Cakes, Country Clubs, and the CEO [h.s]

Chapter 1

My hands mindlessly run over my dress trying to soothe out the wrinkles that seem to crinkle up despite my relentless attempts. In all honesty, I'm only making the appearance of the dress worse and worse with my efforts to fix it.

My mother insists I dress up lady-like when going out with friends, complaining that my under armour Nike sport shorts and oversized shirts make me look like a boy. I think it makes me look athletic. Yet, being the picky woman she is, chooses to point out that the last time she's seen me do any physical activity was when I tried dunking my leftover Ben and Jerry's tub in the recycling bin.

I choose to take that as a double compliment. One for my Lebron James dunking skills. The other for my ability to save the earth, one piece of plastic at a time.

She didn't find that as funny as I did. Instead she forced the dress into my hand and turned back to the door so she could get ready herself.

I've never been one for dressing up. Anything that slightly shows I have a body underneath the oversized t-shirt is declared much too small. When in reality, that's how clothes are supposed to be worn.

The dress is a perfect example of this. It hugs effortlessly the curve of my back and body, only to flow out around me in a "look at me, I'm not actually the box you thought I was" way. It's a bright yellow sundress that gives off the classic Brandy Melville vibe that every high schooler seems to be obsessed with. And in all honesty, if I wasn't a stubborn 17 year old woman child then I might admit it actually looks good.

However I am a stubborn 17 year old stubborn woman child, and I refuse to give my mother the satisfaction of knowing I don't mind dressing like young ladies are 'supposed too'.

I'm quickly snapped out of thoughts and tear away my gaze from the mirror when my mother's voice echoes down the hallway. She acts as if I'm not in the room right beside her.

"Gracie Marie, stop glaring in the mirror and get your butt out the door. You know you don't want to keep your friend waiting outside for you"

"I'm going mom don't worry! I love you, I'll be back later."

With a quick share of 'I love you's' and a few unnecessary eye rolls, I'm out the door and into the passenger seat of my friend's porsche. Considering Sabrina's only 16, I've always questioned why her parents bought her such an expensive car at such a young age. I was barely lucky enough to convince my parents to let me get my license. However, with no car to drive, there was really no use for it.

I've only brought the question up about her car a few times, however each time I would ask, she would quickly dismiss me with a flick of her wrist and insist that it doesn't matter. It was only a vehicle.

Yeah, a vehicle that cost more than my entire life, plus an extra leg and arms worth if I was fortuitous enough for them to accept that as payment.

Sabrina has been a friend of mine for a while and I was lucky enough to have her take me under her wing when I transferred to Saint Louis high school back in Freshman year. Ever since, we've been stuck together like glue. You're classic Blaire Waldorf and Serena Vanderwoodsen friendship.

Except if Blaire was poor, unfashionable, and the both of them were a whole lot less bitchy. But those are only the miniscule details and far besides the point. I just watch too much Gossip Girl.

Per usual, Sabrina's dressed to impress, wearing a small flowy white skirt and matching red button up top. Her curly hair is held together with a cherry red ribbon, giving off 60s jukebox vibes. It puts what I wear most of the time to shame.