Pretty-UglyGal

12. Different Strokes for Different Folks

-Sam-

My phone buzzed on my wooden nightstand. I picked it up- Saturday 11:40 AM it read, 1 New Message.

Tamara: Can I come over?

I chewed at my cheek nervously. I'd only hung out with her once...

Tamara: Nvm. Forget it.

Screw it I thought.

Me: It's fine come over. Its 221 Locke Crescent.

Tamara: Oh rich neighborhood, should have known. ;-0 See you in 20. Thanks.

What the hell did I just do?

At least my parents weren't home, that was a blessing.

I pulled out a pair of tight dark wash jeans and pulled on a form fitting white shirt. I put the cool jade necklace on my neck. I wanted to look good, but not dressed up.

Why did I care?

I don't know.

...

I heard hollow raps on the door, "Anyone home?" a deep voice bellowed. I peered through the curtain and there was Tamara looking as unorthodox, and marvelous as ever. Her hair was in a poof behind her head and she had a couple feathers dangling from it. She wore a military style jacket like something out of Les Mis. It was navy with red piping and the chest was covered with badges and pins of what seemed to be band names. Her jeans were well worn with tears throughout the thigh area and the wash had faded. The hem was torn and flared, almost completely covering her tie-dyed converse.

Her outfit was so extravagant I almost didn't notice her face, they key-word is almost . Her eyes were bloodshot and her eyes surrounded by rings of black. Yet, her eyes remained as they always did, sharp, distinct and magnetizing.

"Hey crumpet" she hummed her cheeks tugging up into a smirk, "where's your room?"

I was starting to like how she called me "crumpet".

"Ugh, right this way."

My room was bland. It was completely white- bedspread, walls, flooring, desk and all. It was spacious, but that was all there was to it. I had a couple photos with the Barbies, but that was about it. It was very representative of my life, boring, simple and uncharacteristic.

Tamara almost immediately claimed my bed. She sprawled out on the white comforter, "Play something!" she exclaimed.

"I don't play any instruments."

"No silly, like a track, a vinyl, a disc?" she rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated.

No longer than a minute after I had started the 1D album Tamara stood up, "This is absolute shite man, bullocks! Typical. Good thing I brought my own."

She rummaged through a duffel bag she'd brought with her, "aha" she mumbled, "Now I am about to educated you on the best band ever, The Strokes . Prepare for your mind to be blown!" She withdrew a set of headphones and a Walkman from her duffel. Scooting closer, so our legs were touching she stretched the headphones so we each had an earphone on and pressed play.

" Up on a hill is where we begin
This little story a long time ago
Stop to pretend, stop pretending
It seems this game is simply never-ending
Oh, in the sun, sun having fun
It's in my blood
I just can't help it
Don't want you here right now
Let me go" ...

The rhythm of the song felt agitated, as if the guitars were in a rush.  The melody was lulling and disheveled. Then suddenly, these raw, scraping tones came through from a singer named"Jules", as Tamara informed me. All too soon the song came to a halt and I thought the cassette must have been damaged, but Tamara said this was purposeful and that "they [The Strokes] liked to leave people pleading for more."

Tamara got up, "Speaking of which I should go..."

"But, it's only 12:51 in the afternoon!" I piped up.

"Exactly" she winked and walked out of my room, letting herself out the front door.

I really wanted to plead with her for more time.