Mr. Cinderella (5SOS) {discontinued}

(12) So Sue Me

"How about this shirt?" Brandy asks, holding yet another top up again her small frame, frowning as her narrow on her reflection in the mirror in my room.  Speaking of my room . . . where the hell is it?  One hour ago, when I got home from school, I could see my bed, I could see my floor - I could see, full stop.  Now, however, my vision is blurred by the multitude of colours that make up Brandy's wardrobe, while both my bed and cream-carpeted bedroom floor are being obscured by a combination of shoes, makeup and clothes belonging to both Brandy and myself.

Huffing in obvious exasperation (if the constant huffing isn't a big enough giveaway, the red tint to her cheeks and the grinding of her teeth would have clued me in to her frustration sooner or later), Brandy dumps the red top she had been evaluating and throws her hands up.  "You know what?  I may as well go naked.  I mean, why bother with this crap?"  Rolling my eyes at her tantrum - and her clearly empty threat (at least, I hope it's an empty threat) to leave the house without clothes - I watch as the blonde flops onto my bed.  Obviously, she forgot about the sea of random crap that has swallowed my bed up, because now she's drowning under several bags of makeup, a pile of my old jeans and half a suitcase of her T-shirts.

Never has preparing for a date been so stressful.  Or time-consuming.  Or room-swallowing.  (Is that a thing - room-swallowing?  Either way, it's happening to my room, so if it isn't a thing, I'm making it a thing.)

Then again, I remind myself, you've never been on a double date before.  Actually, now that I stop to think about it properly, I think some of Brandy's nerves are passing over to me (are nerves contagious?).  My stomach is stirring giddily with butterflies, which are fluttering around with anxious anticipation; suddenly I realise my fingers have also been twitching this whole time, and I'm hopping from foot to foot, shifting my weight between them.  I must look like I need to use the toilet.  Evidently Brandy agrees because, eyeing me up with an arched eyebrow, she asks dryly, "Do you need to pee or something?"

I resist the urge to throw something at her - partly because I'm a nice person, partly because the only things within my reach are tubes of lipgloss or hangers abandoned next to my wardrobe.  "Would you hurry up and pick something to wear?  I would like to be able to find my bedroom when I get home," I whine.  We've been trying to select an outfit for Brandy for the past forty-five minutes - she literally dragged me up the stairs seconds after I got through the door after school before lugging the entire contents of her guest room through to my room.  Actually, that's a lie: Brandy has been struggling to find an outfit for the past forty-five minutes.  I gave up after five minutes.

Luckily, it's only Brandy who we're having difficulty with.  Well, not luckily - but at least we aren't both battling with our wardrobes.  I found my own outfit after a couple of minutes of rifling through the stuff in my wardrobe, and am already dressed in a black denim dungaree skater skirt over a plain, dark blue T-shirt.

"This is so stressful," Brandy complains, and I nod imperceptibly in silent agreement.  

"You're telling me," I mutter under my breath.  Brandy's head turns towards me and I quickly return to the matter at hand to avoid a potential argument.  "How about you just wear a dress?" I suggest helpfully.  "I mean, you won't have to worry about which colour shirt to wear or what style of jeans because it's just one thing.  You could even borrow one of mine if you want."  Beaming at Brandy, I wait for her to smile or throw her arms around me or tell me how fantastic and intelligent I am.  Instead, I am met with an even more terrified pair of eyes than earlier.  "What?  What is it?  Is it a spider?  There's a spider on me, isn't there?"  Automatically, my hands start brushing off nonexistent arachnids from my body, only stopping when Brandy shakes her head slightly.  Relieved, I sigh - why do I always jump to conclusions about spiders whenever someone looks at me weirdly?