Teen Idols And Happy Meals

Scotch And Stars

Nikki’s POV

“Well, which is it? Up? Or down? Up . . . or down?”

Joey, where he sat slumped in my desk chair, rolled his eyes. He was toying with a tube of my mascara, letting the black tendrils of liquid drip glutinously back into the container. He observed the process with a mixture of apathy and mild confusion, as if he couldn’t quite decide what he was looking at.

“How the hell should I know?” he retorted apathetically, “This isn’t exactly my department.”

“Well Christ Joey if you’re not going to help . . .” I trailed off threateningly, releasing my curls and letting them thud back against my shoulders.

“I told you,” he replied, experimentally touching the mascara brush to his finger, “I didn’t come to help, I came to pester.”

“Ugh,” I groaned in frustration, turning away from him to study my reflection in the mirror. I wiped my thumb under my eyes, trying to pick up the excess eyeliner that had smudged there. “What do you want then?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Money,” he said, his tone taking on a meek undercurrent.

I sighed. “What for?”

“The movies. I know things are tight right now – but all my friends are going, and Annie will be there -,” he pleaded.

I felt my heart clench. My poor little brother; afraid to ask for money to the fucking movies because he knew, he understood how tough things were. It made anger swirl briefly inside me – not at Joey, but at our situation. He was only fifteen years old, a kid; he shouldn’t have to worry about things like this.

“Alright,” I said softly, pulling away from the mirror in order to reach into my bag and extract a twenty from my wallet. It pained me to do it, to watch the small wad of money shrink further, but I had to. Joey deserved to have the same things as all the other kids.

And seeing his face light up at such a simple gesture . . . Well, that made it all worth it. He smiled, abandoning the mascara and coming over to me.

I leaned back though, holding the money out of his grasp. “Not so fast,” I reprimanded, pulling my hair into a makeshift messy bun. “First. Up?” I let the hair fall back against my shoulders. “Or down?”

He groaned. “Up,” he decided, randomly I knew. But I would take it.

“Thank you,” I said, handing him the money before scrounging around for a hair clip. “Now was that so hard?”

“Incredibly,” he replied, pocketing the money, “Why are you getting so dressed up anyway?”

“I told you. Jacen and I have a date,” I explained again, pinning my hair up in bun, allowing two curly strands to remain free in order to frame my face.

“Where are you going?” he wondered, leaning up against my desk. The old thing creaked beneath his weight threateningly.

“Not sure,” I replied, putting the finishing touches on my hair, “I guess it’s a surprise.”

Earlier that evening, Jacen had texted out of the blue, with instructions to be ready for dinner at seven and to ‘dress appropriately.’ Since he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the details, I was unsure what exactly that meant. For instance, it was appropriate to wear crotch-less panties to an orgy in New Jersey, but not for a meeting with a Queen.

Assuming that neither of those activities were on the agenda for tonight, I’d torn apart my closet in search of something suitable for a night out.