Anger.
And it’s directed entirely at my sister.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Vanessa snaps. “I emailed her about the date change over a month ago.”
Shit.
With the end of the semester, the last thing on my mind was shopping for an outfit and gift, leaving me now in one hell of a pickle.
Given the look on my brother’s face, it’s safe to say Derek blames himself for not mentioning this to me earlier, but I can’t hold him responsible. He knew better than anyone how stressed out I was about coming back home, so he had made it a point not to talk about anything regarding the matter, but it was only because he wanted me to focus on my finals for the time being. The only error in judgment he made was trusting that Vanessa would actually give enough of a shit to make sure I got the message.
Thankfully, my big bro is allergic to bullshit, because his expression never changes. “Strange. I’ve never had any problems contacting Ali. What email did you send this to?”
Vanessa rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember. It was…‘pigeon’ something.”
“Penguin_pal?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s funny, especially since Ali hasn’t used that email for a year and a half.”
And now Vanessa looks just as pissed, if not more so than Derek. “How was I supposed to know?I’m not psychic. She never told me she changed it—”
“Shocking, given thatyou’rethe reason she had to get a new email in the first place.”
“Whatever. If you want her coming to your party looking like a streetwalker, drawing God only knows what kind of attention to herself, that’syourproblem.” Like the calm, rational adult she is, my sister storms out of the foyer and up the stairs, her feet slamming into the floorboards so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t break clear through them.
Yep, this summer has gotten off to a great start.
CHAPTER 2
NIGHTMARE
PRESENT
This is a fucking disaster.
Seriously.
Having to endure the past ninety-three minutes would turn even a nun into an alcoholic, but since I’m well aware that I’m a lightweight, I refuse to even touch a glass of champagne. The last thing I need right now is for my lips to be as loose as a wizard’s sleeves, given present company, so all I can do is take measured sips of ginger ale as I lament the fact it’s not vodka.
When I had pulled up to the front entrance of the Rochester Country Club come six o’clock, it took me about thirty seconds to realize I’d fucked up royally. All the years I’d been dragged here, I always wore the same shapeless, oversized dresses, kept my head down, and hid in the darkest corner with a book until I could go home. I never really paid much attention to what everyone else was wearing, and that little oversight now proves to be my demise.
When thinking of high-society fashion, one might imagine something along the lines of runway supermodelsorGossip Girl. At least, that’s whatIhad pictured. So, keeping that in mind, I went with Derek’s suggestion and chose to wear a little black dress accented with a corseted top and tapered skirt fallingjust above my knees. Sure, it isn’t Dolce & Gabbana, but unlike my sister, I can’t expect Daddy and Stepmommy Dearest to foot a thousand-dollar bill for a pair of Prada heels, let alone a few grand for a sundress. Again, it isn’t that I wouldn’t mind those luxuries, but it would mean having to ask Blythe for something…which I’ll only be inclined to do when Hell freezes over.
While my sister was gifted with a black credit card by the time she was sixteen, I'd have to grovel for my stepmom to buy me so much as a candy bar. And even then, I’d be lucky to get more than a half-hour lecture on the dangers of saturated fats. I have a job on campus and—horror of all horrors, in the world of Blythe and Vanessa at least—I shop in the discount racks at outlet malls. But with Maggie doing my hair and makeup, not to mention lending me a gorgeous pair of lace-up heels, I didn’t feel too bad about myself on the drive over here.
Any confidence I had fizzled out with a whimper, however, because I wasn’t greeted by Heidi Klum and Serena van der Woodsen. Nope, I was greeted byThe Stepford Wives, every last lady preened in pantyhose and a modest dress, looking ready to meet British royalty for afternoon tea or some shit.
An hour and a half later, here I stand, still being eyed like I’m a ten-dollar hooker.
Seriously, if looks could kill, Blythe’s stare would have already burned clean through me. By the vengeful flare in her eyes, you’d think I waltzed into the festivities wearing nothing but nipple covers and a G-string. The sentiment is a popular one, because nobody else’s opinion of me appears to be improving. It doesn’t help that the country club’s interior looks suspiciously like a luxury cigar lounge you’d see in something likeThe Great Gatsby. Hell, a cocktail napkin here probably costs more than my entire outfit.
So far, I’ve spent the better part of my time here talking to Derek’s fiancée, Lauren, who—thank the gods—really is assweet as Derek painted her out to be. Since I had been away at college, the only thing I knew about Lauren was what my brother told me over the phone. The happy couple in question went to school with one another but didn’t exactly hit it off. Time seemed to prevail, though, because sparks inevitably flew when they got reacquainted this past September. Talking with her now, it’s pretty obvious that Lauren’s a bit shy, which actually compliments my brother’s extroverted tendencies. The only problem is being the woman of the hour means Lauren is obligated to do her fair share of mixing and mingling amongst the guests, which she doesn’t seem overly comfortable with. Vanessa shoots me a dark look of her own as she hooks her arm around Lauren’s and escorts her away into the next batch of well-wishers.
Blythe had made it explicitly clear thatonlycountry club members would be allowed at the event (a.k.a. Maggie would not, under any circumstances, be stepping foot in here). And with Lauren now lost in the sea of people, I find myself trapped in conversation with some of Dad’s golf buddies while their wives wrinkle their noses in disgust as they look me over. Even worse, the discussions are all the same. The women divulge in idol gossip, the men continue in their dick-measuring contests with arguments about who has the biggest boat, and everyone puts on friendly faces with each other, only then to badmouth them the moment they walk away.
Ah, yes, the good old days. How I’ve missed you so…like a bad butt rash.
