𝐿𝓎𝓁𝒶

𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒

After returning home from school, Lyla slips into her room, avoiding her mother in the kitchen. She stares at her closet, filled with neutral colored sweaters, long sleeve shirts, and the occasional button down.

She reaches for an oversized crew neck, a rich brown color that matches her eyes, pulling it over her head and letting it drape comfortably over her shoulders. She pairs it with a pair of well-worn, baggy jeans and her Stan Smiths.

Lyla's stomach churns at the thought of attending the football game, especially with a group of girls she barely knows. The idea of sitting through hours of grunting and shouting, surrounded by strangers, is enough to make her skin crawl. But Phoebe's sudden need to talk about Josh has sparked her curiosity.

If Josh had lied about his feelings for her, sleeping with her for a bet, was there more he was hiding? She needed to know.

Lyla anxiously studies her reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging on her bedroom wall. She runs her fingers through her hair, tugging at the strands, trying to find the perfect style. The roundness of her face seems to be accentuated by her straight, shoulder-length hair.  She tries tucking it behind her ears, but it only makes her feel more awkward.

Frustrated, she lets her hair down, allowing the brown tips to graze her neck. The soft texture feels comforting against her skin, but it does little to boost her self-esteem.

Lyla rummages through her drawer, searching for her well-loved eyeliner pencil. With a deep breath, she carefully traces a line along her upper lash line, trying to create a perfect wing. But her hand is shaky, and the line ends up crooked and jagged. Frustrated, she licks her thumb and wipes it away, starting over.

After several more attempts, she finally manages to create a decent wing on each eye. Though imperfect, she smiles with satisfaction, the apples of her cheeks glowing.

Reaching for a tube of brown mascara, she carefully drags the applicator through her lashes, trying her best to avoid clumps. The mascara darkens her eyes, making them appear larger than they already are. When she's finished, she sets aside her makeup and takes a final look in the mirror.

Satisfied with her appearance, Lyla turns to her bedroom door. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the discouraging, inevitable conversation she's about to have with her mother.

Lyla hesitates at the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest. The smell of roast beef wafts out of the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, she creeps down the hallway. "Yum," she remarks, offering her mother a small smile.

Lyla's mother, a woman with weathered hands and a kind smile, stirs a pot of mashed potatoes with a practiced motion. She glances up at Lyla, her smile fading as she notices her daughter's carefully applied makeup and the unusual glint in her eyes. "Are you planning on going out?" she asks, her voice laced with concern.

Lyla nervously shrugs, her eyes darting between her mother and the steaming pot of mashed potatoes. "I was just about to ask you if I could go out," she begins, her voice barely a whisper. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were cooking dinner."

Her mother shakes her head, a disapproving click of her tongue accompanying the gesture. "I cook supper at half past six every day, you know this," she says, her voice firm.

"Sorry, Ma," Lyla mumbles, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She glances down at her shoes, avoiding her mother's gaze.

Her mother continues whisking the mashed potatoes, her brow furrowed in disapproval. "Where are you going with your face painted up like that?" she asks, her voice sharp.

"A football game at school," Lyla replies.

A wave of dread washes over her mother's face, her eyes widening in disbelief. "A football game?" she repeats. "Since when do you like sports, Lyla?"