Arc-en-ciel

Chapter 08: Do That

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart

A N N A B E T H

I liked wearing dresses. They made me feel very pretty.

There used to be a time I was insecure about wearing them because the guy that I had liked at the time, had made some jabs that had me doubting it.

Maybe you should change out of the dress?

You don't think it's too revealing?

All the guys are staring, you should cover-up.

I had let those comments get to me. I wasn't strong enough then.

I was pretty sure that I would still cry if someone said something mean about what I was wearing, but maybe I wouldn't feel as bad now.

Now, I'd wipe my tears and flick them at anyone rude at the end of my sobbing session. That'll show them.

But back to the whole insecurity thing- that was the thing about him. Sometimes, he could make the strongest people feel insecure about themselves. You could say he had some prime skills in manipulation- and not in the girl boss, gatekeep, gaslight way.

The best way to describe him would be...think Nate Jacobs, but blonde. No, I haven't watched Euphoria because of the trigger warnings- but I'd trust Elliot's judgment on it.

It had been a couple of weeks since I had worn one, and so, I decided that I would wear one because fortunately, there weren't very strict dress code rules in place at Lakeview.

Also, by principle, wearing a dress meant that you absolutely had to ready yourself a tiny bit more than you would usually do. It was a must. I didn't make the rules.

"You're all dolled up today," Bethany commented, looking me up and down, "Nice dress."

Elliot punctuated her sentence with an impressed nod.

"Thank you!" I gave them both a little twirl, "It's new, I got it while I was thrifting- for five dollars only, can you believe it? Five dollars."

Call me Businesswoman Betty. Getting cheap deals on clothes like it's my job.

I was the coolest on the block with my special rack of thrift clothes, and you'd have to fight me to get that title.

Although, it would be best not to pick a fight with me. I threw a weak punch and I'd probably cry after that either because I hurt my own hand or because I'd be afraid I hurt you.

Call me an empath too, while you're at it. Me, an empath, sensing that deep, deep, deep down- that my punch hurt you somewhere.

"I could totally be an empath, right, Beth?"