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Looking over Quinn’s shoulder, I see an unimpressed Polly glaring at me.
“I hate to interrupt,” she spits. “But can your gross make-out session wait untilaftershopping? I have better things to do than watch you dry hump one another.”
She turns on her heel, her long ponytail thrashing like a whip as she storms off.
I bite my lip, feeling a touch guilty because, as usual, I lose all sense of space and time when kissing Quinn.
“Oops.” I smirk, so not sorry for my PDA.
Quinn grins, giving me a light kiss before he sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”
After much debate, Quinn left me alone with the spawn of Satan, as he too needs an outfit for this masquerade ball.
However, I’m currently hiding in the changing room, avoiding going outside and confronting a scowling Polly, who has hated every outfit I’ve tried on.
This barely-there garment, which scarcely passes for a dress, is Polly’s pick, and I have a feeling she chose this to make me squirm.
The only thing I like about it is that it’s black. Other than that, the indecent plunging neckline and short hemline make me afraid to move the wrong way because I’m certain if I sneezed, this thing would turn into a scarf.
The shoes are also ridiculous, and I feel like an utter fraud pretending to feel comfortable walking in glittery stripper heels.
But I’m here to try and bond with Polly. So I suck it up and slowly open the changing room door.
Polly sits outside on a round plush sofa, checking her phone, totally uninterested.
As I clear my throat, she lifts her head and stares at me for a moment before saying, “Wow, who would have thought you could actually kinda look like a girl.”
I don’t know if that’s a compliment, but it didn’t involve profanity, so I’ll take it as a positive.
“It’s really, um…short,” I say, tugging at the creeping hemline.
Polly stands in her red-heeled boots, tapping her chin.
Moments like these, when we’re not yelling at each other, I can see our similarities.
We both stand at the same height and have similar facial expressions when we’re unhappy or pissed off. Her hair is longer than mine, and I can see Polly has a natural kink in hers too, but she straightens it daily so the stubborn curls stay away. Her body is curvier, but we both have an athletic build.
We do also have many differences; our varied dress sense is obviously one of them. But our smart mouths are definitely something we share.
“Just make sure you don’t eat or breathe, and you’ll be fine.” She laughs, pointing at the midsection of my sucked-in torso.
I sarcastically laugh, holding my sides in fake amusement, and trip over my skyscraper heels in the process.
Polly rolls her eyes while I clutch onto a mannequin for support.
“You’re really not good at this whole ‘being a girl’ thing, are you?”
With my patience wearing thin, I retort, “Well, the fact I spent my entire teenage years as a drug dealer might have something to do with that.”
Polly’s eyes widen, and I’m taken aback when I see a flicker of pain cross her features. But it’s gone before I can question it.
“I guess you would look ridiculous dealing in those shoes,” she says after a pregnant pause, pointing at my feet.
I’m speechless. Surely, she didn’t just make a joke, did she?
We stand staring at one another, and I can’t believe how this person can be my kin. I can’t help but wonder if things had been different and Cynthia never left, would we have been friends? Would I be standing here, feeling comfortable with this lifestyle?
I guess that’s something I’ll never know because we can’t go back, but we can move forward, and that’s what I’ll try to do.
