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Saturday, February 15, 8:15 p.m.
“You should always wear skirts,” Annabel declares, fishing an adorable red and silver Marc Jacobs mini out of her closet and discreetly ripping off the price tag before tossing it at your head. You’re sprawled across the bottom bed—hers—of your shared bunks, your head propped up against one of her monogrammed pillows. It smells faintly of rose oil, Annabel’s signature scent. “Your legs are phenom,” she says. “I would kill.”
It’s a struggle not