Nephilim's Fall: Chapter Six

Stella gets ready for the party and can't stop thinking about Sebastian.

Chapter 6

Conner always walks me home from school, even when he doesn't want to. This is one of those days. We walk in silence, which is unusual for us. He is still annoyed at me for accepting Amanda's invitation on his behalf.

His silence doesn't upset me, mainly it’s just irritating. I'm not about to speak first though; I've never been one for breaking silences. And besides, Conner has never been mad enough to ignore me for long. So we walk side by side, neither of us saying a word. It isn't long before he breaks.

"Why'd you have to do that, Stella?"

"Do what?" I ask innocently, feigning ignorance. He isn't having it.

"Don't play dumb Stella, it doesn't suit you."

I snort, shooting him my filthiest look, but he ignores it.

"You know how much I hate those things."

"You can't hate something you've never tried," I reply flippantly, even though I've expressed the very same opinion countless times before.

He rolls his eyes at me, and I shrug. Normally I would back down, but this party I actually want to go to. "Come on, it won't be that terrible. Why don't you want to go so badly?"

“Stella.”

"Yeah?" I answer, swallowing the lump that suddenly appears in my throat.

"Just stay away from him, okay Stels?"

"What? Why?" I ask, confused.

"He's just bad news."

"Oh," I say, suddenly deflated. "How do you know that?"

"Trust me on this one, okay? I was right about Derek last year wasn't I? Please just trust me."

"Okay, Conner." I laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my own ears. "It's not like I had any plans to be friends with him or anything."

"Good," he replies, and I nod vaguely.
�"�"

I am halfway through emptying the entire contents of my wardrobe onto the floor when my mother knocks on my door, sticking her head tentatively through. "What on earth are you doing?" she asks, her eyes widening in alarm as she glances around my room. I follow her gaze and shudder at the thought of packing everything away when I am finished; it looks like a clothing bomb had exploded.

"Nothing," I shrug, attempting nonchalance.

"It doesn't look like nothing, to me," she replies, scrutinizing me through narrow eyes.

I sigh. "I'm just looking for clothes, Mom. You know I haven't gone shopping in almost a year?"

"I know, you always refuse when I offer to buy you new things," she nods, rolling her eyes.

"Does this mean you want to go shopping together?" She grins enthusiastically at me and I try not to make a face.

 

"No offense, Mom, but not really. Anyway, it'd be too late by this time if we went anyway." Her eyes light up when I say that, and I know I've let too much slip.

 

"Too late for what?" She gasps, and I can see the cogs turning in her mind as a thought occurs to her. "Stella, do you have a date?" The excitement in her voice is palpable, and I grimace, hot blood rushing to my cheeks.

 

"Of course not, Mom, it's just a stupid party. I might not even go." I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing that she'll leave me alone. 

 

"Oh, no, you have to go!" 

 

I groan, but she doesn't seem to get the message. 

 

"How exciting, my daughter, finally going to a party." she is talking to herself now, mumbling as she stares at me.

 

"I've been to parties before," I mumble, but if she hears me she doesn't show it.

 

"What are you going to wear?" she says suddenly, snapping out of her daze. She steps into my room, carefully tiptoeing around the clothes that are scattered across the floor to stand beside me. 

 

She stands staring into my wardrobe, much the same as I had just a couple of minutes earlier. From the look on her face, she is finding it just about as inspiring as I had.

 

"No," she murmurs after a long moment. "This won't do."

 

"Its fine, Mom," I say, embarrassed by the interest she is showing in my social life.

 

"Fine? Of course it's not fine, Stella!" She throws her hands above her head with a theatrically exasperated sigh. "What were you going to wear, your ratty old jeans and a t-shirt?"

 

I shrug, trying not to glance at my bed, where my favorite pair of denims and a faded grey fitted tee sat neatly folded: the only near suitable thing I'd scrounged from my wardrobe.

 

She sighs again, and I sit down on my bed, beginning to wonder whether it will just be easier to pull out of the party after all.

 

"Well, I guess we will have to go shopping, after all," she says, crossing her arms over her chest with an expression she often wears around me, specifically when she expects me to be difficult.

 

Now it is my turn to sigh. "Okay, Mom," I groan, painfully aware that arguing with her will get me nowhere.

 

"Good," she grins, and a dried flake of paint cracks on her cheek before falling to the floor. She doesn't seem to notice. "Tomorrow it is, then."

 

I watch her walk out of my room with a familiar feeling of dread that always settles over me whenever she forces her way. I am definitely beginning to regret accepting Amanda's invitation in the first place.

 

 Two days and countless shops later, we still haven't made any headway, and the mother-daughter time is definitely starting to take its toll. I am standing in front of a mirror in yet another outfit that looks like it would be better suited to a character out of some bad 80's sit com when my mother comes up beside me, eyeing me critically.

 

"No, that's not it either," she murmurs, and I roll my eyes in agreement. "Maybe we'd better call it a day," she says. Her tone uncertain.

 

"Maybe that's best," I agree. "I've always got my jeans and tee."

 

She grimaces, her expression pained. I grin, changing quickly back into my favorite tee and hurrying out of the shop. My mother trails behind me, the corners of her mouth turned down and her feet dragging along the pavement. 

 

About a block from the shop I realize that I can't hear the dragging of feet from behind me, and I turn around, groaning inwardly at what I see. My mother is standing out the front of a vintage store about 50 feet behind me, motioning frantically for me to join her. I sigh, trudging back in the direction I've just come from, already worn out and cranky from the long hours we've spent shopping fruitlessly.

 

My resolve changes though, when I look through the shop window to what my mother is pointing at. I gape at the mannequin in the display, or, more accurately, at the dress it wears. Spaghetti straps across the shoulders hold up a modest bust that pulls tightly in at the waist before flowing out into a wide, elegant skirt of the same almost metallic purple fabric. Short enough as to not be too formal, but long enough to maintain my well preserved dignity, I know that it is exactly what I have been looking for. I stride into the shop, shocked that I had almost missed this.

The shopkeeper, a trendy woman who looks to be in her mid-to-late thirties, pulls the dress delicately off the mannequin while my mother stands behind me, almost crooning in her excitement.

 

I take the dress into the change room, declining my mother's offer of accompaniment. I slip it on, careful not to catch it on anything. I open the door without looking in the mirror, preferring to see my mother's reaction first, trusting her fashion sense more than my own.

 

Her mouth falls open, and for what must be a full two seconds she stands staring at me, taking me in, it seems. Then she grabs my arm, dragging me to stand in front of a full length mirror. 

 

"Wow," I breathe, stunned at the way the dress seems to hug my body in all the right places, accentuating what are mere lumps under my usual clothes, turning them into actual curves.

 

"Wow," my mother agrees. We both stare at my reflection in a kind of awed silence.

 

"Looks good, kid," the shopkeeper says before turning back to her magazine.

 

I grin widely at my mother, ecstatic that our hours of searching has actually paid off. She smiles back at me, and I guess she is mainly just happy that I'm not going to wear my jeans to the party. 

 

"How much is it?" she asks the shopkeeper, turning away from my reflection to look at the woman.

 

"That one," she begins, drawing out the "O" in one so that the word lasts several seconds as she looks up the item on her computer. "That one's $160."

 

"A hundred and sixty dollars?" I ask, stricken. None of the clothes I've ever owned have even come near to costing that much. I turn to my mother, whose expression mirrors my own. My heart sinks, and I know that so much money is out of the question. I look back at the mirror, trying to find fault with the dress; anything that will make it less attractive to me.

 

"Well," I mumble, doing my best to convince myself. "It is a bit too short, I suppose. I wouldn't want to show up looking like a skank." I sigh, feeling entirely unconvinced.

 

My mother is silent behind me, and I turn to her, expecting to be bombarded with reasons that $160 is too much money. I am prepared, and already resigned. It is too much money to spend on a dress, anyway. Her expression isn't what I expect though, and she looks almost torn. Almost as if she is considering it.

 

"Oh, please mom," I start, taking advantage whatever momentary consideration she is allowing herself, knowing that it won't last long. "Considering how often I buy clothes, it really isn't much. I'll start doing extra around the house, I'll even cook you dinner."

 

She sighs, but remains silent. I am confused; she isn’t putting up any of the usual arguments reserved for when I want something outside of the household budget. It'd taken me months of persuading to get her to upgrade our tube television to a flatscreen a couple of years ago, and that was for both of us. I understand, of course; when you're selling your art for money and working at a day care center, money doesn't exactly grow on trees. I never really expect her to actually buy the dress, I mean, money like that can pay for two weeks worth of groceries which is why I am so shocked when she pulls her wallet out of her bag and moves to the counter.

 

"Will credit be fine?" Her voice sounds wary, like it does when we just finish an argument, and I realize she must have been arguing with herself.

 

I feel strangely guilty.

 

"You don't have to do that, Mom," I say, walking up beside her.

 

She turns to me, and there is a happy smile on her face. "Of course I do, Stella. That's what I'm here for, silly girl."

 

I frown at her, but decide not to argue the point; I do really love the dress, after all.

 

"Thanks Mom! I'll clean the whole house for a month," I promise as I close the door into the change room and pull the dress over my head. I stand staring at it, waiting for the feeling of glee at getting such a gorgeous dress to overcome the guilt that bubbles under my skin as I listen to mom typing her pin number into the machine.

Reviews

[goddessofwriting]

Fantastic so far. Quite enthralling.

Looking forward to reading the next few parts.

-G.W.

[DeNine]

Thank you so much for reading!! Excited to see if you like my other chapters