Poison Ivy

Chapter Twenty: Tris Bitch

- I hope you enjoy this chapter. I don't particularly like it because a lot of fuck ups happened a while back when I first wrote it and tried to transfer it so I had to rewrite it because it had been deleted and it's just not as good as the first time I wrote it, but whatever. Let me know what you all think, please. ~ Talia. xoxo. -

I hadn't really expected the after-dinner-party to be held at Andy's place at all, nor had I expected him to disappear within half an hour of journeying from the restaurant to here (which totalled up to only spending ten minutes in his home with me, telling me that he'd show me around later and he'd be back shortly) so he could mingle with the other guests – I mean, I did expect him to mingle but I also thought that he'd make me mingle alongside him – but the two aforementioned unexpected events did indeed occur-

Because I hadn't expected them to.

And now, here I was stood as close to the corner of the vast living area of Andy's home that I could be without actually sitting, curled in a ball where the two walls adjoined, because, let's be honest, that'd look more anti-social than is acceptable in any circumstance and it'd only really add to the loner look that I had landed myself with after Andy's leave half an hour ago.

Sighing, I reached for a champagne flute from a silver platter that was being rotated around the room and I gave my thanks to the already gone girl before sniffing hesitantly at the bubbly golden liquid.

I hated champagne. The taste has never really suited me; I'd much prefer a large cider or something to this 'sophisticated' glass of bullshit.

 "Hey, Ivy, right?" a light voice purred from behind me, already familiar with who the voice belonged to, I plastered a fake smile onto my face, turning.

"Uh, yeah and you're Tris." I replied, bringing the flute of champagne that I had been scrutinizing a few seconds ago to my lips to take a sip.

"That's me," she chirped back with a nod and in that one motion I witnessed how stiff her peroxide blonde hair really was when it didn't budge at all. I swear she must have back combed it with a wire horse mane brush before using at least ten canisters of aerosol superglue, or as most people like to call it, hairspray. And I wouldn't be surprised if she had also used the same product and regime to succeed in having inhumanly straight, bleached teeth – they were even more veneered than Wesley's, and that's saying something – although, spending just over three hours breathing the same air as this woman has lead me to the conclusion that she has an extremely low IQ which then gives me the impression that she'd be dumb enough to think hairspray doubles as breath freshener and in that case I'm not wrong in saying she has in fact spritzed aerosol superglue into her mouth...

I took another sip of my champagne – a drink I really don't consume much of on any basis and for good reason, too; A) it's overpriced and B) it's highly overrated and I personally think it tastes like cat piss on a good day but I'd consumed over five glasses so far due to the effect it had on taming my urges to punch Tris Miss for being such an infuriating blonde (she'd already pissed me off during dinner when she had clung to Ashley's arm like a piece of meat hung on a hook from a butcher's ceiling, her eyes glinting condescendingly at me as she smirked with each word I spoke). Forcing down the urge to question her beauty regime of the evening, I waited for her to speak again. She must have removed herself from Ashley's face, located and flitted across to me for some reason other than to check up on if my name had changed since we'd arrived at Andy's house after the dinner at that fancy restaurant.

"So, you're Andy's date..." she trailed off pointedly – and there it is, ladies and gents, her motive for abandoning her sultry activities.

I nodded slowly, hesitant at answering. I mean, what if it's not alright for me to say that I'm his date? Andy had said in one of his many persuasive texts earlier on in the day that I would be going as his date and he had picked me up at my house and was treating this like a date – well, that was until he pissed off to 'mingle' – and Wesley had told me more than ten times rather definitely that I was going on a date over the course of our shopping trip and so I guessed it was fine for me to do so, too. It's not like he'll have told everyone else I'm his nerdy loner of a cousin from England who lacks a 'British' accent due to the fact that I live in his basement and have done for the past ten years watching American cartoons like South Park and Family Guy, right? Oh, God, what if he had?