Page 21 of Come As You Are

“At least he’s efficient?”

“That he is.” Salem crosses his arms behind his head and leans against the wall. “Now, can we get back to your wanting to give me a makeover? Or actually, maybe we should never, ever get back to that.”

“It’s not amakeover.This is going to be your first timedoing an actual social thing. I’m just helping you present yourself decently to the world. This is why you have me. I’m gonna clean you up, hook you up with the hot girls, and impress your parents so hard they’ll lose their minds.”

Do I know how I’m going to do any of that? I do not. But up until my friends betrayed me and I had a little breakdown, I wasexcellentat parent-pleasing. Craig’s parents certainly loved me. I wonder how they feel about seeing my sister slip into my shoes.

Or maybe they never had to see it, because she probably dropped him as soon as I left and the game stopped being fun.

“And how exactly does this fit intoyourreign of terror?” he asks as I hop up and start digging through his closet, pushing aside flannel after grungy hoodie after flannel.

“We’ll get to that,” I promise, “but right now, we’re focusing on you. And you can’t pretend you have no vested interest in learning how to become a chick magnet.”

“Did you just—”

“I’ll use whatever terminology I want to use,” I say, cutting him off. “And if you think I haven’t noticed you checking out a certain long-legged redhead, you are dead wrong.”

There’s no smart-ass response, which I take to mean I’ve hit the right nerve. And, almost simultaneously, I hit the right shirt. “Here,” I say, sliding the black button-up off the hanger and tossing it in his direction. “It appears to be your only shirt that doesn’t have a band logo on it.”

“You know I packed that shirt strictly for Parents’ Weekend, right?” He throws it back at me. “I’m not wearing that to watch a shitty rom-com in a room reeking of fake butter.”

We compromise on a zip-up hoodie that looks slightly nicer than the others and a pair of well-worn jeans. Then he kicks me out so he can get dressed, and I tell him to pick me up from my room.

“You do not need me to pick you up,” he says, already sounding tired. “This isn’t an actual date.”

“No, but you need to learn how to take a girl on one, so get practicing. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.Showered.” I let myself out, and only then does the panic set in, because I may have helped dress Salem, but who’s going to help dress me? Yes, most of the point of tonight is to get Salem noticed, looking like an actual human, but a tiny partisabout people seeingmeout and about with an actual boy, rather than fifty ~lovers~ they’ve made up in their minds.

Salem is only a couple of minutes late, but he looks fresh and clean, and the jeans are, admittedly, excellent-ass jeans, literally. His hair isn’tneat,but it looks more rock-star disheveled than stoner mess. All in all, I’d give the cleanup a seven out of ten on the “Am I taking this seriously or just humoring the annoying girl downstairs” scale.

“Are you ready?” he asks on a sigh that sounds way too exasperated for the fact that our night is only just beginning.

No, I am not ready. I’d put on my black jeans and a silky green top and I realize now I look way too overdressed for a freaking on-campus movie night. But I was already running late and I had to apply eyeliner three times before I got it right, and how am I still a disaster? “One sec—I just need to change my shirt.”

His gaze flickers over me. “You look fine, Skeevy.”

“Just gimme one minute. You can wait inside. I’ll change in the bathroom.” I grab a T-shirt that’s admittedly plain but has a very flattering (read: low) neckline and hang it on the grab bar by the toilet while I remove the fancier top.

“Where’s all your stuff?” Salem calls. “You seem like someone who’d have pictures all over the place.”

I make a mental note to hang up some random garbage so people will stop asking me that. The thing is, he’s not wrong; I was that person, once. My room at home was full of silly portraits done by Claire and my mom’s favorite inspirational sayings in shades of purple and silver. My bookcases were packed with candy-colored romance novels, and there were cute little cactus candles dotting the shelves and strings of fairy lights brightening my walls with a soft glow.

But it was in that soft glow that I used to make out with the boyfriend my sister stole. And all the best-friend magic of those paintings faded the moment I came crying to Claire and she admitted she’d known for a while. My parents bought me those candles and sayings, and I didn’t need to bring any reminders of the people who responded to every shitty thing Sierra did with some variation of “She’s just acting out; move on.” As if breaking into all my social media accounts and posting a picture of me in my underwear in response to my making the debate team as a freshman when she didn’t is equivalent to a toddler drawing on the wall in crayon.

So no, I don’t put pictures all over the place anymore, or anything else I used to do back when I was “Sierra Riley’s little sister.” Having bare walls is a small price to pay for finally being allowed to put up any walls at all.

“I’m a minimalist,” I lie as I slide on the T-shirt and fluff out my hair before emerging from the bathroom. “Better?”

“Also fine.”

“You’re supposed to be helping,” I remind him.

“How is this any less than you did by telling me to change and smell less bad?”

I take a dramatic sniff of him and note that the stench of weed has been replaced by something pleasantly woodsy instead, a little stronger than the pine-scented soap the other day. Like he might actually have ventured into the world of cologne. “That’s two tips! And you took both!”

“Okay, well, you already smell fine, so I have no other advice.”

“Nothing? I look boring, Salem! A T-shirt and jeans screams ‘nice girl.’”

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