HOPE
I stand in front of my full-length mirror, tilting my head slightly to the right. I always do that when I try on new outfits—it helps me see myself the way someone else might. Like borrowing a second opinion, only mine comes with brutal honesty.
"Ugh, I can't wear this either," I groan, yanking the red V-neck over my head and tossing it onto the ever-growing pile on my bed. Lizzie, curled into a tight little cinnamon roll on a hill of discarded sweaters, nods her head, obviously agreeing with me that the dress doesn't fit high-class standards.
I put my hands on my hips and survey the chaos. "It looks like my closet has never considered that I would need to dress rich."
Lizzie opens one eye lazily and yawns.
"Don't look at me like that," I mutter. "Everything in there feels... stale. You know exactly what kind of clothes Josie would wear. I can't show up looking like her minion."
She licks her lips in response, which I guess means sympathy.