Wishes Washed Away
eleven.
I heard about you & Brendon from Panic! At the Disco. This true? Oh, borrowing your cute red dress.
-R
Another soiled outfit. She better not be going out with that and wearing hooker shoes; I am completely ashamed of this stupid woman with her slut boyfriend. I can't believe she stretches out my clothes and thinks I'm okay with that. I don't get Chanel or Lacoste or Marc Jacobs or Prada for free.
I'm going to wring her neck.
"Maggie, I think the paparazzi are waiting for you outside," Brendon shouts. I'm pretty sure he's looking out the peak hole. "I don't think we can go anywhere today." To be honest, we haven't gone anywhere since the day we went out to eat with his parents. That was three days ago. I get to go back to the movie set in a week and a half.
"Screw the paparazzi. I can't stand staying in here for this long. Let's go to the Strip or something, please." I check my last email:
I can't wait for you to return to the set. It's been boring without you, and I understand you're taking a much-needed break, but we're awaiting your return. The paparazzi here miss you and ask me how you're doing every day I leave the set. So, tell me, how are you, and who is this Brendon character I've heard so much about through tabloids? Enlighten me, Maggie.
-E
I respond:
I'll be back soon, I assure you. Vegas is pleasant, but the paparazzi are buzzing around everywhere; I can hardly leave this little house safely. Brendon's just a good friend I've made, no big deal. The paparazzi can know that I'm doing fine. Hope you're doing well, and I miss you dearly, Edward.
-M
I slip on my Marc Jacobs stilettos and reach for the door, Brendon by my side. We march out, slipping into the car with the flash going off before our eyes. We back out of the drive way with dozens of questions being hurled at us. Brendon and I reply to none as we drive down to the Strip, high-fiving after we leave his suburban neighborhood.
He stops at the Venetian, and we step in. First, I spot Christian Dior, and Brendon gives me a look. "You can't buy anything in there, so what's the point in going?" he asks as I drag him in with me. "C'mon, Maggie, be realistic."
"Well, I need new dresses, because Raquel stretched out eleven of them already." I'll make that bitch pay, I swear. A sixty-fourth of my closet is gone because of her reckless use of my dresses. Does she think these things grow on trees?
"She stretched them out?" he repeats, drifting towards the men's aisle. I hold him back by the collar. "Is she a size bigger than you?"
"Two sizes. And she returns them unwashed." In filth; she dances in them at gross raves and underground parties, bringing them back soiled in grime, drenched in pot smoke and alcohol. Ugh. "What kind person does that?"
"Is she...chunky?" he asks, adjusting his shirt. "I mean...no one wants to see lumps, love handles, muffin tops...whatever." Brennie pauses. "Not that I have anything against fat people."
"Oh, I agree. And she's not chunky. She just has larger breasts and hips than I do." Whenever I slip them on after they've been washed, the dresses tend to slide down. "Once I get back, I'm moving out." There's no point in being friends with a bitch and steals your clothes.
"Oh." I take out my phone and check Perez Hilton, just in case there's any new gossip about anyone I know. Of course, Raquel's up there with a new boyfriend, Marco Polo. He looks model-ish. Says on Hilton that he's a porn star, and there's white drips hanging off Raquel's mouth. I scroll down, and there's Brendon and me at the restaurant. There are hearts above us.
"Do you think this would look good on me?" Brendon holds up a maroon dress shirt with frills at the buttons and wrists. "I kinda like it."
"It's expensive; could you afford it?" He should really put that money into refurnishing his home. The seventies vibe really doesn't cut it anymore.
"Well, no, but..." He puts it back. "Maybe I can get a cheaper, knock-off version..."
"From where?" I touch a red chiffon dress; it's absolutely gorgeous. "Target doesn't sell stuff like that, dear."
"I don't know...I'm sure there's a place that sells stuff like this at a lower price," he replies, wincing at the price tag--I've never done that with anything in my life. Not even with the Aston Martin I bought my father for his birthday last year. "There's got to be. I mean...there's lookalikes everywhere."
"Bren, nothing is like the real thing, no matter what your mother tells you." I point at my Louis Vutton bracelet with small luggage charms on it. "There could never be a 'knock-off' version of this. It's Louis Vuitton, and there's nothing else like it." I point to my earrings. "Tiffany's, and there's nothing that could look better." My shoes. "Eley Kishmoto, and no one copies that." My outfit. "Burberry; no one can do this except them."
"Well, I don't make money like you do. I have to pay rent, buy groceries, pay my cell phone bill, the water bill, the electric bill, the heating and air conditioning bill...I can't do the extravagant stuff you can. I actually have to save my money, so I don't go broke." Brendon exits, and I reluctantly follow. "You know, maybe Reum was trying to teach you a lesson: don't spend your money recklessly. Because one of these days, you'll be out of money to spend."
"I have been saving my money, haven't I?" I retort. "I still have the wad of cash I brought with me just in case. I haven't taken out excessive loans, or opened new bank accounts. I've been a good girl thus far, but it's killing me." I spot Dolce and Gabbana, but Brendon holds me back.
"You've been really good with your money, but you have to be even better than that." He points to the exit. "We're going somewhere that you'd never go in your life. And you're buying something from there."
I shut my eyes. "Can't you just go, and I'll give you the money?"
He smirks.
"Hell no."
-R
Another soiled outfit. She better not be going out with that and wearing hooker shoes; I am completely ashamed of this stupid woman with her slut boyfriend. I can't believe she stretches out my clothes and thinks I'm okay with that. I don't get Chanel or Lacoste or Marc Jacobs or Prada for free.
I'm going to wring her neck.
"Maggie, I think the paparazzi are waiting for you outside," Brendon shouts. I'm pretty sure he's looking out the peak hole. "I don't think we can go anywhere today." To be honest, we haven't gone anywhere since the day we went out to eat with his parents. That was three days ago. I get to go back to the movie set in a week and a half.
"Screw the paparazzi. I can't stand staying in here for this long. Let's go to the Strip or something, please." I check my last email:
I can't wait for you to return to the set. It's been boring without you, and I understand you're taking a much-needed break, but we're awaiting your return. The paparazzi here miss you and ask me how you're doing every day I leave the set. So, tell me, how are you, and who is this Brendon character I've heard so much about through tabloids? Enlighten me, Maggie.
-E
I respond:
I'll be back soon, I assure you. Vegas is pleasant, but the paparazzi are buzzing around everywhere; I can hardly leave this little house safely. Brendon's just a good friend I've made, no big deal. The paparazzi can know that I'm doing fine. Hope you're doing well, and I miss you dearly, Edward.
-M
I slip on my Marc Jacobs stilettos and reach for the door, Brendon by my side. We march out, slipping into the car with the flash going off before our eyes. We back out of the drive way with dozens of questions being hurled at us. Brendon and I reply to none as we drive down to the Strip, high-fiving after we leave his suburban neighborhood.
He stops at the Venetian, and we step in. First, I spot Christian Dior, and Brendon gives me a look. "You can't buy anything in there, so what's the point in going?" he asks as I drag him in with me. "C'mon, Maggie, be realistic."
"Well, I need new dresses, because Raquel stretched out eleven of them already." I'll make that bitch pay, I swear. A sixty-fourth of my closet is gone because of her reckless use of my dresses. Does she think these things grow on trees?
"She stretched them out?" he repeats, drifting towards the men's aisle. I hold him back by the collar. "Is she a size bigger than you?"
"Two sizes. And she returns them unwashed." In filth; she dances in them at gross raves and underground parties, bringing them back soiled in grime, drenched in pot smoke and alcohol. Ugh. "What kind person does that?"
"Is she...chunky?" he asks, adjusting his shirt. "I mean...no one wants to see lumps, love handles, muffin tops...whatever." Brennie pauses. "Not that I have anything against fat people."
"Oh, I agree. And she's not chunky. She just has larger breasts and hips than I do." Whenever I slip them on after they've been washed, the dresses tend to slide down. "Once I get back, I'm moving out." There's no point in being friends with a bitch and steals your clothes.
"Oh." I take out my phone and check Perez Hilton, just in case there's any new gossip about anyone I know. Of course, Raquel's up there with a new boyfriend, Marco Polo. He looks model-ish. Says on Hilton that he's a porn star, and there's white drips hanging off Raquel's mouth. I scroll down, and there's Brendon and me at the restaurant. There are hearts above us.
"Do you think this would look good on me?" Brendon holds up a maroon dress shirt with frills at the buttons and wrists. "I kinda like it."
"It's expensive; could you afford it?" He should really put that money into refurnishing his home. The seventies vibe really doesn't cut it anymore.
"Well, no, but..." He puts it back. "Maybe I can get a cheaper, knock-off version..."
"From where?" I touch a red chiffon dress; it's absolutely gorgeous. "Target doesn't sell stuff like that, dear."
"I don't know...I'm sure there's a place that sells stuff like this at a lower price," he replies, wincing at the price tag--I've never done that with anything in my life. Not even with the Aston Martin I bought my father for his birthday last year. "There's got to be. I mean...there's lookalikes everywhere."
"Bren, nothing is like the real thing, no matter what your mother tells you." I point at my Louis Vutton bracelet with small luggage charms on it. "There could never be a 'knock-off' version of this. It's Louis Vuitton, and there's nothing else like it." I point to my earrings. "Tiffany's, and there's nothing that could look better." My shoes. "Eley Kishmoto, and no one copies that." My outfit. "Burberry; no one can do this except them."
"Well, I don't make money like you do. I have to pay rent, buy groceries, pay my cell phone bill, the water bill, the electric bill, the heating and air conditioning bill...I can't do the extravagant stuff you can. I actually have to save my money, so I don't go broke." Brendon exits, and I reluctantly follow. "You know, maybe Reum was trying to teach you a lesson: don't spend your money recklessly. Because one of these days, you'll be out of money to spend."
"I have been saving my money, haven't I?" I retort. "I still have the wad of cash I brought with me just in case. I haven't taken out excessive loans, or opened new bank accounts. I've been a good girl thus far, but it's killing me." I spot Dolce and Gabbana, but Brendon holds me back.
"You've been really good with your money, but you have to be even better than that." He points to the exit. "We're going somewhere that you'd never go in your life. And you're buying something from there."
I shut my eyes. "Can't you just go, and I'll give you the money?"
He smirks.
"Hell no."