head over heels | benny rodriguez, the sandlot

| chapter twenty nine |

When I got back to the lot, Benny crappily forged Babe Ruth's signature on the baseball I bought so his mother wouldn't be suspicious, and all mutually agreed to meet back here tomorrow, 8 am, to retrieve the ball from over the fence.

The thing is though, my mind hasn't really been on the ball like everyone else, instead, it's been on the party.

I decided, through lots of negotiations with myself, that I wasn't gonna tell Benny about the party. Let me explain:

1. He doesn't need to know about everything I do in my spare time.

2. Phillips is Benny's nemesis, so that could really stir the pot between them.

3. He's not invited to the party in the first place.

4. I could use some more friends besides the children I hang out with every day.

Besides, it could end up being super fun, so in my defense, there's no harm in not telling him.

What I am wondering though, is what kinda party even is it? Like is it outside? Indoors? Big? Small? Substances? Completely sober?

I mean, back home I'd typically go to my fair share of shitty high school parties. Sure, it was only freshman year, so I bet I have many more parties to attend in the future, but I've always genuinely enjoyed them. The casual banter with the random girls you've never met, the music, the really cute guys. Oh, and don't forget the alcohol.

Sure, I don't do it in my free time, but I've dabbled in the causal shot or two, along with sharing blunts with my friends, as every other teenager does.

But don't worry, I'm setting my expectations low.

-

Once I took a concerningly long nap after our game was canceled, I decided that around seven I would start getting ready. After all, gotta look good for all the first impressions.

I briefly hopped in the shower to rinse off and wash my hair, along with shaving my entire body and accidentally nicking my ankle with the razor.

Once got out, I made sure to spend time on my hair, as it was completely matted and tangled at the back of my head.

Honestly, I really knocked it out of the park on this one, as I had finally mastered the perfect technique to give you the best blowout. Ever since I watched all of "Charlie's Angels" with my mom when I was nine, I've been determined to get hair like Farrah Fawcetts. Safe to say, I've gotten pretty good at it, though it takes like an hour.

Rushing over to my vanity, I quickly threw on some light concealer to accentuate my freckles, blush, filled in my brows, as well as applied mascara to my long lashes.

I did, however, throw on a slight smudgy eyeliner across my lid, which I normally don't do, along with a bit of lip gloss.

Finally, I devoted the last thirty minutes of my time to pick out an outfit.

Through lots of rummaging nonetheless, I finally threw on a lighter wash of lowrise baggy jeans to accentuate my figure,  a black tube top I saw Brook Shields wear in a magazine, and my Reeboks.

For jewelry, I went with a chunky pair of hoops, a tighter silver necklace with a dragonfly pendant my mom got me for my eleventh birthday, as well as the rings I wear every day.

Glancing over at the clock, it read exactly nine o'clock.

Now I know you may be thinking - Giselle, the party starts at nine?!

But you're out of your mind if you think that I'd show up to any event on time. Besides, I always find it best to arrive fashionably late.

Though I was a tad bit nervous,  I tossed on deodorant and perfume, sticking my walkman in my back pocket and hopping out my window, where I'd conveniently left my bike earlier that day. Perfect.