Sleep, class, study, eat, sleep, class, study, eat.
By Friday, Steph’s clearly making an effort to get this spinster out and about.
“Come on, Tessa, it’s Friday. Just come with us and we’ll drop you back off before we go to Har . . . I mean the party,” she begs, but I shake my head. I don’t feel like doing anything. I need to study and call my mother. I’ve been dodging her calls all week, and I need to call Noah and find out if he’s made a decision. I’ve been giving him his space all week, only sending him a few friendly texts in hopes that he will come around. I really want him to come to the bonfire next Friday.
“I think I will pass . . . I’m looking at cars tomorrow, so I need my rest,” I half lie. I really am going to look at cars tomorrow but I know I won’t be getting rest sitting here alone with my thoughts about Noah’s uncertainty, about how Hardin was obviously serious about staying away from me—which I’m really glad he’s done. I just can’t shake him from my thoughts. I just need more time, I keep telling myself.
But the way he acted like he wanted something from me the last time I saw him, that got under my skin.
My thoughts drift off to a place where Hardin was pleasant and funny and we got along. A place where we could date, really date, and he would take me out to the movies or to dinner. He would put his arm around me and be proud that I was his; he would drape his jacket over my shoulders if I was cold and kiss me good night, promising me that he would see me tomorrow.
“Tessa?” Steph says and my thoughts disappear like a puff of smoke. They weren’t reality and the boy in my daydream would never be Hardin.
“Oh come on, you’ve been wearing those fuzzy cloud pants all week,” Tristan teases and I laugh. These pants are my favorite to wear to bed, especially when I am sick, or going through a breakup, or two. I’m still confused about how Hardin and I ended something that was nothing to begin with.
“Okay. Okay, but you need to drop me off right after dinner because I have to get up early,” I warn.
Steph claps and jumps up and down. “Yay! Just please let me do you a favor?” she asks with an innocent smile while she bats her lashes.
“What?” I whine, knowing she is up to no good.
“Let me give you a little makeover? Pleeeaassee!” She draws out the word for dramatic purposes.
“No. Way.” I can picture myself with pink hair and pounds of eyeliner, wearing only a bra for a shirt.
“Nothing too dramatic, I just want to make you look . . . like you haven’t been hibernating in pajamas all week.” She smiles and Tristan tries to stifle his laugh.
And when I give in and say, “Fine,” she begins clapping again.
Chapter thirty-nine
After Steph has plucked my eyebrows—a procedure that hurt worse than I ever imagined—she turns me around and refuses to let me see myself until she’s done putting on my makeup. I fight the nervous feeling in my stomach as she dusts powder onto my face. I remind her over and over not to put too much makeup on me, and she promises over and over that she won’t. She brushes my hair and curls it before coating my hair and half of the room with hair spray.
“Makeup and hair: done! Let’s get you changed, and then you can see yourself. I have a few things that will fit you.” She is obviously proud of her work. I just hope that I don’t look like a clown. Following her to the closet, I try to sneak a peek in her small mirror but she yanks me away.
“Here, put this on,” she says, pulling a black dress off a hanger. “Out, you!” she shouts at Tristan, and he laughs but graciously leaves the room.
The dress is strapless and looks incredibly short. “I can’t wear this!”
“Fine . . . how about this one?” She pulls another black dress out. She must have at least ten. This one looks longer than the last and has two thick straps. The neckline worries me because it’s in the shape of a heart and my bust isn’t small like hers.
When I take too long looking it over, she sighs. “Just try it, please?”
I oblige and take my comfortable pajamas off and fold them into a neat pile. She rolls her eyes at me playfully and I smile while stepping into the dress. I pull it up my body and it feels a little snug before it’s even zipped. Steph and I aren’t that much different in size but she is taller and I’m curvier. The material has a slight shine to it and feels silky. The bottom of the dress reaches halfway down my thigh. It isn’t as short as I thought it would be, but it is shorter than anything I would ever wear. I feel almost naked with my legs this exposed. My fingers tug at the material to try to pull it down a little.
“You want some tights?” she asks.
“Yeah, I just feel so . . . naked.” I laugh. She digs into her drawer and pulls out two different pairs of tights. “These are plain black, and these have a lace print.”
Lace tights are just too much for me, especially given the fact that I probably have ten pounds of makeup on. I grab the plain ones and slide them on my legs while Steph digs through her closet for shoes.
“I can’t wear heels!” I remind her. I literally can’t; I waddle like an injured penguin in them. “Well, I have low heels or wedges. Tessa, I’m sorry but your Toms just won’t work with this dress.”
I scowl at her jokingly. I am perfectly fine wearing Toms every day. She pulls out a pair of black heels with silver beading on the front, and I have to admit they catch my eye. I could never wear them, but for once I wish I could.
“You like these?”