Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white
tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm
could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m
not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.
“Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser.
“What should I wear?”
“Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging
through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder.
“No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”
I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on
the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”
She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a
pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her
head. “Put these on.”
They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the
Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color—except for the
occasional furry pillow, of course.
“Nicole, these aren’t really—”
“Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”
“Um, no. Not—”
“Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles
around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in
hand. “Put this on.”
“I don’t—”
“Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for
your first meeting.”
I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank
and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of my
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