light into my kitchen as the morning sun started to creep into the sky and I could tell I was starting the day off right, minus the minor headache ringing in my temples.

Sunday zipped by just as quickly as it arrived. Only a few peers spent the night—my close friends, of course, and the "innocent" kids whose parents would have killed them if they went back home as wrecked as they were. I at least had the compassion to keep them out of that mess.

I made sure to wake up first, to avoid having to deal with the emotional aftermath of having a secret klepto on my hands. The last thing I needed was yet another reason for my parents to resent me. Instead, I woke everyone else up one by one to make sure they'd left safely and with the same amount of things they had when they arrived. After everyone was out, I kept the girls around to help Veronica and me clean up the remnants of an absolutely smashing party.

"Oh my god," Gabby's voice echoed through the open living room as she peeled off a pair of lace underwear hidden inside of my couch. "How is this even possible?"

I snickered to myself as I was reminded of my first time finding panties at my house that didn't belong to me. I had the same reaction—by now, however, I was beyond the point of questioning it.

"Just throw them away," I suggested, handing her one of the trash bags that weren't quite full yet.

Her voice softened. "But they're Gucci..."

"Gucci? Who the hell wears-" I'd given up before I could even finish my question. "Whatever, I'll just donate them."

Silence filled the air between us as we roamed the giant house, finding trash in every nook and cranny. How an empty condom wrapper had ended up on the roof, I had no idea. And I was praying to keep it that way for the rest of my life.

When we'd finished each room we had assigned ourselves, we congregated back in the kitchen while Francis prepared each of us a satisfying breakfast. It used to be difficult keeping up with the several services my parents hired to keep the house in check, but I'd eventually gotten used to it. Francis was our private chef and a beautiful one at that. He was like our very own Picasso with the dishes he created—I was grateful to dine so elegantly every day.

I made sure he wasn't at the party, though. Then everyone would've been up his ass trying to get him to cook something for them. Plus, alcohol wouldn't exactly have mixed very well with those amazing fire tricks he was always doing.