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My alter ego had been born from chance. My best friend, Margot, and I had been out shopping when she went into a wig store to look for clip-in hair extensions. She convinced me to try on a wig for fun, and I transformed into someone else. Crazy how much a new hairstyle made me feel like a different person. Someone exciting. The wig held so much freedom, so much opportunity. The parts of myself that I’d been repressing all my life finally were allowed to flutter free like a butterfly breaking out of its constraining cocoon.
From then on, the idea of Stella fascinated me. Every weekend I’d pretend to be someone else, the person Iwantedto be. I pretended Destelle didn’t exist. Only Stella did.
Except on certain weekends like this one when my parents forced me to attend country club dinners and fundraisers. Stella wasn’t allowed to those.
At the beginning of every month,someonefrom the circle of importance hosted a party at the Alderton Country Club in Addison. Mr. Preston hosted the fundraiser for February, aimed at raising money for endangered sea life.
I never managed to escape the necessity of attending a country club gathering. Image was everything and, according to my parents, we needed to be a united front.
But the twins got to play out in the hallway with all their friends, and I was trapped in the main hall, forced to let people talk my ear off.
I held a stupid fake smile in place all night, mingling with the masses, the muscles in my face having long since gone stiff. Was I even smiling anymore or had it become a kind of pained grimace? Judging by the delight in Mrs. Holland’s eyes, whatever expression I wore must’ve looked convincing enough.
“Oh, dear, you can’t go to Castleton—private colleges have far better education,” she kept saying, fluttering her hands around as she spoke. One might’ve guessed it was a quirk, but I knew why she really flapped them. The movement caused the diamond bracelet on her wrist to catch in the light, sparkles shooting everywhere. “Surely you want to make your parents proud, don’t you, Destelle?”
Was my smile twitching? It felt like it. “Of course,” I told her, becoming still under her stare. “Castleton’s at the very bottom of my list, now that I think of it. Father’s pushing me to Mullhound College, but Mother wants me to attend her alma mater to follow her career path. Father’s not sure I’d make a good lawyer.”
Ha. Honestly, he and I were on the same page. Me, a lawyer? What a joke.
But then again, he wanted me to become a brain surgeon, so I wasn’t sure which parent was crazier.
Mrs. Holland flung her hand again, gesturing at nothing. “Oh, Mullhound! Such a beautiful campus, you know. Judge Brighton has got good taste—though I’m not surprised. One look at your father and you can tell he’s got his wits about him.” In a gossiping whisper, Mrs. Holland said, “Mr. Preston attended Mullhound, you know. And look at him now. Owns the biggest recording studio in the state. This is the second fundraiser he’s thrown this year, and it’s barely February.”
“Please, Mrs. Holland. Mr. Preston is always looking for a reason to throw a party,” I replied, the words balancing on the tightrope of politeness and teasing. “Not that many of us mind much.”
Her smile broadened as she glanced down at her cocktail dress. “It certainly gives us girls an excuse to feel beautiful, hmm?”
Beautiful? Not exactly how I felt in this dress Mom forced on me, with the high neckline and tight fabric. It hugged my hips, but not purposefully provocative—more like in a way that hinted whoever had purchased the stupid thing bought it a size or two too small.
Beautiful. More like a packaged piece of sausage.
“Mrs. Holland,” a low voice greeted, and I turned to find Margot saddling up beside me. She wore a white-and-black pinstriped suit, and she’d matched it with a vibrant red handkerchief. She’d recently bleached her hair to make it appear silver, cropped into a pixie cut. “Long time, no see.”
I almost laughed at how fast the blood drained from Mrs. Holland’s face.
“Margot,” she returned, but her voice wasn’t nearly as strong and confident as it had been as she spoke to me. “Well, I should make my rounds. Have a good evening, you two.”
“What was that about?” I asked with a frown, watching Mrs. Holland’s retreating figure.
“She knows I know she’s having an affair,” Margot said casually. “I caught her making out with someone in one of the coat closets last event.”
Immediately, I grimaced, that mental imagesonot appealing. “Why do you always find old people making out with each other? Last time it was Mr. Messner and Ms. Jennings. At least they were both single.”
Margot smirked, her red lips stretching. “No clue, but I love having all the blackmail material.”
Even though we’d only been friends for the past year, I looked up to Margot. She had a mind of her own. She was the kind of girl I always wanted to be. Confident. She didn’t let these stuffy people get to her. She wore what she wanted, did what she wanted, and didn’t care if anyone looked twice.
Margot was the one who taught me what it felt like to branch out. Taught me what life might’ve looked like if you didn’t conform. I’d never told her, but Margot was partly the reason Stella came to be.
“Nice suit,” I told her, to which she popped her hip to give me a better view. “Is that designed by Malstoni? I thought he wasn’t taking custom orders until next winter.”
Margot reached out and adjusted her jacket, twirling the cufflinks around in a show-off fashion. “He made an exception.” Her heavily lined eyes glanced down my frame, probably noting each roll that the dress accentuated. “Perhaps he can make one for you as well.”
“Don’t even get me started.” I rolled my eyes, trying not to let the full extent of my frustration show on my face. Every time I moved, the tight material strained over the skin at my sides, highlighting every dimple and bump. “This thing is going straight into the trash.”
“You’ve been making your rounds,” she went on, folding her arms underneath her chest. “I take it our princess is turning into a pumpkin soon?”
Margot knew that whenever my social butterfly side came out at these things, more often than not it meant I was plotting my escape. She knew weekend nights were typically dedicated to Untapped Potential.
