“You look so handsome!”
“I think he looks like sponge Bob in the prom episode.”
“Is that a good thing?” I questioned.
“It’s not a great thing,” Lauren replied.
“Lauren,” Mom sighed, “Be nice to your brother.”
“Ok fine,” she sighed, “You look like a significantly less attractive Evan Peters, happy?”
“Who’s Even Peters?” I questioned.
“Get out,” she replied.
“Lauren will you chill,” Mom sighed.
“Noogie attack!”
Startled I looked up just in time to watch Harry (my brother) jump off the side of the couch and onto my back, grinding his tiny knuckles into my hair.
“Stop!” I cried.
“Harry you’re going to wrinkle his suit!” Mom moaned.
Dropping to the ground, Harry crossed over to Lauren who gave him a fist bump.
“I can’t do this,” I muttered, “I can’t cope, what’s happening with my hair?”
“Your hair is fine,” Mom sighed.
“I don’t think it is,” I replied, “It’s ruined, I’m not going.”
“Ashton,” Mom groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“I can’t look like an idiot!” I cried, tugging at the curls hanging down on my forehead, “I need to look good! Destiny is like…..an adorable little squirrel.”
“She’s a buck toothed, bush haired rodent with a hankering for nuts?” Lauren asked.
“No,” I sighed, “She’s….. I don’t know…. It was like… I just like her okay?”
“You like everyone with a pulse,” Lauren mumbled, flopping down on the couh with a copy of some magazine which for some reason which blew my mind had Harry, Louis, Niall, Liam and Zayn on the cover.
“Can I see that?” I asked, snatching it.
“Yeah sure, go ahead, I wasn’t reading it or anything,” Lauren mumbled sarcastically.
“Sorry,” I muttered, flipping to the page they were on, “You were saying.”
“You’re turning into a bit of a….what’s the word,” she informed me, “Player?”
“I am not!” I cried, lowering the magazine which was droning on about x factor and how Harry was the next sex symbol of the ages.
“First it was Erin,” Lauren sighed, “Then that nice one with that creepy uncle under her bead and the chocolate goodness in a jar, and now this chick.”
“I’m eighteen,” I retorted, “I’m allowed to like girls.”
“Can I like boys?”
“Are you eighteen?”
“No,”
“I think you just answered yourself then.”
“You’re not the boss of me Ashton,”
“Lauren,” Mom sighed.
“He’s not!” Lauren whined.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mom replied, crossing over to me with a large can of hairspray.”
