Punk Princess (completed) (being edited)

Chapter 3

"So, where do you want to go?"

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Lacey's car. It's awkward. Her car is a who-knows-how-old maroon Pontiac. It has leather seats, a dented passenger door, and a scrape along the other side, but it seems to be in working condition. I hope it is, at least.

"I don't know," I say, digging my nails into my legs out of nervousness and awkwardness. "Um... the mall?"

"As long as we don't have to go into any freaking prep stores. No Abercrombie. I can't stand that crap," she says, putting the car into reverse and pulling out of my driveway.

It's Saturday. Lacey and I (she's now told me to call her Lacey, not Lace) made plans yesterday after our band practice to hang out today. We're getting along a little bit better than we were now, but I've discovered that about three-fourths of her rudeness and sarcastic tendencies are just part of her personality. I've also discovered that she's actually kind of nice when she's in a good mood.

She's a junior, too, like West and I. Alec is, as I thought, a senior. She's been going out with Alec for about six months now, and she works part time at a coffee shop two blocks from school. That's really all I know about her, besides the fact that she's in our band (which is still unnamed) and plays bass and that her favorite band is All Time Low.

Lacey points to the backseat with her thumb. "Grab an ATL or Fall Out Boy CD and put it in," she says. I reach back, taking out Lacey's CD case and looking through it for a CD. She has quite a few CDs -- all the Fall Out Boy, All Time Low, and all the Paramore CDs except for the latest one. I pick out the first Paramore CD, and we listen quietly on the drive to the mall. Lacey doesn't say anything. When she's not mad, she's a girl of few words. But she's usually pissed off about something, so a quiet Lacey is somewhat rare. 

Twenty minutes later, she's pulling shirts off of racks in Hot Topic and throwing them in my arms. "Try these on," she says. "Please, just pick out at least three or four. If I have to see you in another freaking polo shirt, I might throw up." 

"Wow, thanks for the uplifting comments, Lacey," I say, rolling my eyes. 

"Anytime, Princess," she says. She's taken to calling me that whenever I attempt sarcasm around her, because, according to her, "she's better at it". I don't reply to this, though, and go and try on the shirts. Most of them are black or gray -- there's not much color at all, even in the graphics -- but I like it. It's definitely not what I'm used to(polo shirts, skirts, and bright colors), but... it's a good kind of different. I walk out of the dressing room, showing one -- a My Chemical Romance tank top -- to Lacey. 

"That's much better," she says, smiling a little. "Much, much better. You're getting all of these," she says, going into the dressing room and taking the pile of shirts. 

"Wait, but--" 

"No, you're getting them. You need these, darling," she says, patting my head. I glare at her -- I hate being treated like that. Like I don't know anything. I hate it. "And go pick out some ripped skinny jeans or something while you're at it. You can't be wearing that flowery crap with these," she says, looking disgustedly at my skirt. 

I glare at Lacey, and go back into the dressing room to put my shirt back on, and go grab a few pairs of jeans. I try them on (I hate it -- I wear skirts, dresses, and yoga pants -- I don't do jeans) and end up getting two pairs, although I hate them. 

"Alright," Lacey says as we're walking out of the store. "Now we need to do something with your hair," she says, eyeing it distastefully. 

"What's wrong with my hair? I mean, I know it's not multi-colored or anything, but... yeah."