Okay, so, keep in mind I'm not a writer. I just had a sudden urge to try this. Crits are highly encouraged! Prompt taken from the 100 short story contest that JFW1415 is taking part in. I really liked to use of colors as a prompt. Maybe it clicked with my art mind... Anyhow, enjoy!
It was one of THOSE shirts; the ones you get unexpectedly for a birthday gift and it's so hideous that you want to chuck it across the room, only the look on your dad's face is so hopeful you can't bare to. Instead, you think of how long it must have taken him to find the shirt, how he must have been trying really hard to pick out something nice for you, and you smile. Folding it neatly, you place it back into the box and swear you'll only wear it on the weekends, when you aren't going anywhere.
It was the eve of my 15th birthday when I first got that ugly thing, cleverly disguised as a gift. My family sat around the table and passed me the bright boxes, stuffed full, mostly with pleasant surprises. When I came to my father's I was a little surprised. Normally my mother went with him to pick out gifts for his daughters, but apparently, that was not the case this year. My mother would never have allowed him to purchase this.
I held up the top, a weak grin plastered across my face. It was a nauseating color; a bright intense purple, with a leaf pasted tackily in the center. Green, orange, and brown buttons of various sizes floated around it. Some appeared to be falling of.
"Thanks!" I managed to muster up the word without it sounding too fake.
Across the table I saw my mother and sister grimace quietly at the garment, now being neatly folded and placed back into it's box. I appreciated their sympathy, but it really didn't help any. This shirt was still there, and still ugly. For a moment there was an awkward silence. That was the last of the presents.
"Well," spoke my mother, standing up. "What do you say we all go out to eat somewhere?"
Everyones heads bobbed in agreement. I designated the place for the meal, and the rest of my family left to find their shoes or change their shirts. I was left alone with my dad.
"Thanks, Dad." I said again, not really paying much attention to him. I was deciding if I wanted to wear what I had on now, or change my jeans. I had halfway decided I was quite comfortable in what I had on now, when Dad answered me.
"Your welcome..." He paused, and seemed to be on the verge of adding something to his sentence. I waited for a moment for him to finish.
That's when I noticed his eyes traveling over to the box still lying on the table, the purple shirt lying inside. My eyes widened, and his mouth slowly began to part. I felt like the world was moving in slow motion.
Oh God, please... don't let him ask! I pleaded silently, but God didn't answer.
"Ashley... Why don't you wear something new out to dinner?" he suggested casually. Inside, I felt a pang of guilt. I had two choices here. I could pretend I didn't catch the hint and wear just what I was now, or I could be a good, kind daughter and put on the top to make him happy.
I wondered if I could survive wearing the shirt out in public. I probably wouldn't see any friends at the restaurant. It was the middle of spring break; they where all probably out on some sort of vacation. I could deal with the "gift" for an hour, couldn't I?
"Yeah. I think I will," I said, grinning weakly at my father. This seemed to satisfy him, and he headed upstairs to put on his shoes.
You idiot, I thought bitterly to myself. Why did I have to care so much about Dad's feelings?
I sighed and tramped upstairs to my own bedroom. I pulled the shirt over my head, and walked slowly over to the full-length mirror attached to the wall of the far side of my room.
I closed my eyes before I could see my reflection. Maybe it would look better on, I tried to convince myself. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
It was like I had been turned into a monster from some horror film. My dark brown hair seemed stood out intensely with the practically-neon purple color of the shirt. My skin glowed a pasty white against both my hair and the top. The neckline threatened to choke me, and worst of all, it was to tight everywhere. My chest was squeezed against the backs of buttons and my stomach had suddenly grown three times it's normal size.
Oh God! I can't wear this out in public! my mind screamed at me, panicking, as my stomach seemed to sink through the floor of my room. I stepped away from the mirror, and got a grip on myself. I could handle this. A person cannot die from embarrassment, I told myself.
Do it for Dad.
I walked back downstairs to find my family had regrouped in the front hallway. My sister's mouth fell open as she saw my attire. Mom's chin gave a weak wobble in what must have been an attempt to smile. I gave a small shrug, and they gave tiny nods to show they understood.
Dad was oblivious to all of this.
We all crammed together in our tiny car. Emma and I conversed lazily in the back seat during the brief ride to the restaurant. Once there, I made sure I was the last one to get out of the car. When I did slide out of the vehicle, I walked as fast as I could.
I was the first one in the door. I stood nervously, trying to cover the shirt with my arms, and waited for my family to catch up. The Greeter eyed me suspiciously. This could be a bad night.
Maybe I could have survived the dinner if I hadn't been so clumsy. Once the rest of the family was inside and seated, we placed our drink orders with a nerdy looking waiter, and I got up to use the restroom. I hurried along the isle, arms clamped over my chest and busted into the bathroom door.
A sharp yelp came from behind the door and a furious-looking girl stepped out from behind it. For the second time in less than an hour, my stomach fled my body. I knew this girl. she was one of them. Everyone knows one; that girl who has everything even though she doesn't deserve it. The one who can screw up your whole life without you even knowing.
Normally, I don't have a problem with people at school. Not everybody loves me, but nobody ever really goes out of their way to insult me, but this girl, Brittany, I had heard stories about. I had seen some of the cruel things she did to people she didn't like. I already knew she didn't like me, and now that I had just smacked her with the door, wearing the stupid purple shirt, I was doomed.
Brittany was the cliche 'Popular Girl" you always see in movies. I always wondered how she had gotten to be one. She was a little chubby, and her face wasn't so attractive. Either way, I still stood there, just outside the bathroom, looking at her, waiting.
Brittany smiled at me, touching her nose slightly, as if a small pest and flown close by. I looked carefully at her nose. I couldn't see any damage. Turning, she stepped back into the bathroom. I followed quietly behind her.
"um.. I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." I said, stumbling over my words, embarrassed to be seen wearing the shirt.
Brittany had now reached the sink counter, and was digging in her purse, apparently very interested in it's contents. She looked up at me, and flashed a grin. I couldn't tell if it was fake or not.
"Oh, it's alright... You go to my school, don't you? Ashley, right?" she spoke, dismissing the whole door thing. I noticed she had temporarily abandoned her purse, and was staring at my shirt. I turned to the side and crossed my arms. She gave a little smirk, but quickly wiped it off her face.
"Yeah, that's me," I agreed. Brittany returned to fumbling around inside her bag. I wondered what she was looking for in there. A moment of silence followed as she pulled out a little pocket of pressed powder, and applied it to her face.
"Well," she spoke suddenly, snapped the container closed and lifted her bag, walking towards the door as she placed her makeup back in it. "I'll see, you then."
"Yeah, I nodded, heading towards one of the stalls. My hand was on the door when Brittany turned around.
"Oh, I almost forgot..' she began, and I turned around. In a split second, Brittany had reached into her purse, and flipped open her cell phone. "Say cheese!"
She giggled madly, as a tiny click sounded from the phone. It echoed around the room, mocking me.
And all I could do was stand there, mouth open, eyes wide with surprise. My arms hadn't even obeyed my commands to cover the ugly leaf printed across my chest. Brittany just laughed a cruel laugh, and for one instant, I thought to lunge forward, to snatch the cell phone from her. Much like my arms, however, my legs did not work. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as Brittany closed the phone, her shoes clipping across the tile as she strutted away from the bathroom. She was still laughing.
I allowed myself just one loud sob before I washed my eyes and walked out the door, trying to look composed as I settled myself down in the seat. My family was smiling, talking. The drinks hadn't come yet. I was amazed how quickly the experience that was sure to ruin my life had happened.
My throat felt tight again. I could feel my face getting flushed, but I wouldn't cry, not here in front of my family, and somewhere, Brittany.
"Mom," I whispered in a voice that sounded harsh and unfamiliar. "I don't feel good... Can we go home?" I pleaded with her, hoping that she would believe I was sick, praying she wouldn't see that it wasn't my stomach that was bothering me.
Mom never picked up on my real feelings.
We went home.
I rushed up to my room, desperate to tear apart the horrible shirt my stupid father had bought. I wanted to shove it in his face and scream at him for what happened. I wanted to know where that picture end up. Would I be the joke of the school? I would have a few days before I had to go back. Maybe Brittany would drop her cell phone or something, I tried to reassure myself. It didn't work.
I tore the shirt of my back. I was going to rip it, but I knew it would hurt my father if he saw the pieces littering my floor. So I tucked it neatly in the back of my closet. I pulled on my softest pajamas, and curled up under my sheets. I hugged the stuffed bear sitting on my bed close to my chest. I hate the color purple.
Then I realized I still had to pee.
*and remeber that I am NOT a writer. At all. This proves why. It's still sort of a rough draft, really.
Oh well, that's just me – I don't read that much short stories. But this was good.
