London Fog | school hiatus

Ch. 2

I gulped. I was bad at parties, so much so that I usually called home sick, not wanting to ruin a party further with my presence. “I don’t think I can, actually, I um, have a thing.”

“No you don’t,” she said, calling my bluff. “Get ready, Dale’s gonna pick us up in two hours. A party will be good for you. Give you some inspiration and whatnot.”

“Who’s Dale?”

“My boyfriend. Now go get ready.”

“It’s eight. In the morning. And plus, jet-lag.”

“Alright, you got me. But there is one tonight so take a nap and then shower and we’ll go at nine, ’kay?”

Instead of sleeping like she suggested, I unpacked my clothes and wandered down to the kitchen. I wasn’t starving, so I disciplined myself and cooked potato wedges. They were good.

“I thought I smelled something!” Jen exclaimed from the other room, running into the kitchen and taking a handful. I smiled, proud that she would actually eat my cooking.

“Did you make these?” she asked, her eyes wide and her cheeks full of potatoes.

“Yeah, I did,” I informed her.

“That’s it, from now on, you’re on cooking and I’ll clean whatever mess you make so long as I get to eat it.”

I didn’t see what the big deal was or why she liked them so much. They were only potatoes, albeit peeled and seasoned cooked potatoes.

I let her have her way, leaving the pan out and jumping into my own shower. The water pressure was great, pounding down on my back. The temperature, however, was tricky and I was sure my entire skin was covered in red splotches from the heat. I turned the water down to a temperature that was warm enough to keep me from contracting hypothermia and picked up my shampoo, squeezing the last bit out of the travel-size container.

When I got out, I quickly dried and retreated into my room, curious as what to wear. I had never been to an actual party, only sleepovers with other thirteen year-olds. “Jen! What should I wear?” I called.

She burst in through my door with a black dress and heels.

I eyed them and then her, asking her with my eyes, “You really think that will fit?”

She grasped the thought quickly and flung the dress on my bed, rummaging through my closet. Minutes later, she pulled out faded jean shorts and a peach-colored tank top, along with my pair of black converse. I took them from her and changed in the bathroom, coming out and presenting myself to her. “Almost,” she said, hurrying back to her room. When she returned she had what looked to be a huge tote, full of cosmetics. Great. I sat down at her instruction and waited patiently as she rubbed eyeshadow on my lids and liner on the edge of my lashes. She applied my mascara and swiveled me around to my mirror.

I had expected heavy makeup, but instead the makeup was just enough to make my eyes the focal point of my face. The liner was black and winged, the eyeshadow a brownish color. I looked good. She went for my hair, but I politely declined, telling her I would take care of it. I ended up just blow-drying it and it waved out just like I knew it would.

When I emerged from my bathroom, I could hear voices downstairs.

“Careful, she’s a little shy. But she’s a good cook,” came Jen’s voice.

A deep voice answered her, probably Dale’s. “Am I ever not polite?” The tone was playfully accusing. I heard her laugh before I decided to make my way down the stairs. Loudly, so they would know I was coming. I did not want to see them kissing.