Paige Rewritten by Erynn Mangum Page B

blog had mentioned not to wear dark clothing when using bleach. Oh well. I’m repurposing the sweater.”
    â€œRepurposing” is going to become my least-favorite word that Layla says. I just know it.
    â€œUm. What are you doing to the sweater?” I ask, a little scared to hear the answer.
    â€œI’m cutting it. Making mittens. Don’t worry, I saw a whole thing on how to do it step by step. I’ve just got to find a sewing machine.” She says the last sentence suggestively, and I know what she is hoping I’ll offer.
    Just solely my opinion, but I don’t think Layla should be around anything that involves a fast-moving needle. However, I keep my lips shut and don’t mention that she could use mine.
    I will not partake in the bloodshed of my best friend.
    â€œI’m going with the French Cottage,” she says.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œThanks for your help, Paige!”
    â€œI didn’t do anything.”
    â€œThat’s true. Well, since you haven’t helped so far, want to come help me paint it today?”
    â€œNot really,” I answer truthfully. Layla is anything but crafty. She tries hard, but she just doesn’t have the touch, sort of like me with gardening.
    I feel like watching her try to paint this dresser would be like watching a train hurtling right toward a cute little bunny and not having any way to warn the rabbit of approaching danger.
    â€œOh come on, Paige. It will be fun! And we haven’t hung out in ages and I miss you and I’ll buy Panda Express for lunch.”
    Orange chicken suddenly makes the bunny look more like a cockroach and I sigh, pouring myself a cup of coffee and accepting defeat. “Okay.”
    â€œOkay! I will see you, Paige Alder, in twenty minutes! Bring paint clothes!”
    â€œI’ll just wear your brown sweater.”
    â€œI don’t want to get paint spatters on my new mittens.”
    I just laugh.
    I drink my coffee and decide that a shower is pointless if I’m going to go watch Layla paint, because watching Layla paint is equal to me painting the dresser while Layla directs.
    I really like orange chicken.
    I find a pair of old, paint- and Super Glue–flecked shorts in my closet and pull them on. My craft shorts. I dig through to the back of the closet and come out with an old T-shirt from high school and grab my oldest pair of sneakers and a rubber band for my hair.
    I dab some mascara on and walk out the door. Painting or not, I always wear mascara.
    I find Layla in her assigned parking space of her apartment complex, car moved, staring at a beat-up, oak-colored armoire that looks exactly like one my grandparents had in the sixties.
    â€œWow,” I say, climbing out of my car and walking over.
    â€œI know. Isn’t it great? I just can’t believe someone left this on the side of the road!”
    Right then the right bottom drawer front falls off and clatters with an empty whomp that basically shouts, “I am made out of particle board and Super Glue!”
    â€œThat keeps happening but I figure we can definitely fix that,” Layla says. “They just don’t make quality furniture like this nowadays.”
    â€œMm-hmm.” It’s the safest thing I can think of to say.
    â€œWell!” She looks at me with an excited smile and hands on her hips. She’s got her shoulder-length brown curly hair up in a curly mess of a ponytail on the top of her head, faded sweatpants, a white tank top, and gardening gloves.
    I love Layla.
    â€œLet’s begin!” She grabs the paint can and shakes it.
    It would be easier for her to just pop the top open and stir it, and it probably is fairly well mixed already, seeing as how she just came from the paint store, but I don’t say anything. This is Layla’s project. I will let her craft.
    She finally sets the can down and pulls a paint can opener from her pocket, cranking open the lid. The color inside is