(Riley's POV)
"IT'S GOING DOWN! I'M YELLING TIMMBBEEERR!-" Kayla screamed at the top of her lungs, turning the volume up even more.
"KAYLA, CAN YOU PLEASE TURN IT DOWN?" I yelled over the music. Her hand automatically reaching out and spinning the volume knob in the other direction. The sudden change in noise levels left my ears ringing.
"Yeah little cuz?"
"I asked if you could turn it down, my ears were starting to bleed. And please call me Riley, 'cuz' just sounds weird to me." I said, trying to hold the conversation as long a possible, trying to avoid having the radio on again. "Anyway, that's an old song."
"Whatever you say Riles." She said waving her hand in my face, still not calling me by my actual name. "So, who was the cutie back there?" Looking over at me, she winked adding an air kiss.
"I feel like you're hitting on me personally."
"No! The boy, he was hot and I kinda want a piece of that." Well, there goes my chances. "What was his name?"
"It's Luke, why?" I instantly regretted saying it.
"Oh nice name for a new boyfriend. Yeah, he'll be an easy catch for me. They always are, right Riley?"
"..Right...." You see, Kayla is sort of a you know, super available to guys. If she thinks someone's hot she's going to become their girlfriend. She doesn't care if he's/she's single or not. One of the first victims of Kayla's inecapable claws was my first real boyfriend. We were together at the time too. It's stupid that I just let it happen, I could've stopped her from getting close to him if I'd spoken up. I guess I'm too used to getting pushed around to realize when I need to step up and do something. "....How much longer until we get to the pool?.." I asked quietly, still in thought.
"We're already here! Time to put on that tiny bikini!" She yells jumping out of the car, grabbing her bag along the way.
"Right..." I whispered, slowly walking along behind her.
"Is something wrong little cuz? You know you worry me?" She looked back at me, concern flashing through her eyes. Sadly it was gone as fast as it appeared. "Well, if you're sick get over it fast because my friends from college are here and I don't want you to make me look bad in front of my girls."
"Wow. Thanks." I walked past her, through the gates and towards the brightly painted changing rooms that were nestled by the poolside.
This summer the concrete building that held the bathrooms and snack machines, had walls that were repainted with dolphins and jellyfish. I say repainted because for a while the walls were completely white and each year the seniors at our highschool would alway get creative with some spray paint. Last year they had dinosaurs and dicks drawn up there, plastered on the walls for everyone to see. My mom finally dicided to start this weird club called moms on a mission, or M.O.M. for short. They are kinda like the neighborhood watch, but they consist of strictly moms. M.O.M. decided that the dinosaurs and their 'fellow graffiti sidekicks' (dicks) weren't very appealing to look at so they painted the dolphins.
Since then, M.O.M. has turned into this group of gaurdians for the walls. If you get caught near these walls anytime tou aren't suppose to, well, your gonna get your face mounted on the wall of shame. All the moms know of this wall of shame and suburban moms are really scary good at gossiping, so you need to watch out for this.
The outside might be pretty, but the inside isn't as much so. Because of all the wet feet walking through the building, the floors are slimey and smell of mold. It's a good thing that they put hooks up on the walls or else I would have to set my beach bag on the disease ridden tile of the changing rooms.
I pull off my chlothes and hook on my swimsuit top and slip on my bottoms. I gather my stuff and take it to the sink where I use the mirror to put my hair up. I gather my hair into a ponytail and wrap the brown elastic band around it. I look in the smudged covered mirror to make sure my hair is flat and all of it made it into the band, when behind me I see something, no someone, leaning up against the wall behind me.
