workshop writing

The Mixer

She was ready, almost. Her hair was sprayed and she had Dippity Do’d two perfect spit curls by each ear. Her lips were glossed over with Bonnie Bell. Her jeans, riding low, were wide and scuffed along the floor, just right. When she turned to look in the mirror, her peasant blouse gathered in all the right places. Her first ever 7th grade mixer and time to run down the street to pick up Vicky, then around the corner for Debbie. Their clothes and hair had been planned over too many back and forth phone calls to count and they each had a wish list of which boy would ask them to dance. Catching some of her excitement, the dog yipped and ran circles around her feet. Before she  banged out the back door, she opened the baking cupboard. The little brown bottle hid behind the nutmeg–she unscrewed the little red cap and breathed deeply.  That heady sweet smell of being thirteen. Then she dabbed a spot of vanilla behind her ears, on her wrist. And she was let the the door and on to bigger things.

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