Free Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) by NC Simmons

sneaker-like, baby blue, canvas flats. Lena tapped her chin and grinned.
    “Supermodels. Sheesh. No meat on your bones. Give me a couple of weeks. I’ll fix that.”
    Lena spun, rummaged through her already-junked-up desk, and procured a safety pin from her junkiest drawer. She stepped up behind Lenore, grabbed the back of the shorts by the waist, cinched them tight, and pinned the waistband closed. Stepping back, she admired her handiwork. Lean, supermodel spindles dropped from leg openings the size of sewer pipes.
    “There! That’ll keep ‘em from falling off your emaciated butt. C’mon, Lenore. Let’s get crackin’.”
    The fashion hound was humiliated. “LENA! What if someone sees me like this? I look like… Like a homeless person!”
    “At 5am? In Manhattan? On a Saturday? Who the hell cares? The paparazzi are hung over until noon anyway.” Lena grabbed Lenore’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Let’s go, Lenooore. It’s time to put some beef on your bod.”
    As the girls entered the hallway, Lena suggested a footrace. Lenore grumbled something in Spanish and waved her hand before Lena’s face. The girls walked side by side, glancing at each other, each secretly wondering if the other would break into a sprint. They stopped briefly in front of the elevator. Lena squinted at Lenore.
    “Stairwell, stick girl?”
    Lenore’s long-lost, 14-year-old playfulness awoke from it’s four-year slumber. She squinted at Lena, grinned, and took off running. Lena gave chase. Lenore smashed the breaker bar on the stairwell door and flung it wide, squealing and laughing, bounding down the stairs with Lena hot on her heels.
    Fourteen floors and a block-and-a-half later, Lena won the race, but only by a step, and only after giving Lenore an unsportsmanlike shove about 10 feet from the door to the gym. Though clearly out of shape and panting like a novice, the supermodel laughed her way through the friendly competition. Lena barely broke a sweat.
    “Not bad, Twiggy! You almost had me.”
    “Someday… Lena,” Lenore panted. “Someday… I will beat you…”
    The girls trained for two exhausting, painful hours. Stretching to loosen up. Free weights to warm up. Jogging on the treadmill to work the cardio. Nautilus to work the delts and lats and biceps and thighs. Elliptical for more cardio. More free weights for curls and presses. Yoga to cool down. Lenore was not familiar with such physical rigor. Her body was on fire by the time they finished.
    At 7am, the girls jogged back to the dorm, (Lenore huffing and puffing most of the way), took the elevator to the 14th floor, (only because Lenore whined), showered, dressed, took care of hair and makeup - well, Lenore took care of her hair and makeup, Lena just fixed her ponytail - and at 7:45am they left for breakfast. Predictably, Lena wore a T, jeans, and sneakers, Lenore wore a brand new, knee-length Shalamar creation of gold with black streak accents with a modest front plunge and black sandals.
    Lenore wobbled during the walk to the cafeteria. She moaned. “Ohhh… I am so sore. I will not make it through the day!”
    Lena laughed. “Too much workout for ya, eh Lenooore? Well, any time you want to quit, you just say the word…” Lena paused for dramatic effect, gave Lenore a condescending sideways-glance, and smiled. “Quitter.”
    Lenore snarled. “I am NOT a quitter, Mah-lee-na Sardi! You cannot make me quit! You will not beat me ! I will beat you !”
    Lena smirked. Mission accomplished. Lenore was hooked. Roommate problems solved.
    Later that morning, between an orientation meeting with the dorm staff and a “mixer” with the other girls on the floor, Lenore slithered away to one of her favorite boutiques to equip for battle. She purchased five form-fitting, designer Ts, five pairs of hip-hugging designer shorts, five designer warm up suits, five pairs of designer yoga pants, two pairs of designer running shoes, and two pairs of designer cross