A party, I knew it. In all honesty, I hated parties. But most of all, I hated parties with Vicki’s friends.

I rifled through her closet. The girl was a designer junkie, in all respects. Me? My favorite store was the Salvation Army. Who would want to spend a fortune on Helmut Lang when you could get a vintage Bruce Springsteen concert tshirt for a dollar?

“What are these?” I gasped, pulling out a pair of bright red skinny jeans, “These are so not you…”

“Oh, yeah, my aunt bought me those in New York, pretty awful right? I can’t even stand to look at them…” she trailed off as I was nearly lunging my way into them in pure excitement.

I jumped around excited, pulled on the tshirt I came in and gave Vicki the devil fingers.

“Mara, you can’t wear that tshirt, here try this cute sparkly top,” she suggested.

“We aren’t going to Studio 54, besides, the Bahaus tshirt stays!”

“But you look…” Vicki protested.

“Like Ziggy Stardust?” I gasped, “I know.”

Vicki rolled her eyes and gave up.