Chapter Nine
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Genevieve
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Iwoke up an hour earlierthan usual, not for any specific reason, but because I didn’t sleep well the night before.Or at all.But whatever.
I might as well get out of bed, shower, dress, and do some prep work for next week to get ahead of my schedule.
That doesn’t happen.I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but my routines are usually ironclad.Having much older parents—my dad was fifty and my mom forty-five—I learned the art of sticking to a schedule no matter what.Every minute of my life is planned to a T, thanks to them.
I wake at 6 a.m., have coffee at 7:15 a.m., and am in my car by 7:30 a.m.
I’ve already picked out the clothes I’m going to wear the night before and set the timer on my coffee machine.
Except today, I got out of bed at 5 a.m., and now it’s 7:20 a.m., and I’m still standing naked in front of my closet after trying on almost all my clothes.
What is going on with me today?I don’t know, but I can safely say it has nothing to do with today being our do-over movie day.It’s got nothing to do with that at all.
I’m probably just about to get my period.My breasts feel achy, and so does “the miss downstairs.”
“The miss downstairs?”I ask my reflection in the mirror.Maybe it’s time I grew up.
“Pussy,” I say softly, then panic as if someone could hear me—like my neighbors, the very respectable Mrs.Archer on my right and Pastor Tanner on my left.
What am I doing?This is insane.
I grab my signature long flare skirt—I have them in different colors: grey, brown, and black—and today I choose the dark blue one.I match it with a white shirt with sleeves that reach my elbows and tiny crystal buttons down the front.
I pull on a pair of stockings up to my thighs that match my modest black cotton panty and bra set.My everyday pumps go on next, and I twist my hair into a French knot at my nape, leaving a few tendrils to frame my face.
A dash of pink lipstick, some mascara, my favorite perfume, and I’m done.There, I look exactly how I always look, so I can’t understand why I wasted my entire morning deciding what to wear.
It’s not as if I had to choose between the outfit I’m currently wearing and that black backless dress that just about reaches my thighs and hugs me like a glove, which I’ve never had the guts to wear.
Or the other red dress I have that’s floor-length with a deep slit and a bodice so outrageous it struggles to contain my breasts, which are fuller than I would have liked.Imagine if I showed up to school in either of those dresses.
