Page 13 of Vicious Little Snakes
The words barely leave my lips before a sting scorches my face—Julia’s hand connecting with my cheek. I reach for my hot skin, tears welling in my eyes instantly as I stare at her.
“Put the damn shoes on, or next time I’ll really make it hurt.”
* * *
My feet hurt. They hurt the whole ride over to the Plaza, and all the time we’ve been seated. Because they’re squeezed into shoes that don’t fit anymore. But at least there’s a heel.
I didn’t say anything when I came back downstairs. Truth is, I don’t think anyone would’ve believed me, or even if they did, I would’ve been ignored because they wouldn’t want to lose Julia.
“Sit up straight,” my mother whispers even though I am. “And don’t forget to smile. When you don’t smile, your jaw looks full, and you look less pretty.”
The corners of my mouth lift obediently. My mother stands alongside my father as the guests my parents are entertaining for brunch approach the table. I didn’t bother to listen to the why’s for our lunch because it’s always business.
I look up, watching as the seemingly happy family stops in front of our table. A girl that looks my age stands just behind her father in a white knee-length tank dress that has little suns embroidered on the hem. The dress is almost too young for her but stylish. She’s holding her father’s hand with both of her own, smiling brightly, with blonde bangs almost hitting her eyelashes. She’s pretty, just like her mother.
I don’t look like my mother. She says I got my father’s genes. I glance at him—short, portly, but refined features. I guess she’s right, but Julia once told me that if I lost some more weight, I’d look just like Audrey Hepburn, then we watchedBreakfast at Tiffany’s. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell on her for the slap. She’s more nice than not.
“Caroline, this is our daughter Donovan,” my father’s new friend says, drawing my attention up. “I understand the two of you will be attending Dalton together next week. I’m sure she can help you acclimate. I bet it’ll be a big change from your boarding school.”
I nod, not forgetting to smile. “Thank you, it will, but I’m looking forward to spending more time in the city with my family. I also hear Dalton has an excellent music program.”
“It does.” He grins.
Donovan leans against her father, staring at me with big wide eyes—like a Disney princess. She seems nice. It might be good to have a friend at school. The girls were exceptionally cruel at my boarding school.
I’m “smart”—they hated me for it. I’m “fat”—they hated on me for that. My father’s extraordinarily rich and powerful, and they had to be nice to me—for that, they made my life hell.
Donovan’s father smiles down at me. “I don’t think anyone would ever believe you’re eleven.”
“Well, I do turn twelve in a couple of months,” I offer with all the charm I’ve learned to have.
He looks up at my parents. “What a mature, articulate young lady you have.”
My mother smiles. “Yes, boarding school is wonderful. But it will be nice to have her home.”
My smile doesn’t falter, even though it’s all a lie. She’s done nothing but complain about my presence since I’ve been back. And I’m articulate because I haven’t any friends and spent all my time with either the headmistress or whatever tutor I was provided. They don’t kick children out of boarding school for bullying. They just isolate the victim.
Donovan’s still staring at me, playing with the hem of her dress. As if on pretension’s cue, my mother compliments Donovan’s clothing, to which Donovan replies, “It’s vintage. I got it from a thrift store.”
I can’t help shifting my eyes to my mother to see her response. Vivienne Whitmore would never, ever be caught dead in a thrift store.
“It’s so chic. Bohemian. Exquisite taste for such a young age.”
Unbelievable. This must be a really important contact, like an invitation to the Met Ball contact for that kind of compliment.
Donovan shuffles her feet on the floor, and my eyes lower—ballet flats. I grin for real this time.
Everyone begins to take their seats. Donovan is ushered in next to me, taking her napkin into her lap and smiling over at me.
“Do you like them? I just got them.” She smiles back at me, noticing that I was staring at her shoes.
I nod, opening my mouth to speak when my mother cuts me off.
“Donovan, they’re fabulous. Our Caroline will need a friend like you. Someone so in tune with fashion; Caroline’s hopeless, really.” My mother leans over towards Donovan’s mother, smiling like a jackal, her French accent thick. “She insisted on wearing a pair of truly garish heels. Girls—what can you do?”
My mother laughs. Donovan’s mother laughs. Everyone laughs, except for me.
I just smile, not wanting to be any less attractive than I already am.
