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I was hoping to save the sweaty part until later, you know, assuming things went well.
Turning my face in the makeup mirror, I scrutinized every angle in the magnifying panel. My cat eye was on point, another YouTube taught skill, and my lipstick was matte perfection. Some women thought about makeup as their war paint, the armor they put on before going into battle. For me, it was a creative way I could express myself. Nothing more, nothing less.
I'd given up long ago on impressing other people or even feeling like I had to fight them.
Growing up with a father who was the police chief hadn’t won me many friends when their parties were busted up. And my mother, well, she had moments that made life difficult as a teenager. I’d learned to evaluate the importance of things early. High school girls' approval didn't even make the worry list. Which had probably been good, because otherwise, I imagine high school would've been hella difficult for me.
I didn’t fall into the preppy girl category. Come to think about it, I hadn’t fallen into any category. I wasn’t a smarty geek, athletic, emo, or country-western either. Experimenting with my look and style had kind of always been my thing. I'd been dubbed the "quirky weird girl" in ninth grade when I started wearing dresses.
It was the summer after puberty had hit, and my body changed from a flat-looking boy shape into a curvy girl. Suddenly, I had boobs and hips, and no clue what to do with them. Jeans and t-shirts would no longer cut it, fitting all wrong on my short frame. I’d eventually found my style, landing on dresses that were modern-retro to quirky-cute looks.
That summer had been pivotal for me in owning my self-worth.
My brother had been born at the beginning of the year, and it had changed things in my home. The biggest was discovering my mom suffered from Bipolar 1 Disorder. My parents had hidden it from me, not wanting me to worry, but when an episode occurred, they could no longer deny it. My life became very different after that, and I’d realized I'd experienced things my other peers hadn’t, no longer feeling connected to them.
When you let go of teen girls' expectations, it freed you to find your own.
After that summer, the only friend worth keeping was Simon, and when we started high school that fall, I was a new person. Them calling me quirky worked for me. I embraced it and stopped caring what my peers thought. They'd already all proven I couldn’t count on them when I needed them. So, why would I put value in their opinions? I didn’t.
"Simon, I need help! I can't fit into any of my clothes, and Shelley Adams invited me to her pool party at the country club! Can you believe it?" I shrieked, turning to look at him.
Simon rolled his eyes, not caring about Shelley. She'd told the whole school he was a lousy kisser last year after a boy-girl party where they spent 'seven minutes in Heaven'. He hadn't forgiven her yet since no other girls would go out with him now. He spent the whole eighth-grade dance against the wall, drinking punch. He wouldn't even dance with me, saying it was out of pity.
It hadn't been because of pity though.
Because despite what Shelley said, I thought Simon would be a great kisser. Maybe it just needed to be with the right person.
I wanted to be the right person.
I shouldn't be having these feelings for my best friend, but Mom told me it was natural as you got older to think about it. He was the boy next door, and we'd been playing in the dirt together since birth. I'd rolled my eyes at her at the time, but she'd said at some point, all my hormones would course through my body and make me see boys differently. She'd been right, but he was the one I saw the most.
Even now, as he sat on my bed reading a comic, his shirt raised a little, I found myself drooling. He was in shorts and an old t-shirt I've seen him wear hundreds of times. It was only now I noticed the way they fit him, and I imagined his chest underneath it all. When he looked up and caught me staring, he gave me a funny look.
"You get sunburned earlier, Lemon Drop? Your face is all red."
He scrunched his nose as he looked at me, moving to get off the bed. Quickly, I turned back to my closet, trying to hide the reason I was so flushed. It didn't help when he called me Lemon Drop. He came to stand behind me and I sucked in a breath. Simon had grown a few inches this summer and now stood a head taller than me.
He placed his hands on my shoulders, resting his head on top of mine. Simon joked I was the perfect height now to be his headrest. I tried to keep my body in lockdown as he stood there. His thumbs casually rubbed my shoulders, and I wondered if he even knew he was doing it. We weren't shy in our affection for one another. It was just part of our relationship. We would even sleep in the same bed and cuddle on the couch when watching movies.
I'd never questioned it. It was natural for us.
But now, I read into every touch and look. I hated how much of a typical teenage girl I’d become in those moments. Simon reached over and flicked through my clothes, and when he didn't find what he wanted, he dropped them, his arm hanging over my body, dangerously close to my boob. I sucked in a breath as I waited.
"Well, it's decided then. I think we need to convince your mom to drop us off at the mall. We're fourteen now. We're capable of going without her. And you're right. You need new clothes. I don't think your boobs will fit in any of those shirts unless you want them to be crop tops," he teased.
Elbowing him in the gut, I turned and crossed my arms over said boobs he’d just casually mentioned. The fact he'd noticed made me self-conscious. Sticking out my tongue, I diverted his attention.
"Hey! You can't talk about my boobs like that." Yeah, way to divert, moron.
"Why? We talk about everything, Lennox."
He looked at me oddly, an eyebrow raised in question. I couldn't find words to answer him when he was making valid points. Stuttering, I screamed out my frustration.
"Boys!"
Throwing up my hands, I stomped out of the room to find my mom. Simon had a good idea about the mall, at least. I found her in the kitchen, taking all the pans out of the cabinets. It was odd, but she'd been more restless lately with baby Noah. They were scattered everywhere, and I even spotted what looked like half a bowl of something she’d started to make, but stopped.
"Um, Mom?"
