CHAPTER ONE
BLAIR
Contrary to all my whining, I don’t hate Halloween.
I just hate my mother’s Halloween parties.
There’s a difference.
“Blair, are you up yet, darling?”
I vaguely register my mother’s voice as my bedroom door is flung wide open, the hinges squeaking as her slippers slap on the floorboards.
“It’s almost half past eight; you know oversleeping isn’t good for your skin.”
Neither is a lack of sleep…but that doesn’t seem to bother her. You’d think she’d take into account that I didn’t pull into the driveway until past midnight, but no. She doesn’t care that some guy ran out of gas right at the highway exit, blocking it for everyone and causing me to take a forty-five-minute detour to get home.
I left campus at 10 p.m. last night, skipping my Thursday morning lectures today, just so I can help prepare for her annual Halloween party. One might assume that because I’m in college, I’m free to spend Halloweekend on campus attending frat parties with my college friends. One would be wrong.
I’ve spent too many years silently caving to my parents’ demands and expectations. Any attempt at pushing back just results in a guilt trip that has me biting my tongue and noddingmy head. It also doesn’t help that they foot my college tuition, which is why coming home is “the least I can do.” I’m trapped in a cycle that I have no hope of breaking.
Which is how I’m stuck lugging my butt all the way home to fulfill my role as the picture-perfect daughter of the Hanes family. This Halloween party is just one of several lavish parties she throws throughout the year to cement her status in the community—we are just ornaments in her endeavor. Our entire family has a matching-costume theme and my mother purchases made-to-order outfits so we look cut from same cloth. All the gated communities in town spend weeks trying to curry favor to gain an invitation to the exclusive event.
It’s exhausting.
At least I’m not alone. My younger brother suffers the same fate. We paint plastic smiles on our faces together for the public but complain to each other and steal swigs of wine in the kitchen when nobody is looking.
“I have an appointment for you with Crystal at nine thirty, and then you’re booked for nails at twelve.”
I crack my eyes open and push up on my elbows, watching as my mother digs through my wardrobe and pulls out a matching sports bra, leggings, and cropped hoodie set. She lays the clothes at the foot of my bed before coming over and picking up a chunk of my hair, rubbing her fingers over the strands with a hum.
“Maybe I should push it to one. Crystal might need more than two hours to fix these highlights.”
I refrain from letting loose a sigh. This is nothing different than what I am used to. The sooner I get with the program, the easier my life will be. It never serves me well to try and defy my mother; it just leads me to run around in circles until I tire myself out and succumb to her wishes.
I spent years being her perfect little pageant princess, winning crowns and being flaunted as a trophy she could showoff to her friends. It wasn’t until high school that I realized I was nothing more than a doll she could dress up, my personality a carefully crafted mask of flawless smiles and fake pleasantries. My resentment grew, and I tried to forge my own path, but old habits are hard to break when everyone’s watching. I always find myself slipping back on the mask and pushing down the darkness the bubbles below the surface. The very same darkness that craves release in such twisted ways, my mother would have a heart attack.
“Come on, up you get. Wash your face and get ready. I’ll have a smoothie prepped for when you get downstairs.” She lifts off my duvet and ushers me out from the warm comfort of my bed.
I slowly shuffle my way across the room until I hit my en suite. It’s only once I turn on the tap and start up my electric toothbrush that I see her disappear in the mirror. My eyes dart to my own reflection, gaze automatically scrutinizing my appearance as I’ve been taught.
I clock the slightly purple hue under my eyes from one too many all-nighters, the stray eyebrow hairs that are a fraction too close to the center of my face, and the inch of regrowth from my last hair color appointment.
This time, I do let out the sigh.
I make quick work washing my face and then don a light layer of makeup to give myself that effortless look you get from a beauty filter. I swap my pajamas for the clothes my mother grabbed earlier, snagging my phone from my nightstand before making my way downstairs to the kitchen.
My mother gives me a quick once-over as she pours a dark purple smoothie into a tall glass. It looks good, but I know better than to trust that just because the smoothie isn’t some rank color, it tastes amazing.
I pick up the glass off the marble countertop and take a tentative sip through the metal straw. The taste of wheatgrassimmediately assaults my tongue, closely followed by a bite of ginger. My nose scrunches up immediately, my body unable to feign an ounce of pleasure this early in the morning.
“You don’t like it?”
I paste a watery smile on my face. “It’s a little strong.”
My mother frowns as much as the Botox will allow her. “Maybe it’s the new collagen supplement. I’m trying out a different flavor.”
“Must be it.”
