Call Me Rumpel

Chapter Two

I turn to the left, angling my chin to the light, then twist to the right to avoid the glare bouncing off the mirror. Millimetre by millimetre, I slowly scan my face, checking my foundation is blended, my blush isn't too dark, my thin lips aren't too over-lined, and that, yes, my eyeshadow and liner is even on both eyes. It's a vast improvement from when I'd first started using makeup, back before contouring became a staple skill and mismatched foundation colours left me looking like an Oompa-Loompa.

Still, as my eyes trail down the tight emerald-green dress I'm wearing before returning to my face, I can't put my finger on what's wrong. I don't feel perfect. My eyes can't seem to decide whether they want to be green or grey tonight, my brows are too filled in, and my hair isn't as soft as it used to be, no thanks to the bleach I've used.

A car horn blares outside, drawing me out of my self-inspection. Even if I wanted to change into something that'll make me feel better, I've run out of time. I slip into the heels Ari insisted would make my stumpy legs look longer and toned—they don't—and snatch my clutch before she can blast the horn again and give my father a chance to stop me from going out.

"Bye, Nanna!" I call, dashing past the living room.

She flicks her hand in a wave before turning back to the television. I've left a few post-it notes around the house so both she and Dad will remember I'm not there to look after them. They'll both be snoring their heads off by the time I get home anyway.

My shoes crunch against the stones in the driveway, stripping away the paint on the heels. A red sports car is idling outside the gates, and as I slip through them, Ari pokes her head out of the passenger window and whistles.

"You look ah-mazing," she croons.

I can say the same about her. She's decked out in a sparkly black cocktail dress that accentuates the chest I'll never hope to have. Her dark hair looks soft and shiny, too, manipulated into a long fishtail braid that hangs over her shoulder.

It's awkward climbing over her into the backseat; I'm conscious of the way my skirt rides up, especially when Ari's brother coughs and looks out the driver's window.

"Er, hey, Dae-Seong. How are you?"

He grins, showing off his straight-white teeth, and I'm sure he's caught a glimpse of my seamless underwear. I'm glad I didn't take Ari's advice about wearing a thong.

"Not too bad," Dae-Seong says, backing out of our driveway.

I put my seat belt on and try to relax, careful not to crush my curls on the leather seat. As we head down the hill and begin winding through the neighbouring farms, I catch Ari's eye in the overhead mirror.

"Where's Mikey?"

Ari finishes applying a coat of dark red lipstick and smacks her lips together. "Ugh, he says he'll meet us there. Obviously, his mum totally flipped out when she heard Dae-Seong was driving. She's worse than you when it comes to P-plate rules."

"So she's driving him?"

"Worse. He has to get a lift with that cousin of his."

Ari digs through her purse and pulls out her phone before twisting her arm back to show me. There's a string of messages from Michael—or rather, a load of green-faced emojis.

I groan when she takes her phone back and uses the camera function to check the back of her hair. "Does that mean Quinn—"

"Yep."

Great. One of the only good things about Aroha's parties is that, whilst she makes a point to invite everyone, only people we like usually go. Quinn will kill the entire mood, unless they bring one of their books along and sit in a corner.