The Fashionista

Here I thought today was going to be a regular school day. Now that people know I’m friends with the “new girl”, they have created drama.

“She really needs to get her look together,” one girl whispered.

“She looks like she got her clothes from a dumpster or something,” another replied. My face burst into flames as their eyes followed me down the hallway. They’ve been gossiping about my friend since she transferred here.

“Let’s just get to class,” I whispered in Emma’s ear. I grab her elbow and essentially drag her to our next class. We are the first to get there, but other students soon start pouring in. Emma and I settled into seats towards the front of the classroom. Before we get completely settled in, the starting bell rings overhead. Mr. Peterson stands and clears his throat.

“Alright class, today’s lesson will be over…” Mr. Peterson trails off as he stares at his paper. “Sorry. Today’s lesson will be over the civil rights movement of the 1960’s.” A couple of students behind us snicker and Mr. Peterson gave them a stern look. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma lean over. She holds something out and I reach over to grab it from her.

“I want you to help me fit in tomorrow,” is scrawled on the lined paper. Before I answer, I cover the paper with my notebook.

“What are you talking about? I don’t think I’ll be able to help you with fitting in,” I scribble on the paper. Folding it up, I pay attention to Mr. Peterson’s boring lecture. I copy the notes while leaning over to pass Emma the note. I don’t watch her read my response or write her own. She also takes notes before passing the note back to me.

“You have a good fashion sense. You can give me advice on how to dress and I can fit in better,” Emma wrote back. I wouldn’t say that I have an amazing fashion sense, but I typically steer clear of “lazy” looking clothes.

“Alright, I’ll help. Come to my house after school tonight and I’ll give you some pointers,” I write back. Mr. Peterson drones on about the Freedom Riders and their impact on Civil Rights. Emma quickly snatches the paper when I pass it back to her.

“Jamey, Emma, do you have something to share with the class?” Mr. Peterson asks, staring daggers at both Emma and I.

“No sir,” I answered, hoping he would just move on. He stared for a moment before returning to his lecture. Emma and I don’t attempt to pass any notes for the rest of class, opting to avoid getting into any trouble.

As soon as the bell rang, Emma and I rushed out of the classroom to head off to our next classes. Other students watch me as I walk by, probably gossiping about how I was weird for being friends with Emma. I try to keep my head down and just go to class without stopping.

The rest of the school day drags on and I struggle to pay attention. In every spare moment, I’m writing down tips and tricks for Emma so as to not forget them. Teachers don’t really notice, nor do they really care.

“Are you ready for your makeover?” I text Emma as I walk out to my car. She doesn’t respond, but she always takes forever to respond to texts. I put my things away behind the driver’s seat and look to see if Emma’s nearby.

“I’ll come later. I need to go home first,” Emma texts back. Shrugging, I get into my car and start the engine. Before I drive off, I lock my doors and buckle up. Putting my car into drive, I grasp the steering wheel and let off of the brake. While still focusing on the road, I turn up the music volume and turn the air conditioning on.

After an uneventful drive home, I turn off the engine and scroll through my text messages. Some of my other friends texted me during my drive talking about some school drama I didn’t witness. Sighing, I turn off my phone and pop open my door. Birds are chirping as I step out of my car.

“Emma, you better get over here soon or I’m going to forget about helping you,” I think as I grab my school stuff. My phone dings in my pocket, alerting me to a new text message. Ignoring it for now, I close the car door and lock my car. I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk up to my house door.

“Sorry it’s taking me so long to get to your house,” Emma texts.

“It’s fine, just be sure to get here,” I text back before sifting through my keys. I shove my phone back in my pocket and open the door to my house. Both of my dogs greet me as I walk in and I try to keep them off of me so I can close the door. My dogs follow me as I waddle to my room. I set my stuff down at the foot of my bed and throw my phone on my bed.

“Jamey, how was school?” my mom shouts from down the hallway.

“It was fine,” I answered. “By the way, Emma wants to come over.”

“That’s fine,” Mom said. I scroll the Internet as I wait for Emma to come over. A little while later, a knock resonates from my window. I roll off of my bed and peek through the window. Emma’s standing outside of my window, her hand on the glass.

I push the window open and hold the curtains back. Emma pulls herself onto the window sill and hops inside. She closes the window behind her as I back up.

“Where do you want to start?” I ask.

“Just info dump,” Emma replies nonchalantly. I sigh before I pull out the notes of what I needed to remember. Makeup, clothing, and hairstyles, all sorts of things Emma might need to change up her style. Hours later, Emma finally decides to go home with all the information I’ve given her.

“Can I video call you in the morning?” Emma texts after she leaves.

“Sure,” I quickly respond before changing into pajamas. I don’t really think much about it before I go to bed.

I get woken up by my phone ringing. Rushing to answer my phone, I rub the sleep out of my eyes.

“Good morning Jamey!” Emma chirps from the other side of the video call. “I’m ready for your guidance!” I yawn and cover my face with my hand.

“You have everything you need?” I ask. She excitedly nods and skips into her bathroom. I sigh before I start guiding her through the process of putting makeup on. She looks in the mirror at herself and hums.

“I would pair that look with a pair of jeans and a short sleeved shirt,” I advise.

“What about a solid colored dress?” Emma questions. “I think that would look better.”

“You can do that if you want,” I reply. God, she looks a lot better than she did yesterday. Maybe I do have a good fashion sense.