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“I’m really so glad you could come. I haven’t had a proper sleepover in ages!”
Elle is standing in the middle of her room in her striped pink Victoria’s Secret pajamas, the set her mom got her last Christmas—the ones with the flouncy shorts, and Liz is staring at her slippers.
Liz looks almost comically mismatched to the decor as she stands in Elle’s room, wearing a sleeveless black muscle tee and gray basketball shorts. Elle isn’t entirely sure if the ensemble is Liz’s daytime outfit or her pajamas, and she’s fairly certain it’d be rude to ask, so she graciously does not press the topic.
“Nice slippers,” Liz says, and Elle glances down at them. Her dad bought them for her last week to replace the ones Bruiser had chewed up. Ironically, he picked fuzzy ones shaped like a dog, which bore a strong resemblance to the slipper-muncher himself. The choice in footwear had felt fun and playful an hour ago, but now Elle is strangely self-conscious.
“Thanks,” Elle says, her face slightly warm.
Liz looks up and takes in the inherent pink-ness of the room.
“Nice room, too.”
Elle perks up at this.
“You like it? My mom hired the same interior designer that did Jennifer Aniston’s summer home in Montecito. I just love how he utilizes contrast.”
Liz is looking at her with an expression Elle is coming to recognize means she just said something extremely Los Angeles. It’s not a cruel look, though, Elle can tell.
“Was that super out of touch?” She asks, smiling a little self-deprecatingly.
Liz sticks her hands in her pockets.
“Nah. I think it’s cool. I see what you mean. The black and white prints.” She juts her chin to the frames on either side of Elle’s bed.
“Right!” Elle beams at her.
Liz smiles back, the slow, syrupy sort of smile Elle likes best from her. It makes her feel like she’s won something.
“Wanna listen to music?” Elle asks abruptly, because it feels like the obvious thing to do. She marches over to her boombox and Liz follows, examining her collection of cassettes over her shoulder. She makes a surprised noise and picks one up.
“You have the Tiger Trap album?”
Elle grins, pleased with herself.
“Duh! I love that album. It makes me feel like I’m in a movie.”
Liz is looking at her again, weirdly intense, and this time Elle can’t identify the expression. It lights a strange little thrill up her spine and unsettles her at the same time.
Wordlessly, Liz sticks it in the boombox and hits play, and raucous, girlish guitar spills from the speakers.
Elle bounces her shoulders in time with the cacophonous beat of the drums and Liz lets out a surprised laugh.
“Dance with me!” Elle dares, and Liz’s eyebrows are at her hairline, but she doesn’t protest as Elle grabs her hands and swings her around the room while the boombox exclaims, puzzle pieces, puzzle pieces!
She pulls them both onto her bed and they bounce and spin on the king-sized mattress like little kids, half shouting the words to each other and half laughing breathlessly. The song ends and they both collapse onto the mattress, winded and giggling.
“I had no idea you listened to stuff like that,” Liz says, sitting up on her side.
“I listen to all sorts of things,” Elle replies, making her voice haughty on purpose because she thinks it might make Liz laugh—and it does, the sound warm and incredulous, like she still can’t believe Elle Woods can get her to laugh.
Elle props herself up on her side to face her, and for a moment can’t think of anything to say, suddenly profoundly grateful to be friends with Liz Miller, distracted by the freckles under her eyes and the strong slope of her nose.
“You’re staring.” Liz says.
Elle realizes she is, and blinks rapidly before regaining her composure and smiling winningly.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that—there aren’t really girls like you in LA.”
Elle notes, belatedly, that this might sound rude anyways. Liz doesn’t seem all that offended though, she almost looks amused as she leans towards Elle and tilts her head,
“Girls like me?”
Girls like you, Elle wants to say, girls who are pretty like boys, with wide grins and dimples and eyelashes like oh my god.
“Girls who don’t care what anybody else thinks,” is what she says instead. It’s a decent half-truth. She’s said it to Liz before, and it is still one of the qualities she admires most in her.
Liz seems satisfied with this answer though, and sits back on her elbows, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you still care a lot?” She asks. “What other people think, I mean.”
Elle ponders this, tapping a manicured nail to her bottom lip.
“Sure I do. Being a Woods is half about presentation, after all. That’s what my mom always says. But, I think I care less than I used to. Before I met you.”
Liz looks sheepish then, and for some reason it generates a rush of affection in Elle’s chest.
“You shouldn’t give me so much credit. For the record, I think it’s kickass.”
“What’s kickass?” Elle asks, baffled.
“Y’know, your whole look. The pink and the…hair.” She makes a vague gesture over Elle’s entire body, “Someone with less guts might have donned a flannel and jeans within the first week just to fit in. I like that you stayed…you.”
Elle fully sits up, grinning down at Liz.
“That’s really sweet, Liz.”
Liz looks up at her through her dark lashes and swallows thickly, and from Elle’s vantage point she can track the movement all the way down her tanned throat. She feels a little lightheaded for some reason.
“Hey!” She exclaims, a bit too loudly. Liz’s startled gaze meets hers, and Elle claps her hands together. “Has anyone ever done your makeup?”
She gives Elle a funny look, then, half between holding in a laugh and scowling at her.
“You’re not seriously trying to makeover montage me, are you?”
“I am!” Elle replies cheerfully, unsure of what’s so surprising about her suggestion.
Liz looks like she wants to protest, or chastise her, but she seems to wrestle with herself for a few moments before her expression evens out and she sighs. Elle grins triumphantly, recognizing her victory.
“I’ll go get my bag! Stay here!”
—
Liz Miller made a vast miscalculation.
Because it was one thing to agree to a sleepover at Elle Woods’ house, just the two of them. It was one thing to stand in her impressively pink room while Elle wore her impressively pink pajamas that revealed swaths of her impressively tanned skin. To dance with her atop her bed and collapse on the mattress, breathless.
It was entirely another to let Elle Woods sit between her legs and gently hold her chin, face inches away from hers while she painstakingly applies mascara to Liz’s eyelashes. Her bed is plush and cool to the touch beneath Liz’s warm skin.
“Blink. No—open your eyes, silly!” Elle’s voice is strangely mellow this close, humming pleasantly against Liz’s eardrums.
“Sorry. S’just—ticklish.” Liz replies, not really all that sorry.
“I totally get it. When I was little, I used to beg my mom to do my mascara, but I would squirm like crazy as soon as the wand got close to my eyes. I’d end up with it all over my face and she’d call it avant-garde. Blink.”
Liz blinks.
“You’re lucky, though. You have such long eyelashes.”
Liz tries not to preen at the compliment.
“Do I?” She asks.
“Uh, yeah! Your natural eyelashes are like what mine look like with mascara. Consider me jealous.”
Liz chances a look at Elle. Her face is painfully close and her eyes are really fucking blue. She can smell her perfume this close, something sweet and expensive smelling, Liz tries not to notice it as she takes a shallow breath.
“I dunno. Yours look pretty long to me.”
Elle makes a noise like hmph. It shouldn’t be so endearing.
“Well, you can thank L’oréal. This is with, like, three of coats mascara. Look up.”
Liz looks up.
“Ohhh-kay. Mascara is done,” Elle declares, sitting back to examine her work. She tilts her head.
“Mm. So pretty.” She coos, tucking an errant curl behind Liz’s ear, and Liz shouldn’t read into it, she really shouldn’t let it get to her, because it’s perfectly innocuous and totally just the sort of thing Elle loves to say, but she can’t help the way her breath hitches and a traitorous little shudder runs up her spine and between her shoulders. If Elle notices, she graciously doesn’t mention it.
Why is Liz even letting her do this?
“Okay! Now just a little blush,” Elle says, tapping a fluffy brush into a pink compact and then dusting it softly across Liz’s cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to move.
“Don’t tell me this is making you ticklish, too.” Elle teases, and Liz cracks an eye open.
“A little,” She says, not-quite smiling. Her face feels hot and she hopes the blush is hiding at least some of her flush.
“Almost done, I promise. You’re being such a good sport.” Elle murmurs, voice all honey, focused as she taps the brush lightly against the tip of Liz’s nose. Abruptly, she pauses and runs her thumb feather-light over Liz’s cheek.
“I’ve always liked your freckles,” She mutters, almost absentmindedly. Liz’s stomach does a funny sort of swoop.
“Yeah?” Liz asks, and hates the way her voice sounds scraped raw.
“Yeah. They suit you.” Elle sits back and grins all innocent, like her saying that didn’t just pour gasoline on the already raging dumpster fire that is Liz Miller.
“Okay. Blush done. Final step, lipgloss!” Elle beams and produces a small pink tube, and this is when Liz thinks she really made a miscalculation.
“Is that really necessary?” Liz asks, but Elle is already grabbing her chin again.
“Duh, silly! No makeup look is complete without lipgloss.”
She swipes the wand once, twice over Liz’s bottom lip, looking laser-focused.
“Perfect. Press your lips together.”
Liz complies, feeling warm and sort of ridiculous.
Elle looks ridiculously pleased with herself.
“Ohmigosh, Liz. You look so beautiful. Wow!” She excitedly runs to her vanity to fetch a handheld mirror and places it in Liz’s hand, leaning over her shoulder to gauge her reaction.
Liz looks…well. Maybe a bit more girly, but honestly not as different as she thought she would. Elle’s face comes into view besides hers, and the contrast between them, even with the makeup is almost comical. There’s no hiding how different they are.
“Well, what do you think?” Elle asks, face still next to hers, and she almost sounds a little nervous and that makes Liz melt a little.
“You did really good. I look nice.”
Elle beams.
“Well, you always look nice, silly! I just thought it’d be fun to try something new,” she fidgets with her hands a little, “I’d understand if you wanted to take it off. It was just fun that I got to do it.”
Liz grins at her, warmed a little by the compliment, “No, I’ll leave it on. It’s fun. Thanks Elle, really.”
Elle gives her a shy smile, then asks,
“Hey, wanna watch a movie?”
—
Sixteen Candles had seemed like the obvious choice at the time, but now Elle wishes she’d considered her audience a little better.
It wasn’t that Liz seemed opposed to the film, no, when Elle had suggested it she nodded good-naturedly and helped her roll up her TV cart so they could watch it in bed.
But as the movie played out, Elle couldn’t help but feel like maybe she did one of those things again where she chose something that only suited her taste, and so her eyes kept nervously flitting to where Liz was sitting cross-legged beside her on the edge of her bed.
It wasn’t like Liz seemed to hate it. She watched the screen intently, she laughed quietly at the parts that were supposed to be funny, she made snarky comments at the bits that required snarky comments, but Elle couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that she was just reacting out of politeness for her benefit.
It took until the scene where Samantha leans over her birthday cake to kiss Michael that Elle decided to say something to break the tension.
“Gosh, lucky.” She mutters, a bit dreamily.
Liz casts a sidelong look at her, mouth quirking.
“Who, Molly Ringwald or Jake Ryan?”
Elle is at first pleased that Liz apparently knows who Jake Ryan is, and then she considers the question.
“Both of them, I guess. What a dreamy first kiss.”
Liz’s eyebrows jump, once, “Yeah, well, I’d pay good money to be Jake Ryan.”
This statement intrigues Elle. The credits start to roll.
“So then…is Molly Ringwald your type?”
Liz stares at her for a second, as if this question has stunned her. Then she guffaws, breaking into hyena cackles.
“Sorry, was that a weird thing to ask?” Elle asks, confused.
Liz makes an X-shaped gesture with her hands, half bent over in laughter.
“Are you done?” Elle asks, exasperated.
“Sorry,” Liz replies, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye as she sits up, “I just—I dunno. The last person I thought would take any interest in my lesbianism is Elle Woods.”
“I’m plenty interested!” Elle replies, offended, and then promptly shuts her mouth when she realizes how that sounds. “Interested—as in, I respect my friends and have a vested interest in their personal lives!”
Liz does the smile again, the sort Elle likes best, where the corners of her mouth pull languidly up into her cheeks. Hello, dimples.
“Sorry, you’re right. You’re sweet, Elle.”
Elle ignores the warm, fluttery sensation that statement evokes in her stomach.
“To answer your question, uh, I guess? She’s super cute. I don’t think I really…have a type, though?”
Elle nods sagely.
“I can understand. Both about Molly Ringwald’s appeal and about not having a type. It’s good not to limit yourself!”
Liz gives her a funny look.
“What, would you kiss Molly Ringwald?” She says it like a challenge, like something meant to scare Elle, just a little.
But Elle Woods has never been one to back down from a challenge. She sits up straight and gives the most dignified answer she can come up with.
“Well, I don’t know. She’s very pretty, I’ve just…never kissed a girl, so I’m not exactly sure if it’s something I’d enjoy.”
As soon as Elle says it, she can feel how it hangs heavy in the air. She realizes only after speaking (in typical Elle Woods fashion) just how many things she implied in her statement, intentionally or not. She swallows nervously.
Her eyes slide over to Liz, who looks a bit stricken. Her lips (stop looking at her lips, Elle!) are still shiny from the lipgloss Elle applied herself however long ago.
Liz, upon making eye contact with Elle and seemingly recognizing something there, shakes the stricken look off of her face. An almost cocky grin comes up to replace it.
“Elle, do you want to kiss me?”
Elle is sure her eyes go as wide as saucers. She exhales a slow breath and then,
“Well, um, I mean, sure, If you’re offering—“
Liz doesn’t waste a second before surging forward and pressing her mouth to Elle’s.
—
Liz Miller is kissing Elle Woods.
Liz Miller is kissing Elle Woods.
Part of her is mildly surprised that Elle’s mouth feels clumsy and inexperienced against her own, and another, uglier part gets a greedy thrill out of knowing that this means nobody’s ever taken the time to show her how to properly kiss.
Her hand comes up to gently grasp Elle’s jaw, and she pulls away just an inch, smiling.
“Elle,” Liz murmurs, and Elle is blinking at her all wide-eyed like a cartoon rabbit.
“Y-yeah?” She asks, and Liz feels dangerously self satisfied at how breathless she sounds.
“Relax. Tilt your head a little.”
“Oh,” Elle’s eyelashes flutter and she nods, “Okay.”
Elle tilts her head, letting Liz’s hand on her jaw gently guide her, her eyes never leaving hers.
“Like this?” She whispers, so quiet it’s more of an exhale.
“Like that.” She whispers back. And then they’re kissing again, and now that it’s happening Liz can admit that she’d imagined this several times—and none of those versions accounted for just how soft Elle would be, how smooth the skin of her cheek would be against Liz’s hands, rough from guitar calluses. She didn’t predict how sweet she’d taste, how pliant and boneless she’d go against Liz, how she’d make these soft, high pitched little noises in the back of her throat if Liz bit down just slightly on her bottom lip.
Liz is the one to pull away, and Elle tries to chase her mouth for a moment, breathless and glassy-eyed.
“Was that okay for you?” Liz asks, carefully, and her voice sounds ragged.
Elle’s expression is like she’s drunk, hazy and flushed, her lips shiny with spit and a thought strikes Liz, then, that this is the prettiest she’s ever looked.
Liz watches Elle gather herself and real time, and it’s frankly impressive, the way her shoulders straighten and her expression evens out into the familiar pleasant, self assured look she carries through the halls of Rainier West.
“Liz,” she says forthrightly, “I think I like kissing girls.”