Loving You Differently

Fourteen

Aria Adkins

"It's just lunch," Savannah mutters from behind me.

I ignore her, and instead spin around to face her, clad in only a bra and a pair of cutoff denim shorts. "Oh my god," I groan. "Everything I own is from the thrift store and makes me look like I'm about to attend a funeral."

"So? That's your style," she reasons. I glare at her, not amused.

"We have to cancel," I decide, picking up my phone.

"No!" Savannah yelps, slapping it out of my hand. I stare at her with wide eyes.

She stands up from her spot on the edge of my bed and steps in front of me, placing each of her hands on my shoulders. "You're not canceling. You're going to put on the same black t-shirt you tried on three different times, and I don't want to hear another word about it. He's picking us up in twenty minutes."

"Okay," I nod. "You're right. It's just lunch. A friendly meal. Between friends."

"Just lunch," she repeats.

I sigh and bend down to pick up the discarded t-shirt, grumbling as I pull it over my head. "I don't know why I'm so nervous."

Yes you do, I think to myself.

Mom's words from last night flash in my mind like an obnoxious neon sign.

Poor. Trashy. Stuck up.

Damn you, mother.

I plop down beside Savannah and pull on my knock-off Doc Martens, the black faux leather scuffed from years of use. "Mom still asleep?"

"Last time I checked," she confirms.

"Good," I mutter. Mom being unconscious for the next few hours means no more drunken insults. Lord knows I've heard enough of them to last me a lifetime.

"You lock your bedroom door?" I ask Savannah.

"Done," she chirps.

"Alright," I sigh. "Let's do this."

"Don't sound too enthusiastic," she deadpans.

"Sorry, I can't help it," I say.

Savannah stops me in my tracks. "Aria, don't let mom get in your head. Not everyone has a secret agenda, okay? Austin's a nice guy."

I mull her words over and purse my lips in thought. "You are way too nice for your own good. How are you always so optimistic? Teach me your ways."

She shrugs. "We don't really have the best influences. But one thing I know, is that I never want to turn out like mom and dad. They're always so angry. I don't like being angry."

Can't relate. Anger is a familiar emotion. I can't remember a time where I wasn't always angry. Angry at the world. Angry at mom and dad. Angry at myself.

I guess I'm more like them than I thought.

Not wanting to feel any sorrier for myself than I already do, I just nod in agreement. "Me either," I murmur.