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I take a picture and post it with the caption “misery and moet”. My Spearcrest bestie, Camille, comes in a few minutes later and rolls her eyes.
“What now?” she asks, shaking her head and making her dark curls bounce around her shoulders. “Another argument with your father? Is this the fashion school thing?”
“He’s just not even trying to listen to my point of view,” I say, letting my head drop back against the edge of my bed. “He just wants me to do whatever he says whenever he says. I’m like an object to him, a lump of clay he gets to shape however he wants. He doesn’t even see me as a real person and when I talk to him, I don’t evenfeellike a real person. I hate him.”
“I hate him too,” Camille says, flopping onto my bed and grabbing the bottle of champagne from my hand to take a long swig. “Do you remember when he tried to hit on me?”
I crane my head to throw her a glare. “He did not try to hit on you.”
“Don’t lie, Rose. The very week after he tried to hit on me, did he not get a new girlfriend that looks exactly like me?”
He did—but how do I tell Cammie that the world is full of girls who look exactly like her? Deep tan, smooth skin, long legs, black hair curled to perfection? She’s not the first girl to have a tiny waist and big, bouncy breasts.
So my father dating Luana probably has less to do with Cammie and more to do with the fact that old men everywhere will always have a thing for beautiful girls with dark hair and luscious curves.
“Leave Luana out of this,” I say finally. “Right now, she’s the only redeeming feature about my father.”
“Maybe you should ask her to withhold blowjobs until your dad lets you go to fashion school. A blowjob embargo.”
“Ew, Cammie! That’s disgusting!” I heave, covering my mouth. “If I wasn’t feeling suicidal before, I definitely do now.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Cammie says with a lofty shake of her head.
Given Cammie spent most of her time in lower school breaking the new girls for sport, it’s annoying that she’s now become this self-titled advocate for mental health and anti-bullying champion.
But then again, Cammie would do anything to improve her self-image. If she found out tomorrow that eating out of flowerpots was the new thing, she’d have her mouth full of dirt before I could even blink.
“What are you going to do, then?” she asks, handing me the bottle of champagne back. “Go back to New York like he wants? Get a real degree?”
“As if. I’m applying to fashion school. That’s a real degree.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” Cammie tilts her head and gives me a little bitchy smile. “I mean, all I’m saying is that Coco Chanel didn’t go to fashion school.”
“So? Vera Wang and Ralph Lauren did. What’s your point?”
“I’m not making a point, girl—calm down!” Cammie rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I thought your dad said no?”
“I don’t care. What is he going to do, have me kidnapped and dragged back to New York? Please. He’s too pathetic to do anything.”
Cammie nods slowly, then asks in a lowered voice. “What if he cuts you off?”
I let out a loud burst of dramatic laughter. “Imagine!”
Sometimes,mylifefeelslike a film.
I am the main character: effortlessly beautiful and delightfully charming. Set against the backdrop of prestigious Spearcrest, polished Upper East Side, or the ever-changing array of cities and private beaches I holiday in, each day of my life is an aesthetically pleasing montage. The clothes are to-die-for, the supporting cast is glamorous, and the love interests are the purest of eye candy.
But sometimes, the film of my life takes a turn. Tragedy must strike for our heroine to learn lessons, I suppose. A cruel director uses foreshadowing and irony to make the heroine’s fate feel inevitable—almost deserved, even when it’s not.
But when my father calls me the day after we officially submit our university applications, it doesn’t feel inevitable and deserved.
It feels cruel and unfair, and it takes me completely by surprise.
“You want to go to fashion school, Seraphina?” he roars into the phone, forcing me to hold it at the end of my outstretched arm. “You go to fashion fucking school. But you’ll be making your own way since you think you know everything.”
“What do you mean?” I ask in a trembling voice. I’ve just come back from afternoon classes, and I’m standing in the middle of my room in my uniform, frozen in shock.
“Don’t act stupid,” he snaps. “You know exactly what I mean. I’ve just spoken to Rasheed about your trust fund.”
