"So, what was Polanco like? Heard some pretty sour rumors," Frankie asked, her voice low, like she was whispering a secret, and there was a probing curiosity behind it.
I froze for a millisecond, and I adjusted the straps on the maroon stilettos I was trying on and glanced at the mirror.
My reflection stared back, calm and collected, and I let my gaze shifted past it, catching Frankie as she twisted a loose strand of hair between her fingers. She looked lost in thought, like she was trying to piece together some puzzle only she could see.
"Polanco was alright," I said smoothly, flashing her a smile. "Now go pay for the things while I twirl around one more time in these fabulous heels."
She returned the smile, hers wider and more genuine, lighting up her face in a way that made me wonder how anyone could stay so carefree. Then she turned and walked back to the couch where her bag was.
Halfway there, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Are you taking the shoes to?"
I slipped out of them gracefully, placing them back in their box with a soft thud. "Tell the attendant Tabitha has given them to me."
The stilettos were a soft maroon, so sexy, so elegant. I could already picture the black dress they'd pair perfectly with. Sometimes, a good pair of heels could change the mood of an entire day.
-----
Well, spoke too soon.
The moment we stepped into the house, a stack of papers was roughly shoved into my hands, the corners digging sharply into my palms.
"Goodness!" My mother's voice rang out before I could even glance at the papers or wish my glare would turn to sharp pointy daggers, "You've put me and your father through so much stress. Luckily, your transfer pulled through—even with the murder case."
I raised an eyebrow at her exaggerated dramatics, but she didn't notice. She was too busy slapping her palm against her forehead, the other hand clutching a wine glass as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.
"Please," she continued, her voice dripping with exasperation. "I want Vegas to be perfect. No more of your shenanigans, no more of your little queen bee plays. If you get through this to your graduation, you're lucky if you get into any university."
My grip on the papers tightened as I met her gaze, "What are these?" I asked.
She tilted her head, looking at me like I was the dumbest person in the room. "Your school papers to sign, what else?"
She sighed again, i'd be surprised if she didn't think my very existence was the weight on her shoulders. "Your uniform might come in late today or early tomorrow. Your father had it sewn by the best," she added with a wave of her hand before turning on her heel.
I stood there, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared down the hallway, the sound of her heels fading into silence.
Frankie stood off to the side. I try my best to ignored whatever look she was giving me and turned on my own heel, heading for the stairs without a word.
After an hour of showering and changing, I found myself grabbing a pair of shorts I'd forgotten I owned, and an old tee I should've tossed out years ago. It was soft, comfortable, and completely unflattering, but I didn't care. The day was already too long and annoying to bother with appearances.
I pressed the button beside my bed, and a few moments later, Tiffany walked in, ready as always. "Bring me a bottle of wine," I said without looking up, already lighting a cigarette by the time she returned.
She placed the bottle on the table and stood there for a second too long, waiting for... something. A thank you, maybe? Not happening. "You can go," I muttered, waving her off. She nodded and slipped out of the room quietly.
I popped the bottle open, letting the cork hit the table, grabbed a glass, and wandered to the private balcony. It was easily one of my favorite parts of the room—the sheer luxury of it, the view.
Leaning against the railings, I stared down at the gardeners trimming the flower beds. They didn't even glance up, their focus entirely on the vibrant bushes they were shaping. A little farther off, Blanche was on her phone by the garden, probably talking to one of her equally mind-numbing friends. She laughed at something, and picked a flower.
The wind felt cool against my skin, and I took another drag from my cigarette, watching the thin trail of smoke dissolve into the air.
And then, without warning, Frankie walked in.
No knock. No announcement. Just straight through the door like she owned the place—a trait I'd come to both notice and despise about her. Bubbly or not, cute or not, my dislike for people who clearly didn't understand privacy as a concept was growing by the day.
The moment she stepped in, she burst into a fit of coughs, waving a hand dramatically in front of her face. "God, what is this? A chimney?" she managed between coughs.
She crossed the room, her other hand fumbling with the air purifier switch. As soon as the machine whirred to life, she marched over to where I was, still standing on the balcony, exhaling smoke like it was my personal rebellion.
Heh.
She stopped next to me and stared for a moment. "I didn't know you smoked," she said, her tone halfway between curiosity and disapproval.
I flicked ash off the edge of the railing, turning to give her a bored look. "I couldn't find my vape," I said dryly, then took another drag. "Why are you here?"
Her eyes flicked to the wine glass in my hand, then to the cigarette. "You forgot to collect what you shopped," she said, lifting her arms to show me the bags she was carrying.
I hadn't even noticed them until she pointed it out, but there they were, swinging slightly in her hands, an unnecessary reminder of my little spree at Platinum 88.
Now, the question of day; why did I spend so much? On a spree I didn't even plan.
"Just drop the bags and leave," I said, shifting my gaze back to the garden below. "I want to rest."