“I’m probably going to hate her.” My hushed voice spoke to the person beside me. The Dorothy braids and long legs shifted slowly across the locker room. “I hate you!” Two years later and it was two AM. The smell of honey, vanilla extract, and butter wafted through my kitchen at 2 am as the Dorothy braids struggled to watch me attempt to whisk the mixture. “She’s probably a prep.” My eyes lightly pierced her pink blouse. “Gross.” “You’re going to let me borrow that.” POW! was printed across the thick grey fabric she held in her hands. I find it funny how someone you begin hating can end up being your biggest influence, and best friend. Soft rays awoke me on the brown couch. The house - still unfamiliar to all of my senses, was inactive.
