Mixed feelings churn inside me about being forced to wear a uniform. I’ve always attended public school and could wear whatever I wanted within reason.
I pull on the navy, green, and gold plaid skirt until it settles around my waist and then shove my arms through the sleeves of the white button-down before tucking the excess material into the waistband. I run my hands over both the shirt and skirt to smooth out any visible wrinkles. I shrug into the navy blazer with the gold crest stitched on the upper left corner and pull on the matching knee-high socks before staring at the bathroom mirror.
The girl who meets my gaze in the reflection brings a smirk to my face. If my friends could see me now, they would be on the floor rolling around with laughter. And I can’t say that I would blame them for it. I look like I stepped off the set of Gossip Girl.
I rotate one way before turning to the other side to check myself out from every angle. When I catch a glimpse of my ass, a frown pulls at the corners of my lips as I tug at the material in back.
Why the hell is this so short?
Isn’t showing off this much skin at a private school considered sacrilegious? All I have to do is put my hair in pigtails with matching plaid bows and I could star in a creepy schoolgirl porno. That’s definitely not the look I’m going for. My plan is to fly under the radar, the last thing I want to do is invite unwanted attention. At least all the other girls will be wearing the same thing.
Not in the mood to mess around with my hair, I pull the inky-colored strands into a topknot and fasten it with a rubber band along with a few strategically placed bobby pins. I swipe on a bit of golden eyeshadow and some pink lip gloss before calling it a day.
On my way down to the kitchen, I rap my knuckles against Austin’s closed door. When it’s met with silence, I call out, “You up?”
All I get is a grunt in response. It’s not like I’m excited and in some big rush to get to school, but I don’t want to be late for the first day either. My goal is to blend in with the masses until I can get the lay of the land.
I head down to the kitchen where Mom and Dad are enjoying their coffee at the table. Sunlight filters in through the bank of windows overlooking the backyard. Mom is wrapped in her fluffy white robe and her ebony-colored hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders. Dad is already dressed in a gray suit and looks ready to take on the day.
They both perk up as I enter the room.
Mom quietly surveys the outfit. It doesn’t take long for her shoulders to shake with silent mirth. A smile quirks Dad’s lips.
“Don’t say a word,” I mutter.
“Ahh, the old Hawthorne uniform. I see nothing has changed in that regard.” He eyes the hemline with a frown. “Seems like the skirts have gotten a tad shorter.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” I grumble before tugging self-consciously at the fabric, but it doesn’t budge an inch. My legs are on display for everyone to see. I ran cross-country and track my freshman and sophomore years, so I’m used to shorts that leave little to the imagination. The difference is that I wasn’t walking around in school with them.
“My advice is that you try not to bend over, sweetie. I’ll call the office and see if we can get you a skirt in a larger size.”
“That’s not the problem.” I slip my fingers beneath the waistband and tug it away from my abdomen. “It’s the length. I need a tall or extra long.”
Her brows scrunch as she considers the situation. “Maybe we can let out the hem an inch or two.” She drums her fingertips against the table. “We’ll play around with it when you get home from school. Unfortunately, for today, you’re stuck with it.” A smile lifts the corners of her lips. “It’s one of the curses of having long legs, I guess.” She pauses. “I was about to start the griddle and make pancakes for your brother.” With her coffee in hand, Mom rises from the chair. “Do you want a couple?” Before I can answer, she tacks on, “I have a fresh pint of blueberries. We can add them to your pancakes.”
Under normal circumstances, I would be all over that offer, but not this morning. Food of any kind sounds like a disastrous idea.
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ll stick with coffee.”
Mom clucks her tongue in disapproval. “Are you sure? I want you to be well-fueled. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”