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Here, I’m still the girl with the used school uniforms and the trashy mom who drops her off in the decade old Mustang pushing two hundred thousand miles, while most of the other kids had either chauffeurs or were getting dropped off in the family Mercedes or Bentley.
All those feelings came right back when Ruby, Chelsea, and Amy came to the table tonight.
Ruby Thorn Ashby. Always introduced with the Thorn in the middle.
She’s the queen of mean. For a few years in elementary school, I tried to feel sorry for her. Tried to figure out why she was how she was.
After those first years, I came to the conclusion…some people are just mean for sport. The one percent of the one percent somehow, it’s as though their DNA has morphed and meanness is just part of who they are at a physiological level. When my mom—to my horror—dated my math teacher sophomore year, guess who decided it would be fun to sleep with him at the same time?
Yep, Ruby Thorn Ashby.
She didn’t actually announce it, but she made sure Mr. Lemboch knew he would be fired if he didn’t break it off with my mother. And even when he did, she made sure my mom found out he cheated on her with a seventeen-year-old.
Felony? Sure. But Ruby didn’t want him fired, she just wanted to humiliate me.
And my mother.
Bravo. You win.
So it turns out I learned a lot in school. Some good, some not so good, but that was one of the not-so-goods. The super-rich, the super privileged, so many of them, not all, because there are always good in every group, live by a different set of rules than regular folks.
When I was announced the Valedictorian of our class ahead of the front runner, the daughter of a congressman, well…
Ruby Thorn Ashby let me know she’d never forget and she’d never forgive.
College was a bit better. More diluted, I guess you’d say. But rich people, they have a sixth sense that tells them when you don’t quite belong, and there certainly was some of that in the years after high school as well.
That was even truer the one time I did attempt to follow the crowd and actually date someone. Bradford Collins the third. Last semester of my MBA, he asked me out. We dated about a month, he seemed genuinely interested in the quirky girl with the birthmark even though truthfully, I couldn’t connect with him.
In my attempt to fit in I guess, I gave in one night. Lost my virginity to him. As soon as we were done, he dressed, left me laying in my studio apartment bed, naked, and he never spoke to me again.
Turns out, he was a virgin collector. Again, mean for sport.
The worst part? Is that part of me that gives a shit what they all think.
I hate that part of me.
Because if it wasn’t for that part, I really wouldn’t be any the worse off. Bradford Collins the third may have taken my virginity, but if that’s sex, you can count me out. I get way more from my vibrator.
“Shit.” I stumble on a patch of ice and squeal as my arms flail to the sides, flapping in an attempt to regain my balance.
Somehow it works, and I stay upright, but I spin around to make sure no one is watching.
Of course, someone is watching.
There they are. The three of them, just coming out the door, lighting cigarettes as they watch.
“You okay?” Ruby calls, blowing out smoke, and I raise a hand and wave, looking down to place each step carefully as I close the distance to my car.
God, my car. They will remember my car.
Here’s the thing, I hate getting rid of stuff. Especially stuff that still works. As fluffy as my bank accounts are, I’m cheap.
Like, world-class cheap.
The shoes I’m wearing for instance. Yes, they are from three seasons ago. I found them in a high-end resale shop in Santa Barbara when I was there for a business conference last year.
Used shoes.
The super-rich can smell them a mile away. No pun intended.
Brings me back to my car.
I make the last few steps to the door of my 1974 Jeep Wagoneer. Wood panels on the sides, olive green paint, dented back bumper with a few half-peeled free love stickers holding it together.
This was my first car. Bought it myself and kept it in storage back here along with ten feet by forty feet of other treasures I can’t seem to part with. When I moved home, it was one of the first things I brought out of storage. I love this car, and in a weird way, I think it loves me back.
We’ve been through it and no way I could ever turn on her. Send her packing? No. No chance. We need each other.
