Locker of Love Letters

TheMangaWriter

Chapter 1:

Introducing: Kylie, Fashion Extraordinaire

I sat at the dinner table with my family: my mother and my little sister, four years my junior. Tonight was pizza night in our house, and I was piling on the pepperoni from Kylie’s slice—she didn’t like anything even remotely spicy. That’s when she said it: “Emmy, you’re gonna end up some six hundred pound woman one day if you eat all that pepperoni.” I could not believe my ears. Sure, Kylie imitated my mother sometimes, but she never insulted me; she was afraid of me. That might have something to do with the fact that I slammed a doll over her head when she was five.

“Kylie,” I said, “You’re just jealous because you’ll be a skeleton.” It was true. Kylie never ate big meals—unless it was a humongous salad—because she once said she had to keep her “figure” for ballet. I said right back that it didn’t matter if she had a pound or two of extra fat on her and didn’t she want boobs? She had only sneered at me and went back to walking on the treadmill. I am not joking.

“Now, girls, be nice,” said my mother. Her name was Meredith—what a stupid name—and that’s often what I called her, just to make her squirm. She, too, hated her name. I couldn’t blame her, especially knowing that her parents were sane before they named her.

“Kylie started it,” I said, and Meredith couldn’t argue that. It was always Kylie who started it, and all of us knew it.

My mother sighed, saying to Kylie, “Kylie, if you’re finished, why don’t you go work on that book report you have to do?” Great, I thought. She wants to talk to me. After Kylie left, a few moments passed in utter silence as the pair of us sat there, my mother staring at me with her soft, dark brown eyes. I stared right back with venom in my own, taking a vicious bite of my pizza. These staring matches weren’t very common, but when they happened, I knew my mother was about to get into my personal business; she always did. It was her way of making sure I was alright—which I was. I was perfectly and utterly fine.

“Emmy,” Meredith began, “are you okay? You seem tense lately.”

“I’m fine, mom.” I replied with a sigh. That’s when it slipped, and the words came pouring out of my mouth. “I’m only having problems with Arianna and Seth.” The look on my mother’s face told me I was horribly, horribly wrong to have let that slip. Her eyes were wide, her mouth was shaped in a perfect “O,” and her hands gripped the table before her so that her fingers turned white.

Meredith said, “What happened, Emmy? Did they have a fight?” I could not believe this was happening. I never told my mom anything about Arianna and Seth—not about their personal lives, anyway.

“Sort of,” was my vague response of choice. “You can’t bring this up in front of Arianna though, ‘cause she’ll get upset.” When my mother gave a nod, I continued. “She told Seth she liked him, but Seth turned her down.”

“Oh, that’s horrible!” Meredith said, overdramatic as usual. I nearly rolled my eyes. I had a teenage mother stuck in an adult’s body, it seemed. She was always ready for some gossip.

“Yeah, well…” I stood, picked up my paper plate, and dumped it in the trash. “I have things to do.” Before my mother could protest, I rush from the kitchen and dart up the stairs to my room.

My room, orange in color, is not too big, but it is clean. I’m one of those organizing freaks that cleans everyday out of sheer boredom; everything has its own special place. My clothes aren’t mixed up in my drawers and are always neatly folded. My bookshelf is immaculate—it’s organized by author and also by the alphabet. I make by bed every morning, fold the covers down, and change my pillowcase (which helps acne, I’ve found). My carpet is blue, and it is spotless. I never let anyone in my room with food or drinks. Anyway, you get the point: I have no life whatsoever.

I opened my closet to look through what I had to wear. I pulled out a teal pair of skinny jeans and a black tank top, stripped down, and put them on. Looking in my full length mirror, I discovered Kylie was watching me from the threshold of my room and the hall. I paid her no mind until she said, “What are you doing?”

I ignored her and pulled out a denim skirt to try on. Once I had it on and had stopped tugging on it to bring it lower on my waist, I said, “I’m trying to figure out what I’m wearing for my date on Friday night.” I don’t know why I told my little sister this, but I did. Better yet, I wondered, why does she care? I didn’t have time for my brain to process these things because it was interrupted; Kylie took the liberty of inviting herself into my room. Fuming, I whipped around and yelled at her. “Get out!” She didn’t listen, and began going through the things in my closet, her tiny, slim fingers moving carefully. This was how she did everything: carefully. That was her specialty seeing as she was a dancer; she was always graceful.

“Look, you have no idea what looks good on you,” she said.

“You have no idea what on earth you’re doing,” I snapped back.

“These,” she said, picking up my teal skinny jeans, “make your stomach stick out.” What? I didn’t have a stomach! It was perfectly flat, thank you very much! But I didn’t have time to give Kylie a piece of my mind; she continued on her rampage. “And this skirt makes your butt look flat, and the camisole isn’t big enough for you.”

I spat, “It’s a medium, Kylie! It is big enough!”

She shook her head. “Your boobs are too big for the top. Can you say ‘slutty?’” Did my ears deceive me? Who on earth did Kylie think she was, saying these things to me? I wanted to punt her right down the stairs, but at the same time, I didn’t want my stomach to stick out or my butt to look flat while I was on my date with Seth. I gave in, and decided to listen to what Kylie had to say.

“Then what,” I said, “should I wear?” As soon as the words had escaped my lips, I realized I had made the second mistake that night. Kylie was sure to want payment for this, and her payments usually involved my most expensive possessions. The last time I asked her a favor, I had to give up my maroon suede boots to her for a month, even though they weren’t her size. Goodness only knows what she’s after now. On top of this, she was going to tear my closet apart, and I would never be comfortable in my clothes again seeing as she would find a flaw in every last garment.

That is exactly what happened. The ten year old flung a blue dress at me, saying horizontal stripes made me look fat. Next came a tight T-shirt, a pair of sweat pants, a sweater. Too small, too baggy, red wasn’t my color. Shorts, a polo, a turtleneck. Too short, too vibrant, it makes my neck look too long. A sweater vest flew at me; it was too nerdy. A pair of high heeled shoes narrowly missed my head. Their crime? They showed off my toes, which were too long, apparently. Soon enough all the clothes in my closet were strewn across the floor, all wrinkled, ruining my perfectly clean room. When she started on my drawers, I stopped her.

“Okay, okay, I get it! I look bad in everything!” I leapt up from a heap of clothes, throwing my arms into the air. I didn’t want to hear her anymore. At this point she was only trying to find an excuse for me not to like any of my clothes; I was sure of it. Then again, maybe I was just paranoid. “I’ll find something myself, Kylie.”

“But you suck at picking out clothes,” she said. “Don’t you want to look good for Sethy?” she teased, and I chased her out, screaming after her. She flew down the stairs and through the foyer, into the kitchen where Meredith was; she always took Kylie’s side, so the ten year old blonde knew she would be safe there.

I went back into my room to clean up. Ugh, I thought, this is going to take forever, and I still don’t have any idea of what to wear. I went downstairs to talk to my mother, a brilliant plan brewing in the depths of my mind.

“Hey Meredith?” I called as I bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Yes, Emmy?” She was folding up the pizza boxes and putting them in the recycling. She didn’t look at me, but continued to clean up from dinner.

“I have a date tomorrow night,” I began, “and I don’t have anything to wear. Could we go shopping tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure dear. Who are you going with?”

“Seth.” I replied as if it was no big deal. Nevertheless, my mother’s jaw could have hit the floor.

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A/N: I really liked this chapter; there was lots of interaction. How did you like it? R&R! Thanks for looking!