here?” As I ask, I continue digging through my suitcase, which I’ve ransacked twice already.
No pajamas.
“Oh. You mean those hideous thermal bottoms and giant man shirt? They’re gone.” She emerges from the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, toothbrush poised at her bottom molars. “No freaking way am I letting you out there in that getup. Not with Caleb here, not when we’re trying to get you laid.”
She watches me and works the toothbrush back and forth .
Brush, brush, brush .
“Oh. My. God. Jenna, why would you do this to me? Why?” I try not to shriek, really I do, but unfortunately for me (and whoever is sleeping in the next room) my voice comes out breathlessly high pitched and scandalized. “This isn’t a beauty pageant. We’re camping.”
“This isn’t camping, you yuppie.” The brat snorts at me, shaking her lavender ponytail. “I’m sure you think you’re perfectly adorable in man jams, but it ain’t happening. The clothes are gone. Poof! I smothered them in hot dog juice and fed them to the raccoons.”
Brush, brush, brush .
I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and mutter through clenched teeth, “Remind me again why I haven’t tried to asphyxiate you in your sleep yet?
The toothbrush stops moving, and Jenna lets it sit in her mouth while she talks around it. “Why are you fighting me on this? Molly and Cecelia were never half as argumentative when I was helping them.” She disappears for a few seconds to spit in the sink, then returns. “Your problem is those hideous—and I do mean hideous—thermal pants, that for the life of me I can’t fathom why you would bring along… and ends with the most asexual shirt you own. One that even your dad wouldn’t wear.”
I fold my arms across my chest and pout. “It is my dad’s.”
Jenna stops brushing and points the foaming toothbrush in my direction, dripping toothpaste bubbles on the carpet. “Exactly! That’s my point. And how tall is your dad, exactly?”
Tall. My dad is really tall.
Which means his tee shirts are really big.
I purse my lips and stare down into the suitcase laid out on the bed, shrugging, and avoid her contemptuous stare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You will wear something I brought for you. Knowing you like I do—since I’m the resident stylist—I forbid you to go out there in that .” She gives my jeans and well-worn sweatshirt a disdainful glance, disappointment written all over her sharp features, which have only been exaggerated by makeup. “While everyone else is chilling in their cute comfies, you want to wear your dad’s hand-me-downs? No.”
And as if she hadn’t delivered that proclamation dramatically enough, she adds a shiver that racks her thin body, totally repulsed. “Not happening.”
“Whatever,” I scoff, refusing to hear any more lecturing, and stalk to the door, giving the handle a good, pissed-off yank.
Peering outside, I give pause when I catch sight of Molly entering the kitchen completely decked out in pale pink yoga bottoms, sparkly rhinestones running up each leg, and a cute coordinating tank top. Ugh, totally adorable. Moments later, Shelby rounds the corner from her bedroom and catches sight of me.
She too is sporting a coordinating set—heather gray leggings and a slouchy, off-the-shoulder gray cotton shirt that says #NOFILTER across the front in big, sparkly sequin letters.
Crap.
Shelby looks me up and down, dismissing me before flipping her long, platinum-blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Hurry and change . Jeez, slowpoke—we’re picking the movie in, like, five minutes! The guys are in charge of the popcorn.”
I don’t have the guts to tell her this is what I want to wear, because I don’t feel comfortable prancing around in actual girly loungewear in front of real-life, breathing boys.
I jerk my head in a nod, disappear back into my shared bedroom, and slam the door shut. I turn to face Jenna, whose cocky smirk
No pajamas.
“Oh. You mean those hideous thermal bottoms and giant man shirt? They’re gone.” She emerges from the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, toothbrush poised at her bottom molars. “No freaking way am I letting you out there in that getup. Not with Caleb here, not when we’re trying to get you laid.”
She watches me and works the toothbrush back and forth .
Brush, brush, brush .
“Oh. My. God. Jenna, why would you do this to me? Why?” I try not to shriek, really I do, but unfortunately for me (and whoever is sleeping in the next room) my voice comes out breathlessly high pitched and scandalized. “This isn’t a beauty pageant. We’re camping.”
“This isn’t camping, you yuppie.” The brat snorts at me, shaking her lavender ponytail. “I’m sure you think you’re perfectly adorable in man jams, but it ain’t happening. The clothes are gone. Poof! I smothered them in hot dog juice and fed them to the raccoons.”
Brush, brush, brush .
I take a deep breath, count to five in my head, and mutter through clenched teeth, “Remind me again why I haven’t tried to asphyxiate you in your sleep yet?
The toothbrush stops moving, and Jenna lets it sit in her mouth while she talks around it. “Why are you fighting me on this? Molly and Cecelia were never half as argumentative when I was helping them.” She disappears for a few seconds to spit in the sink, then returns. “Your problem is those hideous—and I do mean hideous—thermal pants, that for the life of me I can’t fathom why you would bring along… and ends with the most asexual shirt you own. One that even your dad wouldn’t wear.”
I fold my arms across my chest and pout. “It is my dad’s.”
Jenna stops brushing and points the foaming toothbrush in my direction, dripping toothpaste bubbles on the carpet. “Exactly! That’s my point. And how tall is your dad, exactly?”
Tall. My dad is really tall.
Which means his tee shirts are really big.
I purse my lips and stare down into the suitcase laid out on the bed, shrugging, and avoid her contemptuous stare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You will wear something I brought for you. Knowing you like I do—since I’m the resident stylist—I forbid you to go out there in that .” She gives my jeans and well-worn sweatshirt a disdainful glance, disappointment written all over her sharp features, which have only been exaggerated by makeup. “While everyone else is chilling in their cute comfies, you want to wear your dad’s hand-me-downs? No.”
And as if she hadn’t delivered that proclamation dramatically enough, she adds a shiver that racks her thin body, totally repulsed. “Not happening.”
“Whatever,” I scoff, refusing to hear any more lecturing, and stalk to the door, giving the handle a good, pissed-off yank.
Peering outside, I give pause when I catch sight of Molly entering the kitchen completely decked out in pale pink yoga bottoms, sparkly rhinestones running up each leg, and a cute coordinating tank top. Ugh, totally adorable. Moments later, Shelby rounds the corner from her bedroom and catches sight of me.
She too is sporting a coordinating set—heather gray leggings and a slouchy, off-the-shoulder gray cotton shirt that says #NOFILTER across the front in big, sparkly sequin letters.
Crap.
Shelby looks me up and down, dismissing me before flipping her long, platinum-blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Hurry and change . Jeez, slowpoke—we’re picking the movie in, like, five minutes! The guys are in charge of the popcorn.”
I don’t have the guts to tell her this is what I want to wear, because I don’t feel comfortable prancing around in actual girly loungewear in front of real-life, breathing boys.
I jerk my head in a nod, disappear back into my shared bedroom, and slam the door shut. I turn to face Jenna, whose cocky smirk
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