It was kind of depressing, really, to be getting ready all alone. Even last year, when I had to head off to a science convention or a spelling bee, Lilia and Madison had always been with me to get ready. Of course, I usually spent my time getting ready for parties with Sophie, May, Kaylie, and Britt. A pang of jealousy shot through me as I imagined them right now, all sitting on Britt's bed painting each other's nails, or curling their hair in front of May's enormous bathroom mirror. I scowled at my reflection in my own mirror. I wasn't used to being left out of anything, and I hated it whenever I was.
Looking at my reflection, I looked good. I had decided to break open my new smokey eye palette and was just putting the finishing touches on my eyeliner. I glanced at my watch. The party would probably start a 9, that was protocol for Friday night parties. I didn't know why, it was just some stupid rule that the student body of our high school had stuck to. Parties started at 9 on Fridays. They went all night, but most people left at one or two in the morning.
Since the time was currently 5:36, and it was15 kilometres to Karen's house if I drove at my usual 30 kilometres per hour, and I needed to arrive just late enough to make a dramatic entrance... my brain quickly calculated the time it would take me to get to Karen's subtracted by 9 o'clock and-
"Omygod ew. No." I shook my head furiously. No more calculations. I would just leave whenever I was ready, and that was that. Stalking to my closet, I threw open the double doors and contemplated my selection of shoes. I owned enough shoes to sink a ship. Rhinestoned flip flops. Designer running shoes. Gladiator flats. Normal flats, adorned with bows and sequins, and in every colour of the rainbow. UGGs, too, and comfy house slippers. I had at least six pairs of boots, including Steve Madden combat boots. But I was most proud of my collection of heels. I wore nothing less than four inches, and nothing cheaper than designer. I had patent leather Prada pumps, black suede Guccis, red stilettos from Chanel with bows at the toe. I had Louis Vuitton wedges. I had peep toes. I had practically every heel in every style you could possibly imagine. I sorted through them, trying them on, and holding them up to my dress to see if anything matched. I eventually settled on a pair of hot pink Dolce & Gabbana heels and began to commence my search for a clutch purse. Next was jewelery. I took off my Tiffany heart necklace, the one that Sophie also had, and placed it back in my jewelery box with a sad smile. Somehow, it just didn't seem right to wear Sophie's token of friendship after what she had said today. A true friend would have found a way for me to get into the party. Not that I would have needed it anyway, because look at me now, getting ready for the very same party. I sent a mental smirk to Sophie and selected a different necklace and my Pandora charm bracelet instead.
Finally. I was ready. It was only seven thirty, and I had a lot of time to kill. It usually took me much longer to get ready with the other girls, but seeing as I only had to focus on myself, and I didn't have to share my curling iron with anyone, it was only logical that it had only taken me about two hours. (Which, I might add, was an all-time low.)
I decided to kill the time by a combination of online shopping, Facebook, and CSI reruns. By the time 8:45 rolled around, I was already in my car, twisting the key in the ignition and ramming the gas pedal to the floor. My mother's car peeled out of the driveway behind me as she set off to her book club. How embarrassing. My mother, driving her boring little mini-van off to meet with her boring little friends and talk about litterature. Litterature.
My mother was a secret that I had kept even from Sophie, whose mother, like all mothers around here, was platinum blond, divorced, and had nothing better to do all day than gossip with other moms and shop. And I would have killed for a mother like that. My father was an accountant, and was nothing like the wealthy CEOs and surgeons of the girls at my school. Fathers who drove cherry red Ferrari convertibles and bought anything that their daughter happened to comment, "That's cute," upon looking at it. My father drove your average sedan, wore jeans and baseball caps, drank beer, and watched sports. My family wasn't exactly glamorous. Not at all.
