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— hi —
"Do I look fine?"
"You always look hot," Pansy chimes from inside the bathroom without missing a beat—without even glancing at me.
"She's not wrong," Daphne snickers as she leans over her dresser to peer into her mirror, making an odd face while she slides the mascara brush over her eyelashes.
I roll my eyes, though a grin lights up my face.
It's gonna be thirty or so people crammed in one dorm room getting high on Alihosty and drunk off their asses on Firewhiskey, and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it far more than I'm looking forward to spending two weeks at home.
I stand in front of my mirror and stare at myself for a little while, trying to decide if what I'm wearing is too much or not. Boys tend to do the absolute least when it comes to planning parties, meaning I have absolutely no idea what the dress code is—so I find myself in a shimmery golden tank top, the kind with the sparkles that stay in tact and don't rub off onto every surface they do or don't come in contact with, a simple, black pair of wide-leg pants because I'm tired of wearing skirts and having constructed movement and worrying about whether I'm flashing anyone or not.
I fiddle with the locket that lays over my collarbones before deciding that I need to confide with my own friend who I know will never lie to me.
Cheeky.
"Cheeks!" I call out, and instantly he appears from under my bed where he was probably snooping around for crumbs of food.
I look down at him, seeing my chubby little baby staring up at me with wide yellow eyes.
"Do I look okay?" I sigh with exasperation, glancing at myself in the mirror and trying to figure out what's wrong.
Cheeky makes a low, croaky, and long howl, scratching at the gem of my pants before looking at me with a purposeful glare in his eyes.
"You're right," I say with a nod, realizing what it is. "I do look like a middle-aged mom trying too hard to be hot. I'll wear the other outfit then."
I eventually settle on an outfit that doesn't make me look like I peeked in my schooling years, quickly do my makeup, shove my feet into a terrible pair of heels that I'll probably end up kicking off by the end of the night, and the we're off to the seventh year boys' dorm.
It's already pretty crammed by the time we get there. The air is all smoggy, smelling distinctly of Laughing Potion—Alihosty smoke. Music is blasting loudly from a Wireless, some Hobgoblins song from a couple years ago that the already drunk seventh year girls near the window (that is, the glass wall separating the dorm from the Black Lake) sing along to at the very top of their lungs.
