Mess You Made

4.

Malibu.

NYC, in and of itself has always been mythicised. Adored upon. Wanted. People flock to the place and then obviously, there's nothing quite like the renowned Upper East Side.

The designer boutiques on every corner. German cars on the tree-lined streets, exclusive private schools. Those townhouses that are so grandiose and it somehow feels a little more slower paced than what you'd expect. Feels fitting for the rich, they like to take their time, like to be classy with it.

I don't belong here. I could've told you that before I got here. Cristian and I would look at this place like a far off fantasy whenever we'd drive through it.

It's beautiful. Glitz and glamour. This place is the home of it. Girls in our neighbourhood dream of being swept off here.

I don't know why I was expecting some sort of nightclub because this isn't that. The people lined up around the corner of the street look like they shit dollar bills for breakfast, the bouncers are wearing suits, looks exclusive. Still, everyone's dressed up for the night.

We decided to don those satin dresses. Hers is an emerald that matches her eyes, her favourite colour. Mine's a deep maroon, backless. I did my hair just enough for the thick waves in my hair to look more uniformed, running down my back.

"We— don't belong here." She finally admits as we get closer to the front of the line, tapping her heels against the floor. She's always been an inch taller than me, the heels emphasise it.

"No shit." I mutter, brushing my hair over the curve of my shoulder and checking my phone for the fifth time for any updates on our little sister's nasty cough.

Nothing, yet. I pocket my phone, flexing my fingers instead like a tic to try and not think about it. Fake it until you make it is our motto tonight.

Sierra wide-eyes me then, tilting her head towards the girl in front of us. Leans over to whisper, "Balmain's."

I look down at the girl's black heels, blink a bit because they're beautiful. Must be upwards of a thousand dollars, though.

I catch sight of her necklace too, tip my chin, "Swarovski."

Sierra and I share a glance, realising how fucked we might be before looking down to our own heels — thrifted. As good as new, though.

She sidles up to me close, hanging off my arm, "I think we look quite hot. Sexy. Maybe not Upper East Side sexy but if we were in town right now, you'd be fawned over."

I mutter, "Those aren't high standards, the boys we're around look more like street rats."

She snorts, breathing out a soft laugh, "Well, the street rats you've involved yourself with have always been hot. I think that's because you have a penchant for them."

"For who?"

She thinks, "Pretty boys, not good boys—"

I get uncomfortable, grimace at her. She winces too and then we're both grimacing, internally deciding to move on because that's what we tend to do.

My eyes then catch sight of the 'bouncers' stood in front of the doors, holding a tablet, "Fuck. Si. I think there's a list. Like a guest list."

"What?" She looks towards it, "Oh."

"What do you mean oh? I don't know anything about this place, you dragged me here—"