Cross Roads

Chapter Three: Boots

— Chapter Three: These Boots Are Made For Walking-slash-Running —

“You’re late—”

“—What are you wearing?”

Alvin and I stare at each other, both glaring and both annoyed.

 I am annoyed because he is almost two hours late.  He told me be ready by seven.  I was ready at ten-to, and spent the next ninety-nine minutes staring blankly at my TV waiting for the devil himself to arrive. 

Alvin, I suppose, is annoyed because I am wearing my boots.

That is what happens when I am made to wait.

“Where were you?  I’ve been waiting,” I hiss, locking my front door.

“What are you wearing?” he repeats, staring down at my feet.

“Shoes,” I say, shouldering my backpack and crossing the front porch to his car.

I hear him growl behind me as he follows.  “I told you specifically not to wear boots.  You can’t show up to one of these things wearing those.  Do you know who is going to be at this party?  Do you know what kind of impression you’re going to give people about me?”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Do you really think I care?  I don’t want to be anywhere near you, Alvin.  You’re lucky that I even put on a dress.  Now either we’re going to this dumb party or we aren’t.  I’ll be fine with the latter.  We can just forget that this entire thing ever happened . . . or tried to happen.  I won’t tell a soul, and neither will you.”

Alvin laughs, grabbing my arm as I make an attempt at returning to my house.  “Nice try, Spencer.”  He drags me back to his car, practically throwing me into the passenger door.  “We have a deal, unless you wanted me to go around telling everyone who vandalized my brother’s car.  I don’t think Anabelle would appreciate going to court for something that she didn’t do.  What about you?”  He smirks, knowing he has me.

I glare up at him, resisting the urge to punch the smug jerk in the gut.  “I hate you.”

He is unconcerned, nudging me to the door.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Tell me something that actually Brandoners to me.  Get in.  We have a party to go to.”

I do not like being ordered around.  I fold my arms and glare up at him, refusing to budge until . . . I’m not sure.  Maybe an apology.  Maybe until he starts treating me with a modicum of respect.  Maybe until this whole entire messy situation resolves itself, and I am once again able to curse the bane of my existence from afar.

“What now, Spencer?” he growls, growing more agitated by the second.

Well, now he knows I felt, being forced to sit around in a dress and wait for his royal highness to finally make his appearance.

“Ask,” I reply, seething.  I hate Alvin Knightly.  The only man on this earth that I hate more than him is his older brother – that is self explanatory.  “Ask me to go to this party.  Ask me to get into this car.”

He only rolls his eyes.  “Get in.”  He crosses to the driver’s side, sliding down behind the wheel.

I don’t budge.

He lowers the passenger window.  “Now, Spencer.  I have my brother on speed-dial.  All it will take is one button to ruin your sister’s life.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” I growl, leaning in through the window.

“Don’t make me tell my brother.”