“On a scale of one to ten, how slutty do I look?” I questioned, examining the outfit my mother had brilliantly decided to pack for me in a mirror.
“I’d screw you,” Justin shrugged. I knelt down, taking off one of my shoes, and threw it at his face. His reflexes immediately kicked in, and he caught the shoe by the heel just as it was about to hit his perfectly unscathed face. “Easy, Liz.”
“Just curious, did I miss the part when Monica decided to only pack prostitute-worthy clothes in her daughter’s luggage?” I asked, wondering what went through that woman’s mind. In the past hour, we had discovered that my mom had only packed revealing, short, tight clothing for me to wear for reasons that only baffled the mind.
“I don’t know, but I’m glad she did,” he said.
“You are aware that shoes come in pairs, and I’m not afraid to throw the matching one at you, right?”
“Yes, and I also know that your aim is incredible so I’ll keep the sexual innuendos down to a minimum,” he laughed.
“You better,” I warned, staring down at the dress I had on. It was a lively red color, form fitting, strapless, and short. I truly questioned my mother’s judgment, hoping it was the simply the death that had put her in the wrong frame of mind and not her own motherly intuition.
“I’m a teenage boy, what do you expect?” he defended.
“I expect you to find me a pair of shoes that won’t kill me,” I sighed as I realized that the dress I had on was the least revealing one I had tried on thus far, and if I kept trying on dresses, my life force would be sucked away for good.
“These good?” Justin tossed me a pair of red shoes. As I inspected the form of footwear, I began to seriously fear for Monica’s mental stability.
Along with the slutty dresses, she had for some reason decided to pack me a red pair of Jordans. Right, because Jordans and dresses totally go together …in an alternate universe. Jordans and dresses do not, and never will, go together. It was like oil and water, pickles and chocolate, Red Sox fans and Yankees fans- they didn’t mix well.
“They’re better than heels,” I shrugged, slipping them on happily. Though the dress was about as gross as they got, the shoes were completely me. Here, in Boston, I didn’t have to hide who I was or wanted to be from the world. Boston was, and always would be, my true home.
“I don’t know, you managed pretty well this morning in the heels,” he laughed.
“Did you miss the part where I fell two hundred and fifteen billion times?” I questioned, wondering where I would be able to put my phone, considering there was no way in hell I was bringing a purse, and my dress lacked the useful necessity of pockets.
“I can hold onto your phone, if you want,” Justin offered, displaying the fact that he was indeed a psychic or we shared some sort of telepathy with each other.
“That would be helpful,” I threw him my slender cellular device.
“So, Liz, you ready to see the real Boston tonight?” he questioned, inching his way over to the hotel room’s door.
“I’ve already seen it; believe it or not, but I did actually grow up here,” I joined him at the door, jiggling on the handle until I was let out.
“Yes, but that was when we were mere children who had bedtimes and happened to be naïve and young. Now, I’m going to show you what you missed in your teen years,” he said, intriguing me in what exactly we would be doing for my first Halloween in Boston in about four years.
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The Girl Who Wore JordansTeen Fiction
The new girl. I know what you're thinking: this must be one of those stories where the new girl falls in love with the quarterback and they live happily ever after. You've heard that story about a million times; this is not one of those stories. In...