Page 102 of Ruthless Court
“We are getting burgers. Somewhere with music, drinks, and men who own shirts without archaeological excavation logos.”
I look down at the faded sweatshirt I’m wearing.
“This is from an important dig site.”
“It has a dirt stain shaped like Florida.”
“That’s authentic.”
Noor tosses a bundle of black fabric onto my bed.
“Wear this.”
I unfold it.
It’s a fitted top with a square neckline and sleeves made of something sheer enough to suggest the designer ran out of material.
“No.”
“You say no before looking.”
“I looked.”
“Try it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re eighteen, your contacts finally arrived, and you’ve spent the last three weekends teaching thirteen-year-old boys how to stop dribbling off their feet.”
“They’re improving.”
“Great. Tonight, improve your social life.”
I should stay in.
I have reading to finish, practice plans to revise, and an annotated bibliography due Monday.
Then Lila points at my desk.
“You are looking at your planner like you want it to ask you to prom.”
I close it.
“Fine.”
Forty minutes later, I barely recognize myself.
My hair is down, straightened just enough to control the frizz but not enough to flatten it. Noor lends me dark jeans that fit better than anything I own. The black top stays, though I add a leather jacket because the night has turned colder.
Mascara.
Lip gloss.
Small silver hoops.
No tortoiseshell glasses.
Lila studies me from the doorway.
