Excuse the mistakes
Picture of Olive (Maika Monroe) on the side ==>
“Harper, I seriously feel like I’m going to get shanked at any second.”
“You say that every time you drop me off,” I replied, giving Olive a sideways glance as I locked my phone and shoved it into the back pocket of my gray skinny jeans.
“Yeah, I do,” Olive stated, raising her hands off of her steering wheel and gesturing at the sketchy surroundings outside the car, “Like, why is it that you have to go to an art studio in the part of town where I feel the need to constantly make sure my car is locked?”
“O, you and I both know that this place isn’t as bad as it seems,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“No, only you know that because I refuse to get out of the car,” Olive said matter-of-factly. I laughed and grabbed my backpack from the backseat of Olive’s car, and I unbuckled my seatbelt.
“Thanks for giving me a ride,” I drawled, grinning cheekily at her.
“Yeah, whatever,” Olive replied, and she pointed to the door, “Hurry up so that I can get the hell out of here.” I grinned, knowing that she wasn’t trying to be a bitch; she was just really uncomfortable.
You see, unlike myself, who lived in a regular suburban house, Olive’s parents were completely loaded. She lived in a mansion with tons of rooms, a home theater, and a pool, which I liked to take advantage of. I don’t want to call her a spoiled brat, because she definitely never came close to flaunting her wealth, but she was somewhat used to more expensive, nicer areas.
Hey; some people just can’t control where they were brought up.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I stated, giving her a mock salute.
“Yeah, if you’re not dead,” Olive snorted. I rolled my eyes, since we both knew she was being overdramatic, and then I climbed out of the passenger seat of the car. After shutting the door behind myself, I made my way across the street to the row of rustic, old brick buildings that Olive was so scared of.
Usually, I would go home after school and do my homework before heading over to the studio. On those days, I would try and borrow my mom’s car, since she typically worked from home and didn’t need it.
However, there were always some days when, if I wanted to put some hours in at the studio, I had to go right after school. Like, today, our family friend’s son was coming, and we had this big fancy dinner to welcome him. Obviously, that was going to take up my night, and I was dying to get into the studio and start doing literally anything.
I glanced over my shoulder to see that Olive and her car were gone, and I smiled to myself as I hopped up the front steps of one of the buildings. I opened the heavy metal door and stepped inside, and instead of being greeted by a dingy, gross interior that most people would expect, I found myself in the familiar, cozy design of the studio.
There was a wide, wooden desk which served as the front desk where you could register for classes, and it was splattered with peeling paint. The walls of the large front room were covered in pieces of art produced by artists from the studio, and I could proudly say that I had a few creations hanging on the walls as well.
YOU ARE READING
Not His GirlTeen Fiction
There are two things Harper Lynch wasn’t expecting when she made out with an attractive stranger at her aunt’s wedding. One: He would show up on her doorstep two weeks later as the son of an old family friend. Two: That he would be staying in her h...