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Ugh, I was hoping she’d forget about me. Pulling out my earbuds, I shut off the TV and jump up. “One sec, Mama!”
Ignoring that, she pushes open the door and steps into my room. Instantly, her eyes widen. “What are you wearing?”
Busted. I glance down at my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt with as much nonchalance as I can muster. “Clothes.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I’m asking.”
“Fine.” I heave an exasperated sigh. “Just give me a minute.”
“You have thirty seconds,” she calls as I run into my closet and throw on the first dress I can find that she’ll likely deem appropriate—a red evening gown that’s as sparkly as it is uncomfortable.
I don’t know why I have to wear this crap every time Papa has guests over, but Mama insists. Something about putting our best foot forward. Except in this dress, it’s more like my best boob forward. Seriously, have they grown bigger since last week? Grimacing, I try to shove the swells of flesh deeper into the corset-like bodice, but the built-in pushup bra does its job too well.
“What are you doing? Stop that. It’s supposed to look like that,” Mama says, entering the closet to swat my hands away. “Now put on some shoes, and we’ll do your hair and makeup.”
Shoot me now. I put on a pair of high-heeled platforms that match the dress and let her shepherd me to the mirror, where she begins brushing my long hair with all the speed and enthusiasm of someone determined to rip it out by the roots.
“Ouch!” I wince as the brush catches on a particularly brutal knot, but she ignores me again. I guess that’s what I get for leaving this until the last minute.
Finally, my hair is smooth and straight. I wish I could pull it into a ponytail, but Mama likes it hanging down my back in a jet-black curtain. I’m not a fan of the color and dream of the day when I’ll be allowed to add some highlights. Next year, hopefully.
Makeup is next. Glumly, I watch as my pale face is brightened with a blush, my lips are transformed into a shiny red pout, and the catlike tilt of my green eyes is emphasized with a skillful application of liner and mascara. The only imperfection left is in my smile, with the little gap between my front teeth that Mama says makes me look “distinctive.”
“There, much better,” she says with satisfaction when she’s done, and it’s all I can do not to grimace.
The girl looking back at me in the mirror isn’t a stranger so much as someone I don’t like. All glossy and fake andadult.With my above-average height and my dress clinging to my newly sprouted curves, I look at least seventeen this way, maybe even eighteen. If Dan sees me like this, he’ll choke on his drool. So will some of Papa’s guests, those old men with their smarmy compliments whom he likes to parade me in front of.
I hate it. I hate being this shiny, pretty object that Mama and Papa trot out like a prized pony. If I had my way, I’d live in my sweatpants and T-shirts, playingMarioandZeldaand listening to Kanye all day long. But that’s not the life of a Molotov. We’re the cream of the crop, or at least the oil scum floating in a pot of soup. High society, as Mama likes to call it—or top of the mafia hierarchy, as I think of it.
Vladimir Molotov, my father, is filthy rich. The kind of rich that only gets to be that way in Russia through less-than-savory means. Mama thinks I don’t know what kind of man he is—what kind of men he’s raised my older brothers to be—but I do. I’ve been overhearing her fights with Papa my whole life. Fights that have gotten worse in recent years, though I try not to think about that.
“We should have you model,” Mama says, stepping back to examine me approvingly, and this time, I do grimace.
I hope she’s just saying it, but knowing my mom, she’s already sent my pictures to some agency.
“Who’s coming today?” I ask, just in case she hasn’t yet sent the pictures. Maybe if I distract her, she’ll forget this terrible idea altogether. “Papa’s business partners?”
“Yes, and—”
“Vera!” Papa’s deep voice booms from downstairs. “Where are you? They’re here.”
At the sound of her name, my mom smooths her palms over her dress and touches her elaborately coiled updo to make sure every single glossy brown hair is in place. “Coming!” she yells back before pinning me with a laser stare. “You will come down in a half hour to greet everyone, you hear? Keep an eye on the clock and don’t go getting lost in those silly games of yours. This is important.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it, Alina. I won’t have time to come up here and drag you out.”
“Yeah, I got it. Now go.” I make shooing motions with my hands. “Papa is waiting.”
With one last narrow-eyed look at me, she departs, and I plop onto the couch and turn on my game.
* * *
I’m so caughtup in beating the next boss that by the time I look at the clock, it’s been close to an hour. Oops. I run over to the mirror to make sure my makeup hasn’t smeared, and then I hurry out of the room as fast as the stupid heels allow.
As I walk down the hallway, I catch a murmur of voices and drunken laughter coming from downstairs. I can picture the old men and their wives, all glammed up and perfumed, saying their cheesy toasts as they pound down vodka and cognac while devouring the rich spread of appetizers our chef, Pavel, has prepared. No basicsalat oliv’yehere; it’s all fancy caviar and gourmet French cheese, each dish carefully curated to show off our power and wealth.
I’m passing by Papa’s study when the door swings open and a man steps out in front of me.
