Alyssa Jackson had been practicing her dancing for over a month, hoping to perfect the extremely-casual-yet-very-sexy shimmy that would make Jordan Lenning drool over her. Which, of course, he already should have been doing, only sometimes guys needed a little help, as Alyssa knew all too well. But with only one day until Spring Fling, she was getting anxious.
“Okay, how does this look?” asked Alyssa, standing in front of her wall mirror. She shook and gyrated to the beat of Gwen Stefani’s “If I Were a Rich Girl.” It was a lame-ass song, but all of Alyssa’s good music was still packed away in cardboard boxes from the move.
“Quit looking in the mirror so much,” said Marie, sitting at the foot of Alyssa’s bed and smacking her signature cherry bubble gum.
“Fine,” said Alyssa, turning off the music. “How do I look aside from that?”
Marie bobbed her head. “Good.”
Alyssa smiled. She had known Marie was going to say that, but still, it was nice to hear. “Now there’s just the problem of what we’re going to wear.”
“I’m wearing a black babydoll dress and black leggings,” said Marie, finishing the sentence with a large, pink bubble.
“No you’re not,” snapped Alyssa. “You should never wear black to a dance. Everyone will be wearing black.”
Marie blew another gigantic bubble before answering. “Black’s the only color that makes me look good.”
“You’re not fat,” said Alyssa, carefully avoiding Marie’s eye. “I was thinking you could wear yellow, and I could wear my red halter dress.”
Marie perked up instantly. A suggestion made by Alyssa was, by definition, a good suggestion. “You’re right. Yellow would be fab on me. It matches my hair.”
Alyssa almost snorted with laughter, as this was, sadly, all too true. Last week Marie had bleached her honey-colored hair with some cheap K-mart dye, and had somehow ended up with bright yellow locks. Nothing Alyssa said to the contrary could convince Marie that this look did not utterly suit her.
“Uh-huh,” said Alyssa. “About my dress, do you think it’s too formal or anything? Too showy? Too ‘look-at-me’?”
“No way. You look like a model in that thing.”
Excellent-- Jordan already had the misconception that Alyssa had been a Pac Sun model. This was due to the fact that she had “accidentally” let it slip, and was currently in no hurry to correct him.
“Cool,” said Alyssa, gathering her straight brown hair in a ponytail and then letting it fall back to her shoulders. She turned the stereo back on and began dancing to the next song (“Kiss my shit, kiss my shit”), thinking of the different ways she could reject Jordan when he finally asked her out.
wtf is a stereo?
by your word choice are ye busted oh author!
I liked the sprightly voice in the hook but I'd rather see something actually happening in the opening pages. This is all set up.