A Thousand Ways To Run

W a r r e n

“Seriously, how long does it take to change into a stinking dress?” I groaned, banging a fist on the unisex bathroom one more time, letting my head rest on the frame.

“You are so impatient!” she fought back.

“You're so slow!”

“It's a dress, Warren, not a stupid suit and tie you slip on in five minutes,” Charlie fired back, making a bump noise from either tripping or hitting something on the other side.

“How complicated can it be?”

“I really don't think you want me to get into that right now!”

I shifted uncomfortably, scratching the stubble on my chin I forgot to shave that morning. Ick, girl stuff. They may not have cooties anymore, but there's just some things I really don't want to know about.

I didn't let my mind wander, checking my phone again. Suddenly, the door started to crack open, and I moved to let her out, eyes on the screen clock.

“You were supposed to be done changing four minutes ago, Charlie—Oh.” I stopped, eyes landing on her. Red dress. Really, really, amazing red dress. My eyes couldn't move fast enough.

“I'm up here, Casanova.” She snapped her fingers in my face, and I looked at her. Finally she was starting to look like the Russian badass I thought she would be.

“Nice dress,” was all I could say.

“It's a gala, Warren. I have to look nice,” she said with fading confidence, clutching her own arm tightly, eyes flitting around. I smiled at her nervousness.

“No one said you had to look this nice,” I teased, obviously looking her over, pushing buttons.

She squirmed uncomfortably. “Shut up.”

I got a punch in the shoulder, less playful than last time. I tensed, rubbing my shoulder and following her as she wandered over to the main dining room. Definitely worth a second look.

Whatever shoes she was wearing made her taller, and also slower. When she usually would have been miles ahead of me in her fast-paced angry walk, I caught up easily.

“Don't be self-conscious, Charlie-poo,” I teased, walking comfortably right beside her as she struggled to go faster.

"What makes you think calling me a pet-name, which includes the idea of smelly feces, will not make me want to deck you right here in the middle of this hallway?" She stopped, turned, and glared scarily at me.

Too far.

“You may not want to do that,” I countered, leaning over to whisper in her ear, feeling her breath stop as I got closer. “Around here, I'm kind of a big deal.”

Her frown deepened, and her face relaxed.

“Now, unless you want to stick out like a red tie at the democratic national convention, take my arm and stick your nose higher in the air.” I let my arm out for her to loop hers through, smirking to myself as she struggled between keeping her own pride, and looking like an idiot.

She reluctantly took my arm and we walked together through the doors into the gala.

It was full and bursting like a machine with millions of gears. Each turned on their own, but each part affected one another. The Republican big-shot senators would guffaw loudly in one corner, and across the room the Democrats would only seconds later. Somehow, all I saw at these parties was groups of people who are one action away from starting an all out brouhaha.Throwing their cake at the back of someone else’s Italian suits, a sight I thought I would had witnessed by now. If Cady Heron thought high school was like the African bush, she must not have known about politics.