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“Yeah, I am.” She smiles triumphantly. “Come on, sis. You have to admit you need a bit of fun, and what better way to get it than going to a back-to-school party?"
"I think you must have me confused with another sister I don’t know about. I’m not a big partier. That’s you. Not me.” I pout, loathing the idea of going to some stranger’s house filled with kids who hate me on mere principle alone.
Whoever will be at that party will undoubtedly be from Bayshore High, and we all know I didn’t exactly make a big splash when I dipped my toes in that cesspool.
I have Noah to thank for that.
Just the thought of having to interact with actual people has me cringing and hugging my pillow tightly to my chest.
Knowing the reason behind my reluctance, Daisy places my laptop on my desk and then crawls over to me on the bed until she’s sitting cross-legged right beside me.
"It’s one party, Sky. Not a death sentence,” she says softly, running her fingers soothingly through my hair. “You can’t stay cooped inside this house all the time. It isn’t healthy.”
“And getting groped by drunk football players is?” I raise my brows to my hairline.
“You’re exaggerating. Hooking up or getting drunk aren’t the only things that happen at parties. There’s dancing, music—”
“Beer pong,” I add with a roll of the eye.
“Probably.” She laughs, amused. “But it beats staying locked away in this room all the time. Or did you plan on being a shut-in until you graduated high school?”
"The thought did cross my mind,” I snicker. “Besides, I’ll have more fun on my own here than I will at some lame-ass party anyway."
"How can you say that when you haven’t even tried?” she counters with a tender smile. “Okay, let me put this in a way you’ll understand. Do you want to be a great writer or not?” My forehead instantly wrinkles, wondering where she’s going with this. “Aren’t you always saying that you need to experience life in order to be a great writer? Don’t you want to be the next Hemingway, or Plath, or even the next Virginia Woolf? Well, guess what, squirt? They lived a full life, which means you’ll have to, too. You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
“All those writers committed suicide in the end, so you’re not making a very good point, Daisy.” I shrug with a smug grin.
“Jesus, give me strength!” she blurts out, hands pressed together in prayer and raising her sights to the ceiling to the Almighty himself before laying her eyes on me again. When she finds that all her pleas and prayers are going unheard, Daisy takes a different approach to her dilemma.
“You know what?” she starts, dead serious. “Enough with the pep talk. Just get your ass up and get dressed. I’m not moving an inch until you’re ready to leave with me.”
“Then I guess no one is going anywhere tonight and you're stuck spending your Saturday night at home with me.” I smirk.
“Oh no, I'm not. And neither are you,” she says before trying to push me off the bed with her bare feet.
“Daisy, stop!” I giggle, clutching the duvet underneath me to keep my balance.
“I’ll stop when your ass is up,” she heaves out, doing her best to push me to the floor.
When she successfully gets her way and I fall to the floor, she lets out a victorious cry.
I should have remembered that Daisy doesn’t like people telling her no. She’s more stubborn than I am, and that’s saying something.
“Fine,” I relent, brushing off my knees as I get up from the floor. “I’ll go to this stupid party with you, but on one condition. If I’m not having a good time, then we leave. No questions asked. I’m not going to stay alone in some corner somewhere while you suck face with some rando. Deal?”
“Deal.” She grins widely, outstretching her hand so we can shake on it. I give her hand a little jiggle, unable to be mad at her for forcibly pushing me out of my comfort zone. “Now what should you wear?” She masticates her lip before jumping off the bed to rush toward my closet.
“What’s wrong with what I’ve got on now?” I look down at my clothes, wondering why I can’t go with what I’m wearing now.
“You are not going to the last party of the summer in raggedy old shorts and a hoodie that has seen better days,” she scoffs, scrolling through the hangers in my closet.
“Why not?”
“First of all, it’s August and hot as hell outside, and secondly, if you wear something cute, you'll feel more confident in actually partaking in conversation with someone. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Whatever,” I mumble, but when Daisy picks out a skirt that’s short enough for everyone to see my underwear when I bend down, I quickly nix that idea.
“Nope. I’m not wearing that. Nuh-uh.” I shake my head, arms crossed on my chest to show I mean business.
