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Everyone is fake. The fake laughs. The fake smiles. The fake jokes. The fake conversations. I’m convinced rich people wake up with fake as their default mode. I’ll be glad when these people leave, so I can sketch out my next design for my lingerie and I can submit it to different companies. If I have to fake another smile, pretend to be jolly, then I’m going to rip my hair from my skull.
I stand near a statue and gaze at the people clogging the living room. They are here to celebrate my father’s retirement from owning his photography company.
My stepmother, Nicole, knocks over a vase that cost a quarter of a million dollars, and as she smiles nervously, glancing around the room, her gaze lands on me.
I don’t like her. She was the maid for our family before she slithered her way into my father’s mind and heart.
My gaze clings to the too tight dress which hugs her small frame, and her boobs look as if they’re about to spill out of her dress. She heads toward my way, and I mentally scream at her not to speak to me. I try to keep the conversations between us to a minimum, but she thinks because she’s a few years older than me we should be friends.
After she squeezes herself between a few people, she places her hands on her hips, and her boots touch my Jimmy Choo shoes. Her eyes search mine, and a fake smile plasters across her face.
I suspect she only married my father for his money. What twenty-six-year-old would be interested in a fifty-seven-year-old man? They have nothing in common.
She searches the crowd as she nibbles on her freshly manicured nail. “How is the party?”
My father’s sister Aunt Courtney’s bony fingers glide over the keys of the piano, and Uncle Keon sings a song. Everyone grows quiet as they listen to the sweet melodies. Their music is the only thing that makes this party bearable.
I straighten my spine, holding my head high. “It’s going great,” I lie through my teeth.
Nicole is a people pleaser, so if she knows I’m unhappy, then she’s going to hound me about what she can do to make it better, and I don’t want to have a conversation with her.
She twirls a golden lock of hair with her index finger. “Thanks,” she murmurs under her breath, “I’m worried your father wouldn’t be happy with the party.”
The A/C pumps out cool air, tickling my flesh, so I wrap my arms around my waist. “I’m sure he loves it.”
Awkwardness settles between us as she glances down at the marble floors then back at me. “Oh, I’m so forgetful. Your father wants you to meet him in his study.”
I have no interest in speaking to my father, and I know exactly where the conversation is going.
“Okay. Um, thanks.” I twist on the balls of my sneakers, and head toward the walnut stairs.
Slowly, I trail down the hallway, stroking my fingers along the beige walls. I’m going to miss the smell of peppermint lingering in the air, the feel of the hard floors under my feet, the view of the backyard with colorful flowers, and plants blooming in the garden.
I pass my bedroom, stroke my index finger across the dark lines where my mother used to mark my growth spurts.
Once I arrive at my father’s office, I knock lightly against the oak door, twist the knob, and waltz in, sealing the door shut. He lounges in his leather chair with his face buried between a history book.
“You’re missing your own party,” I state.
His eyes narrow. “I’ve never been into parties. I don’t know why Nicole insists I have one.”
I don’t comment as I pad to the chair in front of the desk, sit, and tap my foot on the wooden floors.
Frowning, he sets the book down and rests his elbows on the edge of the desk.
Ever since the car accident, our relationship has been strained, and I don’t speak to him. I don’t know how I would ever forgive him for the way he treated my mom.
I glance at the family picture of us when we went to Los Angeles before my gaze roams back to him.
“You wanted to see me?”
“You’re wearing sneakers with an elegant dress, I love it. It brings out your personality, Firefly,” he jokes.
It’s his way of trying to lighten the mood, trying to put some effort into mending our relationship.
Fiddling with my necklace, I snap, “I have something to do. Can you get to the point?”
The lines on his forehead deepen as he leans back in the leather seat.
