Felicity was familiar with old expensive furniture, vases, skip over the paintings, we can come back to those. The estate sale was wealth cheek-by-jowl with cheap crap and she could practically feel static crawl up the arm of her soft cashmere sweater (vintage, by way of Goodwill, but it looked expensive) and wind itself into the strands of hair at the back of her neck. She didn't like cheap. It smelled awful and it felt funny. But they weren't here to lift the best in show from the pricey stuff inside, and they weren't here to acquire with intent, digging out the decent from all the crap. She'd done that with her apartment.
She wore sugared-almond pink and white, lacy blouse under butter-soft sweater and a skirt that hiked unforgiving-high to be as sweet as the rest of the look, and she had a fur, old and worn and a tiny bit motheaten draped over her shoulders, and a pill-box hat in shocking red tilted over one eye. And she didn't care what Connie wore; why would she? Connie wanted to dress that way, she wasn't a scared little girl looking to fit in, it was 'eclectic'. Which was basically code for somebody who didn't care. The shoes? The shoes were cute. Just not with the rest of it.
She wasn't thinking about Connie's outfit. There was other stuff, the high school crowd were messy and somewhere in there? Was a kernel of warmth about a team that she wasn't going to tell anyone she kind of liked the idea of. Which made everything complicated. But this? This wasn't complicated at all. Connie swished, and
But Connie swept out from behind a rack in nylon white that clung and frizzed with lace, and she tip-tilted the hat with her fingertip, her smile matching scarlet-red. "I would watch Pokemon if it kept you from touching me in that dress, it's terrible. We should burn it. They should pay us to."