#opalsadvent

— NOVEMBER 15, 2015: you’re eighteen: eighteen with a non-profit just starting to really take flight but still no first kiss. tonight was going to be the night. it had to be. at least — that is what you tell yourself as you wipe the brown liquid that remains on your lips after that final swig of liquid luck. you might even be in love.... you think. she’s your friend, but there’s something there. you swear there is, and now, she's heading back to college in a few short weeks for her next quarter, which means... there’s everything to gain and nothing to lose.

when she sees you, she smiles, and your face burns. fingers reach out to gently rest upon her shoulder, accompanied by a nod towards the kitchen for a ❛drink and fresh air❜. it’s something you saw in a movie. then again, it could have been a video: one of those videos. so desperate for perfection in this moment that you had been dreaming of, since you had seen her face light up when you told some stupid joke, you devoured everything you could find to help inform you on how to make your move. 

who could blame you really — for rolling into more explicit material — when all you can find about others that look like you — are like you — are stories of anger and loss? yes, sometimes those videos were worse, but some... well... some provided at least information on the how: how he could make the move, how he should lean in, how he should finally seal the deal and press his lips into hers. 

with her hand in yours, you lead her to the kitchen, grabbing drinks along the way as you step out onto the porch. the cold chicago wind causes you to jump slightly, pulling your jacket and her closer into you. there’s an amused smile on her lips. you both know what’s about to occur, but you can’t seem to do it... not yet at least. your body, leaden in fear and doubt, remains still, but she — oh, she leans closer into you, chin tilting up to look at you properly. she tells you you look handsome, that these few months have clearly done you well. she tells you that she’s proud: proud to be your friend and see what you’ve done with yourself. 

that’s what finally breaks whatever spell your body’s been under. there’s nothing romantic or sexy about it like the images from the videos you used to research meticulously. your hands reach out to try and grasp her face but instead fall to your waist as your lips eagerly press into hers. it’s all too fast. before you’re able to try and adjust, to make her feel how you feel, she’s pulling away with a laugh. 

❝oh fuck. now i really know i’m drunk.❞ 

your lips fall into a frown, but you nod. she’s right. you’ve both drank too much.

❝don’t tell anyone about this. they won’t let either of us live this down.❞

you  learn  to  waltz  because  your  mother  says  you  must  and  it’s  not  that  you  object  to  learning  such  things  but  you’ve  never  stood  quite  this  close  to  a  boy  for  this  length  of  time.  you  carry  a  natural  grace  with  you  always,  but  somehow  turn  into  a  bumbling  idiot  every  time  your  partner  tries  to  lead. his  name  is  benjamin  and  he  laughs  at  you  when  you  step  on  his  feet,  but  he  doesn’t  seem  particularly  cruel.  he’s  amused,  but  still  you  scowl  and  hang  your  head  just  hoping  he  doesn’t  see  how  your  cheeks  burn  hot  with  embarrassment.  

it  gets  better  with  time,  you  get  better  with  time  ---  yet  still,  you  are  hardly  a  natural.  the  other  girls  get  swept  across  the  floor  with  ease  and  you  . . .  you  have  to  work  harder  at  it.  you  always  have.  or  maybe  it’s  that  you  don’t  like  to  let  others  lead.  

after  a  particularly  grueling  lesson  you  plop  yourself  down  in  a  cozy  leather  chair  in  your  grandfather’s  study  and  whine  about  how  your  feet  hurt  and  how  you  can’t  get  the  steps  in  time  with  the  music  and  how  you  might  as  well  quit  (  you’re  not  a  quitter,  though  ---  you  both  know  this  ).  he  tells  you  that  ginger  rogers  once  put  it  this  way  ---  that  she  did  everything  fred  astaire  did,  but  backward  and  in  high  heels.  it’s  an  impressive  way  of  looking  at  it  and  you  internalize  it,  memorize  it,  chant  it  in  your  head  like  a  mantra. 

and  the  next  day  you  enter  the  dance  studio  with  your  head  held  high,  the  sort  of  confidence  one  notices  radiating  off  you  in  waves.  you’re  determined  to  get  it  right,  to  be  the  best  ---  and  benjamin  notices  too.  

he  pulls  you  in  close  as  the  music  ends  and  you  ask  him  why  he’s  still  dancing  and  he  says  he’s  not.  his  face  is  too  close  to  yours  and  his  eyes  flutter  shut  and  before  you  can  ask  him  what  he’s  doing  he  plants  one  on  you  thinking  that  you  feel  it  too.  but  you  don’t  think  of  him  like  that  ---  he’s  only  an  obstacle  on  your  way  to  being  the  best  at  something. 

DAY ONE / MISTLETOE. 

you’re fourteen. 

he presses his pursed lips against yours. 

you shut your eyes tight, just like you’ve seen in the movies. 

you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

his lips taste like coca cola, and when he pulls away,

all you can think about is why he chose to kiss you

in the parking lot 

of a rema 1000 supermarket. 

/

at school, everyone talks about you kissing joey larsen. 

your friends ask you what tricks you did with your tongue, 

ask you about how wet it was. 

you tell them it was just a simple press of lips. 

you think maybe it’s so lackluster,

because you don’t have feelings for joey larsen. 

he’s nice and smart, but the romantic in you

wishes you felt a spark. 

instead, all you have of that memory is the taste of coca cola,

and the smell of the dumpster near which you were standing. 

/

you’re sixteen. 

you’ve lived a lifetime in a handful of months. 

coming back to school is just another hurdle. 

the stares from your classmates burn holes into the back of your head. 

they all whisper behind your back;

to your face, they speak words laced with pity.

it makes you want to turn invisible.

but the gossip and attention follows you and shoves you into center stage,

a spotlight thrust onto you that you can’t cower from. 

a morrison sibling, dead. the other, walking around as a ghost. 

/

maybe you start dating him because he’s speaks to you like you’re normal

not broken. 

maybe it’s because your loss is insignificant. 

maybe it’s because he doesn’t really care about you.

it doesn’t matter. 

you blend in with the other girls, a hand intertwined in his as you attend parties with people

who were once your friends.

( you pushed them all away, didn’t you ? covered your aching heart with ambition. 

but the lingering taste of loneliness doesn’t leave your tongue. )

/

the music is too loud as you avoid all their stares.  

you’re the girl from the paper, 

you’re just desperately trying to find footing again 

in a life where you feel like you don’t belong. 

/

he presses you up against the wall and leans in slowly. 

you exhale as he presses your lips together and you close your eyes. 

it’s hesitant. it’s awfully public. 

maybe your audience is waiting for something. 

maybe you are too. 

when he kisses you, it’s the closest you’ve felt to being a normal teenage girl,

being kissed by a handsome jock. 

you can’t help but feel as if you’re playing a part.

you kiss him back, looping your shaking hands around his neck. 

everyone’s staring anyway, may as well give them a show. 

/

you’re twenty two. 

you kiss him because you’ve thought about it almost every day since watching the sunrise with him. 

you kiss him and when your lips slot together, 

it’s the closest feeling to magic that you can describe. 

he kisses you, soft and sure and smiling, fingers caressing your skin like you are 

something precious. 

and in his arms, you melt. 

DAY TWO / GOLDEN RINGS. 

➛ rose’s wardrobe is fairly simple. on a day to day basis, rose can be seen wearing sweaters ( she likes ones that are off the shoulder, but she has quite a few that aren’t either ), in a pair of jeans, boots, and a soft coat. she doesn’t have a lot of variety in her wardrobe — it’s mostly all earth toned and solid colors, and she doesn’t spend too much time thinking about it. 

➛ rose is almost always carrying around her staple brown leather bag, passed down to her from her father. in it, she always carries a little notebook and a pen, a voice recorder, and a disposable camera. especially recently, rose never knows when she’s going to see something worth noting, and she always wants to be ready. 

➛ the one time rose gets adventurous with her wardrobe is during night outs. she’ll wear some lace, maybe some silk tops, and will have a lot more exposed skin than usual. this is due to the fact that the bar or club she’ll end up in will have low lighting, and rose doesn’t feel like an odd one out for dressing so differently. it also gives her a little boost on confidence when people hit on her. 

➛ her hair is usually in natural bouncy waves, sometimes in a low ponytail with some curls falling out to frame her face. her jewelry is minimalist — she only wears two rings, one on her point finger, the other on her ring finger on her left hand. sometimes she wears a simple gold necklace, and she has only two ear piercings with gold studs. her makeup is usually minimalist, mostly due to time, so rose will usually put on some concealer, some brow gel and mascara and call it a day. when she goes out, however, she’ll usually put on a dark lip and add a smokey eye. 

➛ during the summertime, rose usually wears flowy pieces. whether it’s a dress, or a pantsuit, she opts for comfort and breeziness. however, she really enjoys the cold, so in the winter the coats she wears aren’t particularly warm, but practical. 

➛ she’s rarely seen wearing hats, aside from a large fuzzy winter one henry helped her pick out right before he passed. 

➛ she usually likes a small heel in her boot, partly because she’s short, but also because she likes how it makes her look and feel. at events or parties, she’ll opt for a higher heel. 

the  first  time  you  attend  an  event  with  so-called  MIXED  COMPANY,  you  are seventeen  years  old.  there  have,  of  course,  been  birthday  parties  with girls  from  your  school,  family  parties  and  business  events.  but  for  the most  part  these  events  were  not conducive  to  the  kind  of  goings-on  that could  be  considered  part  of  the  quintessential teenage  experience.  perhaps  this  is  why  the  other  girls  in  your  cohort  titter  and  giggle in anticipation  of  the  upcoming  combined  formal,  where  boys  from  the  brother  school  will be  in  attendance. like  you,  many  of  your  friends  have  had  minimal  interaction  with  boys, and  as  such  there  is  certainly  an  air  of  mystery  and  excitement  about  the  possibilities this  event  poses.  before  long  there  are  whispers  in  the  halls  and  private  group  chats which  spread  the  new  of  an  AFTER  PARTY,  no  teachers,  no  parents,  and  the  lure  of  an  unattended  liquor  cabinet.  you  exchange  glances  with  your  best  friend  -  it  is  far from  both  of  your  comfort  zones  and  yet…  perhaps  TOGETHER,  you  will  be  brave  enough  to  face  the  potential  of  the  event.  besides,  neither  of  you  would  ever  let  the other  go  alone...

the  formal  bears  the  sort  of  stiffness  and  awkwardness  that  you  might expect  based on  name  alone.  you  stand  in  a  sea  of  designer  dresses  and  tailored  suits,  and  watch on  with  a  confused  smile  as  the  scene  before  you  unfolds.  it  is  not  the  FAIRYTALE  BALL,  romantic  comedy  moment  that  many  of  the  girls  seemed  to  have  assumed  it would  be.  unsurprisingly,  when  you  have  been  deprived  of  normal  social  interaction with boys  your  age,  the  transition  to  darling  socialites  who  dazzle  all  onlookers  with  moves learned  in  your  recent  ballroom  class,  is  not  so  easy.  instead,  you  watch  groups  of  girls awkwardly  huddled  like  penguins.  you  stifle  a  laugh  as  your  cohort  throw  furtive  glances to  the  groups  of  boys  who  for  the  most  part  appear  OBLIVIOUS  to  the  subtext  of  the event  and  are  acting,  perhaps,  they  way  they  might  on  a  rugby  field  rather  than  a black  tie  event.

and  yet,  while  dancing  with  your  friends,  one  points  out  that  you  appear  to  have captured  the  attention  of  one  of  the  boys.  you  steal  a  glance,  CHEEKS  FLAMING,  at the  group  behind  you,  and  your  eyes  meet  his.  he  is  handsome  -  you  suppose,  in  that kind  of  classic  way.  but  there  is  also  something  awkward  about  him,  somewhat  LANKY and  bumbling.  you  turn  back  to  your  friends,  eyes  wide  as  they  tease,  ‘ evelyn’s  got  an ADMIRER ’  they  giggle,  and  you  wonder  why  those  words  cause  your  chest  to tighten.

arm  in  arm  with  your  best  friend  you  steel  yourself  as  you  walk  into  the  after  party.  to  say  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  is  diametrically  opposed  to  that  of  the  school hall  is  putting  it  mildly.  gone  are  the  restraints  of  formality;  suit  jackets  removed, hemlines  are  shorter.  away  from  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  teaching  staff,  and  with  the kind  of  COURAGE  or  perhaps  naivety  that  alcohol  allows  to  the  privileged  progeny  of london,  suddenly  the  girls  of  north  london  collegiate  and  the  queen  elizabeth’s  school boys  are  intertwined,  talking,  laughing.  someone  hands  you  a  glass  of  something,  and  a  long  sip  causes  you  to  blanche  at  the  taste.  you  see  your  friends,  clem  and  rosie,  waving  you  over  to  where  they  sit, with  the  boy  from  earlier,  who  is  in  turn  surrounded  by  his  schoolmates.  another  long  sip  and  a  nervous  laugh  with  chloe  and  you  find  yourself  walking  forward.  “ EV!  this  is  oliver! ”  comes  the  not  so  subtle  introduction  offered  by  clem.  you  find  yourself  saying  that  it’s  lovely  to  meet  him,  asking  if  he  is  enjoying  the  night,  sitting  yourself  down  amongst  the  group.  after  all,  wasn’t  this  the  POINT of  the  evening?  to  meet,  mingle,  go  a  little  crazy?

you  find  yourself  watching  him  speak,  without  really  taking  in  much  that  is  said.  a  few  words  break  through,  enough  for  you  to  realise  that  your  friends  weren’t  far  from  the  mark  by  attempting  to  set  this  up.  top  grades,  orchestra,  tennis,  and  ambitions  to  work  in  finance. as  your  eyes  glance  over  his  features,  you  begin  to  see  your  future  unfold  before  you,  imagine  the  SMILES  on  your  parents  faces  as  you  bring  home  someone  so  well  matched.

when  he  asks  you  if  you  want  to  go  outside,  you  think,  what  for ?  but  the  looks  on  your  friends  faces  are  encouraging,  their  expressions  spurring  you  on.  you  glance  around  for  approval  from  chloe,  but  find  her  seat  vacant  ;  gone  to  the  bathroom  perhaps,  or  getting  another  drink.  you  give  him  a  smile,  and  say  simply,  “  okay  ”,  thinking  that  some  fresh  air  would  be  nice,  away  from  the  din  of  the  music  and  laughter.  he  leads  you  to  a  balcony,  encasing  your  hand  in  a  slightly  clammy  grip.  you  are  looking  up,  exploring  the  stars  with  wonderment  when  you  realise  his  hand  has  moved  to  your  cheek,  turning  it  gently  to  face  his.  

his  lips  are  on  yours  before  you  can  ask  what  he  is  doing.  you  find  yourself,  in  a  moment  that  seems  to  last  for  HOURS,  realising  that  this  was  the  purpose,  the  reason  he  led  you  away,  and  you  wonder  if  you  wanted  this  to  happen,  after  all,  you  followed  him,  didn’t  you?  his  lips  are  soft,  but  press  a  little  too  firmly,  your  noses bumping  awkwardly.  you  realise  you  feel  NOTHING  but  a  sense  of  disappointment.  is  this  what  it  was  MEANT  to  feel  like?  is  this  how  everyone  else  felt?  this …  nothingness ?  accompanied  by  the  pressure  of  another  person  against  you?

by  the  time  he  pulls  away,  you  realise  that  you  have  no  idea  what  comes  next.  he  utters  something  about  how  lovely  you  are  but  your  brain  is  trying  to  piece  together  what  any  of  this  means.  a  hasty  “  i  uh  -  have  to  go  to  the  ladies  room  ”  is  the  only  thing  you  can  muster  as  you  make  your  exit  back  to  the  party,  heart  pounding  in  your  chest.  

new  years  eve,  2014.   you’re  fifteen  years  old  and  you  and  seventy - five  other  people  are  packed  in  like  sardines.   as  you  and  your  parents  step  inside  the  two - story  row  house  five  doors  down  from  your  own,   all  you  remember  thinking  is  that  this  is  definitely  some  sort  of  fire  code  violation.   received  a  whopping  four  hours  earlier,   the  invitation  was  the  definition  of  a  pity  invite.   your  dad  had  run  into  marci  sherman  while  perusing  foodtown’s  bleak  spreadable  cheese  section,   and  she  thought  it  was  just  so  sad  that  the  man  who  heroically  repaired  her  washer  valve’s  plans  to  ring  in  the  new  year  consisted  of  a  quiet  night  in  with  the  family.

historically  speaking,   sullivans  weren’t  exactly  a  social  breed.   your  parents  kept  their  circle  to  a  modest  handful,   just  a  rotating  cycle  of  family  friends  who  swept  into  town  a  few  times  a  year  to  sip  boxed  wine  and  gush  about  how  big  you’ve  gotten.   despite  the  innate  lack  of  blood  relation,   you  were  instructed  to  call  these  people  aunt  and  uncle;   carol  was  an  only  child,   and  frank  hadn’t  spoken  to  his  brother  since  he  caught  him  stealing  from  the  plumbing  business  twelve  years  ago,   so  the  pickings  were  about  as  slim  as  the  selection  of  non - alcoholic  beverages  at  this  party.

you’re  tired.   you’re  bored.   you  can’t  stop  refreshing  words  with  friends  to  see  if  rose  played  her  turn,   despite  the  fact  that  it’s  been  almost  a  year  since  you’ve  so  much  as  heard  from  her.   ever  the  attentive  host,   mrs.  sherman  catches  you  staring  at  your  phone  and  promptly  swoops  in,   ushering  you  towards  her  son’s  bedroom  to  play  with  the  other  kids.   well,   for  one,   you  were  far  too  old  for  playing,   and  for  two,   paulie  sherman  was  eleven.   years  ago,   you  were  recruited  to  babysit  with  the  promise  of  twenty  bucks  in  your  pocket,   a  dream  that  died  the  moment  he  threw  his  xbox  controller  at  the  screen  and  pinned  it  on  you.   the  so - called  others  were  around  the  same  age,   if  not  younger,   with  the  exception  of  a  girl  named  jackie  who  introduced  herself  as  paulie’s  cousin  from  pennsylvania.

she  was  nice  enough,   though  she  wouldn’t  stop  talking  about  her  boyfriend  and  how  his  best  friends  list  on  snapchat  kept  flip - flopping  between  her  and  a  girl  from  his  youth  group.   pretty,   too,   even  with  a  scowl  on  her  face  and  a  mouth  full  of  braces  adorned  with  pink  and  aqua  rubber  bands.   after  an  agonizing  twenty  minutes  of  watching  paulie  and  his  school  friends  play  russian  roulette  with  a  nerf  pistol,   jackie  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  said  boyfriend  is,   in  fact,   cheating  and  asks  if  you  want  to  go  outside.

“   it’s,   like,   20  degrees  out.   ”   you  point  out,   and  your  ears  begin  to  burn  with  embarrassment.   low  of  20,   your  weather  app  said  that  morning,   feels  like  8.   did  pennsylvanians  not  feel  cold?   “   and  mrs.   sherman  said   —   ”

“   no  one’s  putting  a  nerf  gun  to  your  head.   ”   she  fires  back,   and  slips  out  the  door  with  you  scrambling  on  her  heels.

much  to  your  relief,   you  find  the  adults  are  far  too  drunk  on  spiked  cider  and  mr.  sherman’s  famous  wing  dip   (   equal  parts  canned  chicken,   blue  cheese,   and  frank’s  red  hot   )   to  notice  two  young  teens  slinking  through  the  crowd.   across  the  kitchen,   you  spot  your  parents  joined  at  the  hip,   being  subjected  to  a  never - ending  slideshow  reel  of  someone’s  myrtle  beach  vacation.   a  sharp  pang  of  pity  jabs  you  in  the  gut,   but  you  quickly  dismiss  it.   they  were  the  ones  who  made  you  come  here  in  the  first  place.   you  were  perfectly  content  to  sit  on  the  couch  eating  crescent  dogs  and  watching  ryan  seacrest’s  valiant  attempt  at  moving  his  facial  features.

two  minutes  later,   you’re  sitting  shoulder  to  shoulder  on  the  steps  of  a  splintered  deck,   watching  jackie  smear  a  thick  layer  of  goop  all  over  her  lips.   the  artificial  scent  of  sugar  cookie  commingles  with  the  chill  in  the  air  and  you  shove  your  hands  into  the  kangaroo  pockets  of  your  hoodie  to  keep  warm.   as  she  caps  the  tube  of  gloss  and  flashes  a  shy  smile  in  your  direction,   you  remember  thinking  she’s  going  to  kiss  me   —   but  you’ve  been  wrong  before.   more  times  than  you  could  count.

“   what’s  your  name  again?   ”   she  asks,   fiddling  with  her  necklace.   it  was  one  of  those  wire  pendants  shaped  with  a  pair  of  needle - nose  pliers  to  spell  out  one’s  name.   jaclyn,   hers  declared  in  spray - on  gold  cursive.

“   jason.   ”

“   hi,   jason.   ”

before  you  can  even  progress  the  bizarre  turn  this  night  has  taken,   she  leans  forward  and  sort  of   .  .  .   places  her  mouth  against  yours.   there’s  something  expectant  in  the  way  she  lingers,   as  if  she’s  waiting  for  you  to  unleash  your  expert  kissing  prowess  upon  the  world.   a  foolish  part  of  you  had  always  wanted  your  first  experience  to  resemble  the  famous  upside - down  kiss  from  spider - man,   though  the  technicalities  seemed  a  little  too  advanced  for  a  newcomer  such  as  yourself.   instead,   hands  not  budging  from  their  pockets,   you  make  a  feeble  at  attempt  at  kissing  her  back.   the  two  of  you  sit  there  for  a  few  moments,   lips  repeatedly  bumping  into  one  another’s  in  some  strange  ritual  dance  that  in  no  way  resembles  kissing,   and  when  the  sliding  door  opens  and  mr.  sherman  steps  outside,   you’re  just  glad  it’s  over.

when  the  dust  settles  on  the  initial  shock  of  being  caught,   jackie  puts  her  number  in  your  phone.   you  both  know  she’ll  never  hear  from  you,   and  it’s  undoubtedly  for  the  best.   by  the  end  of  winter  break,   she  and  her  boyfriend  would  reunite,   and  soon  enough,   youth  group  girl  and  new  years  boy  would  be  little  more  than  a  footnote  in  their  love  story.

it’s  eight  minutes  to  midnight  when  your  parents  finally  escape  the  trenches  and  flag  you  down  in  the  dining  room,   where  you’re  chowing  down  on  a  plate  of  sweet  and  sour  meatballs  in  solitude.   they  ask  if  you’re  ready  to  leave  and  you  cannot  agree  fast  enough.   the  three  of  you  shuffle  home  in  silence  and  the  whole  time,   you  can’t  stop  yourself  from  feeling  that  by  kissing  paulie  sherman’s  cousin,   you’ve  somehow  betrayed  your  norwegian  pen  pal.   god,   you  wish  you  stayed  home  tonight.

just  as  you  reach  the  doorstep,   the  sound  of  muted  cheers  erupts  throughout  the  block.   fifteen  miles  west,   the  ball  drops  in  times  square  and  if  you  listen  hard  enough,   you  can  almost  hear  the  opening  notes  of  auld  lang  syne.

     general aesthetic . 

wearing art to show hints of personality, jackets with pockets deep enough to host a book, soft fabrics, pops of a warm tone in every outfit, looking like he’s trying to make a streetwear section of a magazine while on campus, slim fitting trousers to accentuate lanky legs, small personal touches (usually in the form of gifted jewellery from one of his sisters or a designer), comfortable trainers for cycling home that are scuff free, patterns, patterns, patterns. 

    accessories  . 

a focal point for everything else. eliot likes small, daily reminders of the people he loves most in the world to be represented as part of him each and every day. eliot’s love language is giving and receiving gifts and i think that’s represented best in his style ! from small hints of home such as cuff links gifted by his eldest sister, gabriela, to gifts received from his circlet over the past year that they’ve known each other; the likelihood is, if you’ve ever bought him anything he’s built an entire outfit around it at some point. in the autumn-winter months he rarely leaves the house without a burberry scarf wrapped almost up to his mouth in the biting cold mornings. 

     patterns . 

       in order to meet her requirements, we asked her to define and describe what she likes to wear and her overall lookbook . this is what we collected . we look forward to working with you soon .

i.  sloane gravitates towards earth tones and neutrals for most of her basics since they can be worn with anything and are a little more versatile. she likes being able to wear things that she can wear in any season just because she’s always had a pretty sparse wardrobe from when she used to move around as a kid. also they’re just easier to layer with since the colors don’t clash or anything like that so she just finds that going for more neutral tones with her basics makes them more wearable. 

ii.  with that said, she’s also the type of person who likes a good statement piece so cool patterns, bright socks, that type of thing. she likes cool graphic t-shirts. for some reason, i have two pictures in the edit of sweater vests and like, honestly, yeah, sloane likes a good sweater vest! a lot of her clothes have been from thrift stores just because she’s never been super wealthy, but she also sort of prefers it anyway and most of her favorite things to wear have been things that she’s thrifted over the years. 

iii.  shoes are sort of a different issue just because nice shoes are a little more expensive. sloane usually buys off-brand shoes just because she refuses to spend much more than $50 on a nice pair of shoes. honestly, one of her greatest accomplishments in life was finding her doc martens at a savers in chicago. they fit like a glove and everything and she literally wears them all the time. if not her docs, she reaches for her beaters. she likes converse but she did buy a pair of off-brand cdgs because she likes the little heart.