Page 18 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

“I live here,” I remind her. “It was your idea for me to come home for the summer. I don’t think I should have to abide by the same rules as guests.”

“Whatever you came here to speak to me about can wait.”

“Why do you presume to know that that’s why I’m here.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “You’re not the type to hang out with your mother and her friends. You enjoy your privacy, so when I caught you snooping around the corner, my mother’s intuition told me that my boy came to make a scene.”

“Since when am I the type to do that?”

The question is a ridiculous one. Like I said, I was born into a family of theatrics. We all make scenes. The only difference is that my mother's scenes are tightly controlled plays, and my scenes are more chaotic in nature, like a brewing storm in the distance that cracks wide open without warning. She puts on a show to keep the show afloat. I put on shows because I’m bored. Like the time I brought my girlfriend to a fire and ice party when I was a teenager. We got absolutely fucking hammered and when it came time for speeches, I ripped the microphone out of my father’s hands and proceeded to make a joke of the charity in question. I was promptly sent to boarding school for the rest of the summer.

“Do you remember when you were a teenager…”

Yep, I was just reminiscing on that particular time.

“You made an absolute fool out of the entire family. You have a long history of bad behavior. I’ve been forced to adapt.” She steps forward, wearing an eerie smile as if she’s staring into the eyes of her beloved son. The reality is that am her son. She just happens to hate me half the time. “You keep me on my toes, Nick.”

“I could say the same for you,” I say dryly. The words I want to actually say in the form of an accusation don’t quite come out. I’m no shrinking violet but in the presence of my mother, I have a tendency to falter.

“Please go wait inside the house and I’ll come speak to you briefly.” She’s not asking. She’s telling me. I don’t have a choice in the matter. She pats me on the shoulder once before exiting out the door, closing it behind her.

I step to the window and watch as she collects herself on the way back to her friends. She cocks her head over one shoulder to catch a quick glance behind her. Our eyes meet and her gaze stays fixated upon me for another second or two before she disappears behind the wooden lattice.

I have no reason to suspect my mother and Emily are colluding with each other, given the minor detail that they absolutely despise one another. Somehow though, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s been warned about why I’m here. It’s either that or she’s more deadly than I’d ever guess. I could do as I’m told, could go back inside and wait in the lounge for her to be finished. But I’ve never quite been fond of listening to anyone except my own selfish self.

I clear my head before exiting the pool house, wearing a shit-eating grin as I approach the luncheon once more. There’s a storm brewing and I’m itching to stir up some trouble. When I round the corner of the serene terrace, my mother’s eyes narrow on me in an instant. I pay her no attention as she passes me an evil glare. She’s threatening to kill me and bury my body underneath the pool without saying as much.

I squeeze my way to the front of the table and tap the woman closest to my mother on the shoulder. Her name is Cathy. One of the devil’s oldest friends. She’s on her third marriage due to the previous two men disposing of her for much younger women. She’s insecure, and though she’d never admit it, she’s petrified that her third attempt at finding Prince Charming is going to leave her the same way the other two did.

It should be easy enough to get her out of the way. I tap her on the shoulder, stealing her attention.

“Yes, please,” she says as she reaches for the empty wine glass sitting in front of her and turns her head to me. “I’m sorry. I thought you were the help.”

Ignoring the fact at just how offensive it is to call anyonethe helpin the modern world, the fact that she thought I was the caterer amuses me. I especially adore the shifting of shades between thinly veiled snobbery and feigning of happiness to see me. This woman has been a pain in my side since the day I was born. “You look lovely, Cathy. I’m actually just coming to inform you that your husband is at the front door.”

“What in the world?” She passes a glance around the length of the table and chuckles under her breath. She’s trying to play it cool, but she’s nervous about something. Must have struck a chord. “Can you tell him that I’m busy and I’ll call him shortly?”

I shrug with complete apathy. “He says it’s really important and he’s not going to leave until he gets the chance to talk to you.”

These people know better than to go into detailed questioning in front of their peers. That’s how secrets are exposed and by proxy, that’s how gossip spreads. It’s best if all personal matters are handled away from prying ears. Any one of these women at this table would use any and all information against her to get the upper hand. She politely excuses herself from the table and makes her way inside.

Game. Set. Match.

I only have about two minutes before Cathy returns so I take a seat at the table, right beside my mother. If looks could kill, I’d already be dead at the bottom of the pool.

I look across the table to see Mildred Smith, another familiar face. She was a Karen before the name became an adjective. When I was a teenager, she was the principal at my school before I was sent away to boarding school. Long story short, she started fucking a rich man whom she proceeded to marry, and luckily he died in a tragic car accident before he had the chance to divorce her. Now she’s rich, but lonely and old. “It’s been years, Mildred.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you as well, Nick.” She practically has to force the words through gritted, and absolutely fucking fake teeth. “Your mother was just talking about you.”

“I’m sure she was.” I reach across the table, knocking over a glass of wine in my haste, and take hold of her frail, old hands. “You don’t look nearly as bad as my mom’s stories would suggest.”

“Nick. Calloway,” my mother grinds out. “May I have a word with you?”

Have a conversation in private? No, that would defeat the purpose.

“My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.” I turn to the unknown woman beside me. No doubt, she’s a new face in this town. If she wasn’t already aware, she’s about to get a crash-course lesson in how the people around here operate. “The post office just isn’t reliable these days.” I nudge her playfully with an elbow, but she doesn’t look amused. Indeed, she looks terrified. I rise to my feet and gather the table’s attention. “What depressing charity are we raising money for today?” I reach for the nameless woman’s half-filled glass and raise it to toast. I twist my gaze to the left, staring Mother down. “May I suggest another donation to the woman that killed your son?”

The table falls absolutely silent. I swear I can hear the heartbeat of the poor woman beside me. If I were her, I’d run so far from this place and never come back, but I’m not her because if I were, I’d never be here in the first place.

---