A Way to York

dates and fates

:write a chapter in which a character menstruates through her clothes in an odd setting, creating an uncomfortable situation:

"I really don't want to do this," York grumbled, tugging at the bust line of her new dress, a strapless little number that shone like orchid stars. She loved it at first, until she tried it on.

"You look gorgeous in that dress, York," Rachel smiled, inspecting her. "I don't get why you don't wear things like this often. You'd have a guy like that."

York crossed her arms, trying to cover up her chest. "Because I don't want some guy to ogle me when I pass by. The moment you wear something like this, you'll always get unwanted attention. People are creepy."

"I meant something that suits you more. Something nice and charming."

"Are you saying what I wear now isn't nice?"

"No," Rachel shook her head almost immediately. "Just a dress every now and then, or a pretty skirt. You shouldn't be afraid to show people what you're proud of having."

York sighed, glancing back at the mirror again. Rachel had straightened it, so that it wasn't flying everywhere in auburn coils. She looked decent–attractive even, and now that she thought of it, it seemed like her chest had been accentuated. All those years of hiding under cardigans and sweatshirts have made her almost forget that she had a chest. 

"Fine. Where are we going again?" York huffed.

Rachel's eyes lit up, and she shot up, bouncing slightly. Balancing her hands on York's shoulders, Rachel stared into her soul. "When was the last time you went on a date?"

York scoffed, lightly shoving Rachel's hands off her. "You make it seem like I've been a homely child my entire life!"

"I don't mean it like that," Rachel said softly. "I just wanted to make sure you have some experience with this stuff."

York's "experience" wasn't expected, but it wasn't exactly surprising. Due to having a romance author for a mother, York was well-versed in the cupid department. She understood the meaning behind lip biting, midnight rendezvouses and the concept of "love at first sight". She sometimes wished she lived in her mother's stories, in the pages she grew up being entranced by.

Growing up, all York would do was listen her the click-clacking of her mother's long nails pounding away at the keys of her computer. York and her siblings didn't have a lullaby or story-time at bed. They fell asleep to the sound of her mother's breathing, her mind blossoming ideas of runaway kisses and lingering touches, the scent of peppermint and caramel candles lulling them into dreamland. And even when they woke up, her mother would still be working away at the computer, stray strands plastered to her forehead.

When her mother finished a manuscript, they always had a celebration. Her older sister, London, and York would go and buy something from the local bakery. (They always argue about what to get. York always wanted chocolate chip cookies–the cheapest–and London would try to get the triple-chocolate mousse cake–the most expensive.) Chester would make his famous limeade with that secret punch that made you wonder whether he spiked you or not. When they all assembled at home, they would gorge and forget about the struggle of school and fathers and money. Their mother would coral them to their small living room, and reveal the guitar from its resting place.

If the typing was her lullaby, then songs were her kiss goodnight and tuck-ins. Her mother's sweet voice would fill the room with some old song from her childhood.

"If I could make the world as pure and strange as what I see," she would sing with a wistfulness that made York's heart thump. "I'd put you in a mirror. I'd put you in front of me. I'd put you in front of me. Linger on your pale blue eyes."