"MAX!"
I jolted upward, knocking my head on the bottom of my lamp and cursing loudly.
"Yes, Ella?" I called back, groaning and rubbing my forehead. Curse me and my paranoid self.
"That old house just got sold!" She called from where I could now see her in my doorway.
I gritted my teeth. Ella was just... like that sometimes.
"Which house, Ella? You do realize that we live in a pretty decrepit part of town, right? Lots of unsold old houses?" It was true. While we weren't exactly in the slums, we were in the part of town that had lots of old fixer-uppers, the kind of place you could tell used to be full of old mansions that were now kind of past their time.
"That one just down the street from Ariana and Gregory."
Now I got it. Ariana and Gregory were the ADORABLE little kids who lived two doors down. In between them was Ignacious, called Iggy by all, resident pyrotechnic. Greg and Iggy could make things happen with explosives the military hadn't come up with yet. You kind of got used to loud booms coming from their side of the neighborhood.
"What about it?" I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and wincing at the sore spot. With my luck I'd probably have a big bruise. Attractive, I know.
"Mom says she knows their mom from vet school and that they're coming over for lunch today! And it's already 11, and they'll be here at 1, and you need to get ready and look nice for them and not just your normal, ratty old jeans and band T-shirts because Mom says that's not proper for a first impression! So I think it's time!"
Crap. My idea of formal apparel is skinny jeans without holes in them and a slightly more 'proper' T-shirt. However, Ella has this idea that if I wore some kind of fabric scrap she's got stowed away in her closet for the 'time', then I'll look amazing and dazzling and have guys falling over themselves to land a date with me. Problem 1: I despise anything even moderately trendy-looking. I just don't do that sort of thing. Problem 2: I most certainly do NOT want guys, and I quote, 'superbly smitten and incredibly infatuated'. They're all womanizing, sexist male chauvinist pigs who think women are good for one thing, and that most certainly is not their intelligence. I groaned, getting up out of bed and heading toward Ella, hoping I could argue my way out of this.
"Look, Ella, I don't see why this is so important for RIGHT NOW; it's not like I'm going to wear Hollister for the rest of the time they live here, why bother wearing it the first-"
But stubborn-as-a-mule-won't-take-no-for-an-answer Ella was already dragging by the ear (no, really) toward her pink-painted door. I tried to skid to a stop, but sock feet on wood floors don't do much except send me crashing into said door. And howling in pain as my already bruising forehead smashing into it. Ella didn't even flinch, just hurried me through the doorway and shoving me into a chair. She held my wrists to the arm of the chair and looked me in the eyes.
"Max." She said, her voice firm.
"Ella." I imitated. She blinked.
"There is a guy our age that is moving into that house. He is adopted. He is supposedly very shy. That is everything I have picked up from hushed conversations. Do you get the gist of what I'm saying?" Oh no. Oh, so help me God, if she was trying to set us up-
"He WILL, I repeat WILL go out with one of us. And I choose you, because you need a turn. And I plan to set this plan in motion by putting you in The Outfit." Don't ask me how, but I could hear the capitols as she spoke. She was still looking me into the eye, strapping me into the seat with her hands. Oh dear. sweet Jesus. This was BAD. Ella was in her you-will-do-as-I-say-and-do-it-NOW mode. No stopping her then.
"Houston, we have a problem." I announced, meeting her gaze with one of my own.
"And what exactly might that be?" She asked, giving me no leniency.
"I don't want to go out with... um... we'll call him O Nameless One. I don't want to go out with him because I don't know him, and he will probably be a jerk. He lives in a nice house, so he's probably rich, so he'll be a total prat. And thus ends my dazzling display of logic."
Ella glared. "Too bad," she said briskly, and waltzed-no really, that's the only word for what she did-to her closet, shuffling importantly through the clothes, and finally grinning and pulling out-
A vision in lavender.
From the looks of it, it was some kind of purple/black/white blob. It seemed like it had some moderately substantial fabric, so I thanked the gods that it wasn't a sleazy dress. But the 'miniskirt' card was still in play.
Ella gave me this horrid, wicked look over the lump of gauzy lilac, black denim, and white cotton. I gulped.
The next hour was pure torture. I know, I know, that sound really cliched, but I was being poked and prodded and examined and wiped off and redone and caked with slimy goo and clothed in 'trendy' clothes (just the thought makes me shudder), and it was just bad as a whole. Ella had a small apoplectic fit when she saw the bruise, and slathered it in goo. It still looked sort of bluey-blacky-purpley, but less so, like it was half healed. The whole account was just... just, UGH.
Finally, FINALLY, Ella announced that my transformation was complete. Thanking the gods I stepped up to the mirror.
Now, if this was some cheesy book, I would say I was blown away by my appearance and thanked Ella heartily, then met O Nameless One, fell in love, moved to Florida and had 2 beautiful, perfect children named Sarah and Charles. Actually, I just thought I looked like every other 14-year-old girl that had walked the Earth. I felt naked without some kind of band paraphernalia anywhere. I'm not very good with the names and stuff, so bear with me.
I had these kind of charcoal-colored skinny jean things and this white shirt with purple flowers. I had this gauzy lilac vest thingymawhatsit and lavender heels. HEELS. I swear to God, this outfit will be the death of me. Haven't we established already that I can't walk, even wearing just socks?
Anyway, I felt a certain animosity toward this outfit. It was just totally NOT me. And that's saying something, due to the fact that I'm not even positive what 'me' is.
"So," Ella said, rocking back on her heels, "what do you think?"'
I'm guessing she was hoping I would say something like 'Oh, it's perfect!' or 'I love it! DO my outfits and makeup every morning! I can be your shopping buddy!'. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case.
"It's... okay, I guess. I mean... I don't know what I mean. It's just not that spectacular."
Looking crestfallen, Ella pouted at me.
"Well... if that's how you feel, I won't do the headband. Oh, and they're here in ten minutes."