Cliché

chapter 7. party time

During the period of time in which I dedicated myself to only reading teen fiction novels (which I like to call the month of hell), there were a plethora of things I absolutely could not stand. The main character's superiority complex towards other girls, the toxicity of the love interest, the glorification of sexual assault, the terrible writing— the list could go on and on.

But the sole thing that made me click off of every story I read were the outfit pictures.

And it wasn't enough for the authors to have the fashion sense of a twelve year old, or for the pictures to be the epitome of 2016 Instagram— the photos just had to be placed right in the middle of the text.

And now, fiction has become reality.

"No," I whisper, staring at the mirror in pure horror.

"Iris!" My Best Friend squeals, wrapping me in an excited hug. "You look so hot!"

"This is literally what shows up when you search up summer outfits for teen girls 2012 on Pinterest."

"So hot!" She repeats.

I grimace at my outfit, consisting of a white crop top and frayed jean shorts, paired with a floral mint cardigan and a tassel necklace to tie it all together.

I don't know what it is, but it definitely isn't hot.

Author, what the hell happened to your fashion sense?

"Next, we can do hair!" She suggests enthusiastically. "I'm thinking maybe some kind of messy bun moment—"

"No!" I stop her, turning around and putting my hands up as if trying to tame a wild animal. "No."

"No?"

"No," I repeat, shaking my head. "How about I surprise you with my hair, while you go back home and surprise me with your outfit?"

My Best Friend frowns. "But I thought we were going to go toge—"

"It'll be more fun this way!" I say persuadingly, already pushing her out of the room and down the stairs.

She turns around once she's out the door, opening her mouth to protest. "But—"

"See you later!" I wink, slamming the door closed. Before I have any time to change out of this horribly outdated outfit, I hear a cackle coming from up the stairs.

"Oh my God!" Jasmine, who came home during my little makeover, screeches, unable to hold in her laughter. Unlike me, she's tastefully dressed in a cute blue butterfly top and a plaid skirt— in other words, an outfit that won't get her bullied in public. "You look like you're going to Coachella for the first time!"

"You look like you're coming back from Coachella. Sweaty and crusty," I fire back.

She pouts. "I'm going to tell Mom that you're bullying me!"

"Then I'm telling Mom what you really did after school. Your little lie about getting a ticket so the blame gets shifted onto me? This is fiction. The police don't do their job until they're needed by the plot! You were probably with your little friend, weren't you?"

She reddens, but before she's able to come up with a response, the doorbell rings yet again. Both Jasmine and I swing our heads toward it, Jasmine staring at the door because no one ever visits, and me staring at the door because of the dreaded character standing behind it.

"I'm not getting it!" Jasmine shouts, dashing back into her room.

"You—!" I call after her, irritation just from her existence rising inside of me. Reluctantly, I return my attention towards the front door, throwing it open and bracing myself for what's coming next.