What You Wanted

Getting Ready

"MUM!" You shout up the stairs.

"What is it?" She calls down, slightly quieter.

"Can I go to someone's house tonight?"

"Who's house? Do we know them?" She'd always been so protective over you and you hated it.

"Mum, it's just someone from school."

"Who is it?! Y/N I demand to know or you're not going.

"FINE! He's called Luke. He's new and I said I would help him with his biology homework, OK?!"

"That's not enough information. Y/N you're making this extremely difficult. Are you the only person going? What time will you be back?"

"GOD mum, yes I'm the only person going. And I'll be back at 10. Happy now?"

"Fine, you can go. As long as it's not after 10. And no funny business. You know what boys your age are like."

"MUM! We're not gonna have sex if that's what you're worried about. I won't even look at him if you want."

"Y/N! Stop twisting my words and quit with the rudeness. Get upstairs and get ready if you want to go so badly."

"That's what I've been trying to do this whole time!"

When you finally get upstairs you realise it's 6 o'clock. Only 1 hour to get ready. What that enough? You didn't have time to think whether it was enough cause it was going to have to do. You undress and step into the shower. The cold water splashes onto your face and excitement runs through your body. You wash your hair with your favourite shampoo and conditioner in the hopes that good things will come out of it. When the showers over you hop out onto the cold bathroom floor and try and find a towel. "Fuck," you curse and the icy coldness hits your body.

"WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!" You whisper so loudly you're almost talking to yourself. You fling out piles and piles of old clothes but nothing seems good enough, until you look to the side of your wardrobe and see the really cute looking denim dress that you haven't worn for ages. You quickly step into the dress, getting more excited and nervous by the minute. You do your makeup subtlety but noticeable cause you wouldn't imagine him to be the sort of person that likes girls to look orange cause they've caked themselves in foundation. Lastly, your hair. It hangs limply and loosely just at the end your ribcage. After minutes that seemed like hours of deciding what to do with it you do a milkmaid braid, hopefully he'll thinks it's cute. Or something. You slip on your faded white but not so white converses and walk out the door, with your heart in your mouth.