Lambs at Slaughter

"Why are we here?" I asked, recgonizing Vicki's townhouse.

"You can’t go to a party dressed, or smelling, like that now can you?" She teased. I scoffed, then reconsidered, seeing as Vicki had a fairly fantastic collection of designer clothing from Italy.

We went inside and Vicki directed me to the shower, handed me one of her pink monogrammed towels. I laughed at her paranoia of being dirty. I liked a little grunge. It's all part of the experience. That's my philosophy, anyway.

I didn't wash my hair, because its always its most unmanageable right after a shower and I didn't want to waste any time with Vicki's extensive hair care products. I dried off and pondered this foreign situation Vicki was going to shove me into.

A party, I knew it. In all honesty, I hated parties. I've never been to a party where I've enjoyed myself. But most of all, I hated parties with Vicki’s friends.

I rifled through her closet. The girl was a designer junkie, in all respects. Me? My favorite store was the Salvation Army. I viewed it in the same ranks as Gucci. Who would want to spend a fortune on Helmut Lang when you could get a vintage Bruce Springsteen concert tshirt for a dollar?

"What are these?" I gasped, pulling out a pair of bright red skinny jeans, "These are so not you…"

"Oh, yeah, my aunt bought me those in New York, pretty awful right? I can’t even stand to look at them…" she trailed off as I was nearly lunging my way into them in pure excitement.

I jumped around excited, pulled on the tshirt I came in and gave Vicki the devil fingers.

"Mara, you can’t wear that tshirt, here try this cute sparkly top," she suggested.

"We aren’t going to Studio 54, besides, the Bahaus tshirt stays!"

"But you look…" Vicki protested.

"Like Ziggy Stardust?" I gasped, "I know."

Vicki rolled her eyes and gave up.

"Whatever." Vicki laughed and looked at me like I was absolutely ridiculous.

We got back in the car and Vicki took off like a madwoman. Apparently this was going to be a good party in her perspective. I zoned out, staring blankly out the window and plotting Vicki's demise.

"Yo, we’re here!" She said, nudging me in the arm since I was completely oblivious to the world.

"Wha, huh?" I mumbled, dazed.

We got out of the car and walked up to the door, me lagging a few feet behind, adjusting my bag, pretending to zip up the front of my pants, anything to delay having to go into some stupid frat party.

When we got inside, it was like the lightswitch that I imagine is on the back of Vicki's perfectly moisturized neck suddenly switched on and everyone stopped to look. She glowed and walked perfectly in her six inch Prada stilettos through the crowds that parted like the sea for Moses. I felt like a lamb going into slaughter.

"Remind me why making everyone around us utterly jealous is fun!" Vicki whispered to me through her flawless smile. I continued to walk behind her, like the crippled shadow I was in comparison.

I glared and gave dirty looks to anyone that happened to accidentally fall into my gaze. It was like shutting a trap over a bear's leg. We moved into another room, with a more intimate setting and an unoccupied couch.

"Tell me again why you come to these things Vick?" I moaned once we were out of the public eye, "I’m sick of pretending I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor."

"Who?" Vick asked, crinkling her nose.

"You know, Green Acres? And stop that, you’re going to prematurely age yourself," I said. She glared.

"I’m going to grab some drinks okay?" She said, fluttering away in her white dress and heels. I plopped down on an empty sofa. The music at the party was beyond agonizing, a nauseating mixture of rap that everyone bobbed around to.

If it was up to me, we’d be playing The Pixies or XTC or…

"This seat free?"

I looked up, now distracted from my inner DJ, gave a disgusted look at the guy standing there with his predictable red cup of beer and backwards white hat.

"NO," I said loudly, lifting my leg up as if to kick him with Vicki’s dangerous looking Gucci boots. He backed off, looking a bit frightened. Vicki walked up.

"He was cute," She said, looking back.

"Ugh, I’m not Mary Kay LeTourneau," I protested.

The End

5 comments about this story Feed