Please, Calm Your Crotch; I'm Not a Whore

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Excuse the mistakes

...this chapter is a little longer than usual

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Why, oh why, did Olive have to get sick?

She’d spent so much time with Lillian, looking after her and holding her hair back while she vomited, that Olive herself had managed to get sick. Now, she couldn’t meet me at the party, which she had promised to do, so that if things went south, like if my awkwardness reached an uncomfortable peak with Justin, that she could save me. I’m not mad at Olive, to be clear; I’m just mad at the situation.

Another downside of Olive being sick meant that she couldn’t help me find a cute outfit to wear. I’d been sitting in front of my open closet for the past half an hour, trying to find some combination of clothing before getting frustrated and slumping to the floor. I was nervous already, since I’d had a crush on Justin forever, and everything seemed sucky at the moment.

Yes, I used the word sucky. Sue me.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of my phone vibrating against the top of my bedside table, and I groaned as I pushed myself to my feet and walked over to my bed. I picked up my phone and breathed out a sigh of relief as I read the caller ID. I pressed the answer button and held the phone up to my ear.

“So,” Olive called, without saying hello,

“What are you wearing for your date?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted, biting my lip, “I’ve tried a bunch of different outfits on, but none of them look good on me.”

“Harper, you do realize Justin is going to be there in, like, thirty minutes, right?” Olive asked, and I grunted in reply.

“Yes,” I said, my frustration edging into my voice, “I am fully aware that I’m running behind schedule, and that I still have to fix my hair and makeup. If you can’t tell, I’m just a bit stressed out and ready to punch a wall.”

Olive sighed, and there was the muffled sound of her saying something to someone around her, who I was just going to assume was Lillian. They were probably still being the cutest couple on the planet, while occasionally vomiting.

“This is what you’re going to wear,” Olive stated, and her voice was firm, as if I didn’t have a choice. “Put on that cute black dress that’s like an oversized tank top, and cinch it at the waist with a woven leather belt. Add a denim vest and a pair of black combat boots, and you’re good to go.”

I didn’t even bother feeling like an idiot about not putting that outfit together because, frankly, I wouldn’t have. In our friendship, Olive was the one who knew what clothes were perfect together. Not that I couldn’t dress myself, because I totally could, but Olive could take anything to the next level. Plus, she had my closet memorized so, like right now, she could tell me what to wear without even being present.

“Are you sure?” I asked, and Olive snorted.

“Of course I’m sure,” she stated, “The dress makes your boobs look great and the belt will make your waist look small. Plus, the combat boots make sure that you don't look country, because we all know how much you hate Taylor Swift."

"Thanks, O," I said, genuinely grateful, "I don't know where I'd be without you."

"Dead and in a gutter," Olive replied casually, and there was another muffled conversation before Olive added, "Lil says to flatiron your hair because it makes you look sexy."

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