Skinny Jeans
Skinny Jeans
My friend Jess had a pair of tighter than tight, circulation halting, hip skimming black skinny jeans. My friend Jess outlined her eyes with thick, black eyeliner and cut her own side fringe. My friend Jess was the coolest girl in Year 8.
I went to an all girls grammar school. We had hobbies like horse riding, playing hockey and high functioning anxiety.
Jess and I would walk up the hill together every morning. The boys would catcall us at the bus stop, and we’d tell them to fuck off, but maybe get their BBM pin if they were fit.
Once inside the gate, we’d brush out our backcombed side fringes. Take off our glittery black nail polish in reception with cheap remover and a wad of blue paper towels. Swap our band hoodies for blazers that were still a bit too big.
We’d go to our lessons and we’d pass our exams with all A*s and go to Oxbridge.
After school, I walked into town with Jess. We bought matching fake lip piercings from Claire’s, and marched around Office in platform Doc Martens that we couldn’t afford. Then, we went to her house and ate potato smileys while we watched St. Trinian’s.
“Which makeover scene do you think she looks best in?” “Definitely the Emo one.” “Yeah. I don’t like the Posh Totty one. They look like sluts.” “Did you know that actor there is Zoe from Blue Peter?” “Is it? Can you rewind it? Oh my god it is her. That’s so random.” “I know right. Have you done the Latin homework?”
She had posters in her room for bands I’d never heard of. Sometimes, we listened to her My Chemical Romance CDs and she wrote the lyrics on her wall in permanent marker. We daubed matching black lipstick and blue eyeliner on each other’s faces, declaring that we were twins, sisters from another mister, wifey for lifey, bezzies for ever.
I was wearing my favourite skinny jeans. They were painfully tight and a violent shade of hot pink. A black zebra pattern completed the look. I’d usually pair them with a black mesh T-shirt. Shoes, of course, were All Star Converse with contrasting colour laces.
My mum bought the zebra jeans for me from Camden Market. We’d gone up on the train one Saturday, as a treat before my 13th birthday. I bought three studded belts, matte black nail varnish and some fishnet fingerless gloves, and insisted on wearing all the belts at the same time. The zebra jeans still fell down my skinny hips and I had to hitch them up every few steps.
Jess downloaded photos of scene kids from MySpace and painstakingly coloured their hair in rainbow colours, then we went on Chat Roulette until we saw a penis and Jess got scared and turned off the computer. Her mouse pad had a picture of Hello Kitty on it. She had coloured in its clothes black and added Emo make up, and crossed out ‘Hello’ with ‘GOODBYE’ in red felt tip.
When my mum came to pick me up, Jess pressed Paramore’s third album into my hands. We took an oath on it that we would be friends forever. At home, I downloaded You Are The Only Exception onto my iPod Nano and cried 13 year old misunderstood tears.
I moved school in Year 9. I didn’t get all A*s in my exams. I never went to Oxbridge. My bus stop boyfriend turned out to be a prick. I haven’t seen Jess in years.
Last year, I found the zebra stripe jeans in the back of my wardrobe. I tried them on, but they were too small. I guess I’ve grown.
My sister looked at them like they were on fire.
“What the fuck? You actually used to wear those?” “Yeah.” “Mum let you out of the house wearing those?” “Yeah. Actually she’s the one that bought them for me.” “She must have really hated you then. I’m definitely the favourite child. Bloody hell. Those are vile. Like actually offensive to look at.” “I’m gonna give them to the charity shop. They don’t fit me anymore.” “No, don’t inflict them on anyone else. Just burn them. And any photos of you wearing them.” “Okay. You wanna watch St Trinians later?” “Yeah. Alright then.”
That evening, we painted our nails black. We laughed at old Bebo photos of me with a badly straightened side fringe. She told me never to line the lower lids of my eyes ever again. I agreed. I looked like a panda that had been punched.
In the morning, I took the jeans to a clothing recycling bin and unceremoniously threw them in.
But I’ve still got Jess’s CD. The disc is horribly scratched, and the plastic case is cracked. We don’t even have a CD player in the house anymore. It doesn’t matter; I still know all the words.
