know a full blown mope when I see one. Come on.” Finally setting her wine glass down (a sure sign she meant business), Whitney grabbed my arm with both hands and, putting her full weight into it, managed to drag me reluctantly to my feet. “Repeat after me: we are getting dressed up and we are going out and we are going to have an awesome time.”
“I really don’t think that is necessary-”
“Repeat,” she ordered sternly.
“We are getting dressed up and we are going out and we are going to - what was the rest?”
“Have an awesome time!”
“Have an awesome time.”
“Don’t sound too excited. Come on.” Still holding my arm, she pulled me behind her up the stairs and into her bedroom.“For once, you’re going to let me style you. Uh uh!” she said when I started to protest. “No if, ands, or buts.”
Resigned to my fate - trying to change Whitney’s mind when it was already made up was the equivalent of trying to kick down a brick wall - I nudged a black heel out of the way and sat gingerly on the edge of her unmade bed. While our rooms were roughly the same size with hardwood floors, white walls, and two windows with deep, old-fashioned sills, that was where the similarities ended. If my bedroom was a study in organization, then Whitney’s was pure and utter chaos. Clothes were flung far and wide. Shoes - none of them matching - were scattered across the floor. Makeup covered her bureau. Feeling something poking my right thigh, I shifted to the side and discovered a gold hoop earring.
“Missing something?” I asked, holding it up.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Snatching the earring out of my hand, Whitney tossed it carelessly on top of a chair before practically skipping across the room and flinging open her closet.
“You’re shorter than me,” I reminded her as she began to rummage through her clothes. “Nothing is going to fit.”
“Maybe not the pants, but the shirts will.” Popping back out with a black halter top in one hand and a silvery mesh…thing in the other (was it a shirt? It couldn’t be a shirt), she waved them in front of my face. “What do you think?”
I shook my head vigorously from side to side. “No way.”
“What? You don’t like this one?” Following the direction of my stare, Whitney gave the silver shirt an appraising glance. “I think it’s nice.”
“For a stripper, maybe.”
Her lips pursed. “Since I know for a fact you’ve never stepped foot in a gentleman’s club, how would you know what a stripper wears? Don’t be such a judge ho, Mo.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tossing the black halter top at me, she threw the silver shirt back in the closet and nudged the door closed with her hip. “The color would totally wash you out anyways. Try this one on.”
I held up the halter top and eyed it dubiously. Although it had a drop waist that would at least cover my navel - something not to be taken for granted when wearing one of the Whitney’s shirts - the fabric was sheer and slinky and the back all but nonexistent. “What kind of bra am I supposed to wear with this?”
“Bra?” Whitney looked at me as though I’d just spoken Greek. “You don’t wear a bra with a shirt like that, Mo.” Flitting over to a chair piled high with an assortment of clothes, she yanked a dress out from the bottom and held it up to her chest in front of the full length mirror I’d helped her attach to the back of her door when we first moved in. “What do you think?”
“I think I need a shirt that I can wear a bra with.”
“Why? Your tits are small, Mo. It’s not as if you need the support. Come on,” she coaxed. “Just try it on. If you really don’t like it I can find something else but trust me, you’re going to love it.”
To my surprise - and Whitney’s smug delight - I actually did like the shirt.
Under her close supervision I paired it with a dark pair of skinny jeans, red heels, and
“I really don’t think that is necessary-”
“Repeat,” she ordered sternly.
“We are getting dressed up and we are going out and we are going to - what was the rest?”
“Have an awesome time!”
“Have an awesome time.”
“Don’t sound too excited. Come on.” Still holding my arm, she pulled me behind her up the stairs and into her bedroom.“For once, you’re going to let me style you. Uh uh!” she said when I started to protest. “No if, ands, or buts.”
Resigned to my fate - trying to change Whitney’s mind when it was already made up was the equivalent of trying to kick down a brick wall - I nudged a black heel out of the way and sat gingerly on the edge of her unmade bed. While our rooms were roughly the same size with hardwood floors, white walls, and two windows with deep, old-fashioned sills, that was where the similarities ended. If my bedroom was a study in organization, then Whitney’s was pure and utter chaos. Clothes were flung far and wide. Shoes - none of them matching - were scattered across the floor. Makeup covered her bureau. Feeling something poking my right thigh, I shifted to the side and discovered a gold hoop earring.
“Missing something?” I asked, holding it up.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Snatching the earring out of my hand, Whitney tossed it carelessly on top of a chair before practically skipping across the room and flinging open her closet.
“You’re shorter than me,” I reminded her as she began to rummage through her clothes. “Nothing is going to fit.”
“Maybe not the pants, but the shirts will.” Popping back out with a black halter top in one hand and a silvery mesh…thing in the other (was it a shirt? It couldn’t be a shirt), she waved them in front of my face. “What do you think?”
I shook my head vigorously from side to side. “No way.”
“What? You don’t like this one?” Following the direction of my stare, Whitney gave the silver shirt an appraising glance. “I think it’s nice.”
“For a stripper, maybe.”
Her lips pursed. “Since I know for a fact you’ve never stepped foot in a gentleman’s club, how would you know what a stripper wears? Don’t be such a judge ho, Mo.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“It doesn’t matter.” Tossing the black halter top at me, she threw the silver shirt back in the closet and nudged the door closed with her hip. “The color would totally wash you out anyways. Try this one on.”
I held up the halter top and eyed it dubiously. Although it had a drop waist that would at least cover my navel - something not to be taken for granted when wearing one of the Whitney’s shirts - the fabric was sheer and slinky and the back all but nonexistent. “What kind of bra am I supposed to wear with this?”
“Bra?” Whitney looked at me as though I’d just spoken Greek. “You don’t wear a bra with a shirt like that, Mo.” Flitting over to a chair piled high with an assortment of clothes, she yanked a dress out from the bottom and held it up to her chest in front of the full length mirror I’d helped her attach to the back of her door when we first moved in. “What do you think?”
“I think I need a shirt that I can wear a bra with.”
“Why? Your tits are small, Mo. It’s not as if you need the support. Come on,” she coaxed. “Just try it on. If you really don’t like it I can find something else but trust me, you’re going to love it.”
To my surprise - and Whitney’s smug delight - I actually did like the shirt.
Under her close supervision I paired it with a dark pair of skinny jeans, red heels, and
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