The Time-Traveling Fashionista Read Online Free Page A

woke up looking fabulous.”
    “And their morning breath smells like strawberries,” Brooke added sarcastically. “Get real, Louise. People are people.”
    Brooke had an open compact in one hand and was trying to apply lip gloss with the other, in between potholes. At that moment,
     the bus hit a particularly deep rut.
    “Darn,” she said and looked over at Louise. A frosted pink streak connected her lip and chin. Louise laughed.
    “Well, I wish I was someone who didn’t have to ride the bus,” Brooke said, wiping off the gloss with a tissue.
    “I don’t mean someone else entirely,” Louise clarified, “but more like you, but in a different life.”
    “Hey, Louise,” Billy Robertson called from across the aisle, before Brooke had a chance to respond. Billy’s mop of brown hair
     covered his eyes like a limp curtain so that she had to wonder how he saw anything at all. They had been in the same class
     since kindergarten, but for some reason this year he had singled Louise out and made it a point to be as annoying and embarrassing
     to her as possible.
    Leave me alone
, Louise silently begged. Whenever Billy said anything, especially to her, it was generally rude and obnoxious.
    “Why do you always wear those old, ratty clothes? We all know you live in that big old giant house—you trying to pretend like
     you’re poor or something?”
    Louise looked down at her favorite cardigan. The tiny tear in the elbow now seemed like a gaping hole.
Why did she like vintage clothing so much?
Her life would probably be a lot easier if she at least looked like she fit in.
    “Oh, shut up,” Brooke responded without missing a beat. “If you knew anything about fashion—which, looking at that horrendous
     dirt brown sweater you wear all the time, you clearly don’t—then you’d know she only wears vintage. All of the celebrities
     do these days,” she concluded, flashing him a picture of Blake Lively photographed wearing a funky oversized magenta sweater
     and skinny black leggings while carrying a ginormous Starbucks coffee.
    Billy looked down at the ugly, pilled pullover that he had also worn yesterday, and likely the day before, and his ears turned
     a hot red. “Whatever,” he replied gruffly.
    Brooke gave Louise’s hand a quick squeeze, and Louise smiled back gratefully at her friend. “Don’t worry about him. That’s
     his caveman-like way of flirting,” Brooke whispered. “I’d like to go to that Fashionista Vintage Sale with you tomorrow,”
     she announced to Louise, throwing Billy a pointed look.
    “Great!” Louise exclaimed with a smile. “Maybe we can both find old, ratty dresses for the dance.”
    She got off the bus at the next stop, promising to call Brooke tomorrow after lunch to make a plan to go to the mysterious
     sale. Hopefully, the perfect new/old dress was awaiting her.

On Saturday, after an early morning swim practice and a quick chicken salad lunch, Louise rode her bike downtown to meet Brooke
     at the sale. The day was overcast and windy. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her dark denim
     jacket, and kept pedaling against the wind.
    She never had to think about where to turn; her bike wheels would just turn. Fairview, Connecticut, was a typical, small suburban
     town, and Louise had lived there her whole life. The closest mall was three towns over; the movie theater had two screening
     rooms with screens the size of bedsheets and films that had basically already come out on DVD. To do anything that was even
     remotely interesting or cultural you had to get on the Metro-North train and ride forty-five minutes through the trees and
     fields into New York City.
    When she was younger, she’d ride her bike through the streets trying to get lost, looking for an adventure. But shecould never get lost. The town was too small. No matter how hard Louise tried, or how many hours she rode around, she always
     ended up at home.
    The sign for Chapel Street