Polly and I went shopping. There’s a party Adam’s throwing tonight, and since I don’t have many clothes, we’re going shopping. I’ve been shopping for food at the Shop-Mart, and I thought that since they sell shirts there, I’d wear those, but Polly says they’ve got a mall a couple towns over, and we need to go there for the “cute stuff”.
I don’t have many clothes, since I moved in a month ago. I thought the stuff in my duffel bag was fine, and I had enough for about a week, and that was fine. But Polly’s closet was huge. Not just shirts and pants, but other things, too. Dress-es, skirts, things I hadn’t heard of, but saw a lot of them when we went to the bars. There were girls dressed like me, too, but Polly called them the Tom Boys.
They’re boys? I thought they were girls.
But, Polly’s right. I need some more clothes; I can’t fit in and start my new life if I don’t have the right clothes. I need some of this “cute stuff” like she has – which she has a lot of. Everything she likes is cute, cute, cute.
She explained it to me, and I think she’s right. A lot of it is.
So, we shopped. I picked up a couple of “very cute” outfits, some “fierce” shoes, and some makeup. I can’t wait for tonight, it should be fun. Or “sweet.”
Polly saw my tattoo. I still haven’t figured out what it means, but she saw it when I was changing into a halter top. I thought it was just a cool design, but I guess not – she says it looks like four interlocking sevens.
I guess somebody didn’t want me to forget my name.
It looks cool, though. But I think I need a better story than “I don’t know where I got it , how I got it, or when I got it, but it looks pretty cool, doesn’t it?”
I’ll just say I was drinking. People do stupid stuff when they’re drinking… I think that’s a lot easier to explain.
Polly and Miranda helped me with my makeup. Well, Polly did. Miranda put on the blush for me, and Polly said something about a “chee pook her”. I asked her what that meant, and Miranda just laughed until she fell to the floor and couldn’t breathe. Polly said she’d explain it later, between laughing and wiping tears from her eyes.
I guess it was funny, because my cheeks looked pink – like Polly’s bag pink, which hurt my eyes the first time I saw it, but I like it now – and I almost screamed. I didn’t recognize me, and I didn’t know I could look like that.
Polly fixed it. “There ya go!” she said, as I looked up. I was pretty, like the girls on her magazines. I didn’t look like a chee pook her, and I was happy. I looked at her magazines, and I remembered the place I came from.
There was a guy at the door of the place, the building. He was reading a magazine with girls that looked like me with makeup, but they were gross, they didn’t wear clothes, and they made funny faces. He had a funny face too. What’d he say?
He was chewing something loud, lips smacking, chew chew chew, “Hey baby,” all deep voiced, “you’re free now, we should go party sometime”, and that gross smile like he brushed his teeth with mud and piss, and he spat and looked at me like there was something about this party that only he’d enjoy.
I don’t remember after that, but a week later, I still had bruises on my right knuckles. So I think I gave him a party, all right.