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“Oh, I get along with my parents. They worked really hard for me to go to the school that I did,” I say, immediately wishing I could take back the last part of my statement.
I know what’s coming now, and I’d give anything to avoid it.
“Aww, there she goes again. Vera, we know you’re poor. You don’t have to rub it in our faces all the time,” Angelique says with a groan.
If nobody else were to say anything, Angelique always will. Out of everyone in a group of six people, her family is the wealthiest, and she has a complex about it that’s bigger than the Empire State Building.
“That’s not what I meant,” I begin, balling my fist in my sweatshirt pocket. I’ve had to learn quite a few different coping strategies like this in order to avoid a fight, and this is the most practical for now. Later, I’m sure I’ll have a drink or three.
“You know I work really hard for what I have, right Vera? I mean, I didn’t have to work at a coffee shop for it, but we’re still both hard workers,” Angelique replies, her voice confrontational and indignant.
It’s honestly kind of sad to see someone like Angelique live in a state so divorced from reality. She thinks that doing anything she doesn’t enjoy counts as “working”. As far as I know, none of the kids from my high school were gifted a custom Audi TTs when they left for college.
One girl got a Jeep Rubicon, and everyone thought she was spoiledrotten.
Now, at the private university I managed to get into on good grades alone, people would feelbadfor you if you drove something like that.
I clear my throat and force an apology to keep Angelique from freaking out on me. “Yeah, I really didn’t mean it like that. You work hard too.”
Satisfied enough with my forced apology, she turns back around and begins texting furiously.
After seeing her overreact to my comments a few times now, I’ve figured out that everyone here is in a group chat dedicated to talking shit about me. Every single time she’s pissed about something I’ve said, she takes to her phone.
Shortly thereafter, so does everyone else.
I’d give anything to go home right now.
My parents were so excited when I got a scholarship to a college that would be unattainable for us without the help. They thought that I’d finally find my people, that I’d make tons of connections and lifelong friends to help drive me toward success.
So far, I’ve just felt like an emotional punching bag for sociopaths.
I might be smart, but that doesn’t mean anyone here really likes me. At best, they tolerate me, and it drives me crazy.
We continue wandering the fair for another ten minutes or so until Tiffany announces that she wants a drink. She just turned twenty-one last week, and she’s made sure to remind us at every given opportunity.
“I just really don’t want you guys to feel left out,” she says with a palpable sense of glee.
It’s nauseating, but my birthday is in three weeks, so I couldn’t care less. Besides, when nobody knows you or your family, nobody knows how old you are. I’ve been going to bars here for the last few semesters and never got carded once.
We make our way over to one of the stands toward the center of the fair where I spot a number of familiar faces from school. Everyone here travels in packs, and each group has a habit of electing the richest member of said group as their leader. It’s all terribly tribalistic, but I feel lucky to have been included at all.
As Tiffany orders her drink, I glance around me as I observe the atmosphere become taken over by chattering, hyperactive football players and their girlfriends. Regularly, I’d feel intimidated as they rush in to claim every empty seat and table, but I find them entertaining enough when they’re intoxicated.
Most of the time, the guys will start a drunken fight in order to reclaim their bravado after being challenged by someone a few tables over.
None of these guys can fight, and they’ll end up getting one punch in before their girlfriends start squealing like they’re watching their lover be dragged into war.
“Oh my god! We need to get a picture before the sun goes down!” Angelique yelps, suddenly growing anxious as Tiffany arrives to the table with a banana daiquiri the size of her head.
“Aw, my phone is dead. Vera, can we use yours to take the picture? Eric can snap it quick. I promise, we’re not like those girls who take four hundred retakes,” Tiffany says.
Everybody here knows that I have the oldest phone with the worst camera. They’ll take any chance they can get to emphasize just how pathetic and underprivileged I am.
“Oh, um, we can do that,” I reply sheepishly as I unlock my phone, handing it to Eric as we head over to the Ferris wheel.
I don’t understand why they invite me places if they’re so concerned about how much I’ll embarrass them. Sometimes I wonder if that’s the point. They want to embarrassme, and all they have to do is ask me where I came from.
“God, what year is this phone? The lens quality is garbage,” Eric says, glancing over to me and sneering.
