First, I choose pink and cream roses for the centerpieces. I wait impatiently while the florist demonstrates an arrangement. She has tinsel sticking out from flowers. “Simpler,” I urge. “Just the flowers. We’ll put them in one long row down the table. No separate vases, so it will look like one extended centerpiece.” I look around and spot the table of white roses. “These for the bouquet. And we can wrap the stems in pearls.” I’m not sure if Lily will approve, but at this point it’s clear she doesn’t care.
The only request for the past two months has been no lilies. Otherwise, I’m walking around blind.
While I wait for my mother, I click onto Twitter and type in #PoPhilly. A list of tweets pops up.
@RaderBull595: The Calloway girls are hot, but that tall one is such a bitch. I’d bang Lils though.
@TVDFan70008: Have you seen the way Lo looks at Lily? swoon
@thefieryheart: Brb building a shrine for Ryke and Daisy!
@RealityXbites4: I loooove this show!! #TeamScott
@SlightlySpoiled: Can’t wait for Rose to dump Connor. Fry his dick! #please
Lovely.
The reviews for the show have been much better than any of us could ever expect. Even though we’re labeled “foul mouthed, rich, and conceited” most of the articles congratulate us for being real. For not trying to put on fake faces in front of the cameras. Daisy burps, Lily says sexual comments on accident, and I threaten to castrate men. Some people like us for our flaws. Others still see us as caricatures. But I try not to let those comments bother me.
You can’t please everyone.
@Fashion4Goddesses: Just received my Calloway Couture dress! Gorgeous!
My heart swells at that tweet. Soon after the first episode aired, my sales skyrocketed. And they have continued to grow exponentially with each new episode. Fizzle has even seen a spike in its stock. Hopefully the success will last.
The bells on the door clink together, and I quickly pocket my phone in my purse. My mother struts through like she suddenly bought the entire store. Her nose upturns at a vase of half-wilted daisies.
“You’re early,” I tell her. Ten minutes to be exact.
“So are you,” she replies. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s not coming.” I don’t use the stomachache excuse since I’ve overdone it already. Instead I try the truth. “She doesn’t like how you talk to her.”
“Lily has a voice of her own,” my mother snaps. “If she doesn’t like how I speak then she should tell me herself.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t tell her that she’s not the easiest woman to talk to, and it takes practice and skill—that even I come away feeling more neurotic and unspun.
“I already picked out the flowers,” I tell her.
She doesn’t seem surprised. “Then we have to choose between mine and yours because I already called in arrangements this morning.” Of course. She walks haughtily to a cabinet where white and orange lilies are gathered together with teal ribbon.
“She specifically said no lilies,” I say angrily. “I’ve already told you this ten million times.” Not only that but orange and teal. Really? Maybe for Daisy but Lily is more…subdued.
My mother huffs and fingers the string of pearls on her neck. Her greatest tell. When she’s particularly stressed or annoyed she touches them as though they’re rosary beads, praying to the Holy Father for her argumentative daughter to be docile and content.
“What’s wrong with lilies?” my mother asks. “Olivia Barnes’ daughter had them at her wedding and they were just gorgeous.”
“Her name is Lily,” I say. “She doesn’t find the pun as amusing as you do. And when she sees lilies everywhere, she’ll be upset.” Not to mention that we receive unsolicited bouquets of lilies along with fan mail almost every week. From men that fantasize about my sex addicted sister. Those flowers are tainted in her mind.
“I already ordered them, so what do you want me to do?” she says. “I can’t very well cancel, can I?”
“Yes, you can.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so bent out of shape over the flowers.”
I stand my ground. “I know Lily better than you,” I remind her. “We’re going to accommodate her one and only request.”
My mother mumbles something that sounds like but she’s not even here to voice it herself. Her eyes flit around the room before she huffs again. “What alternatives do you have in mind?”
I show her the white and pink roses I picked out.
She gives me a look. “Don’t make this about you, Rose.”
My lips press into a thin line and I’m sure my nose flares. “My name and the flower are not synonymous, Mother.”
Poppy, my older sister, has never had trouble talking to her. Most of the time she just agrees willingly so that arguments don’t begin. Same with Daisy.
I can’t be agreeable with someone I know is wrong, regardless of her being my mother or not. I’m not sure when I had the courage to say no. But she still doesn’t understand that my opinion isn’t less because I’m her child. I’m twenty-three years old. She may see me as a little girl who stands behind her at dance recitals, who tugs on her arm for advice about other girls in school, but I’m an adult now.
I appreciate her advice, I do, but I also have the right to disagree with it. And yet, this direction only causes arguments and fights. Neither of us can win if we’re in the same room.
My mother stares at the roses with narrowed eyes. I remember Daisy’s advice when I couldn’t get my mother to stop arguing with me. “Tell her you love her,” she said. “That always works for me when I want something.”
I give it a shot. “I love you, Mother—”
“Oh, don’t even start, Rose. I haven’t heard you say that in five years.”
I suppose she’s right. Since I rarely show affection to my mother, it makes sense that Daisy’s I love yous seem like blinding rainbows in comparison.
She spins on her heels and her eyes hit mine. They haven’t softened. “You can cancel the order,” she says. “But I’m not done discussing the flowers or the centerpieces. God knows we both can find something better than an ice swan.”
I try to smile. “That sounds good.”
“How is Daisy doing?” she asks.
“Good.” I don’t elaborate. She talks to Daisy enough. Whenever my sister is on the phone, it’s usually with her. And I have no right to keep Daisy with me after the reality show wraps. There’s nothing I can do but wait until Daisy’s older—to see if she’d like to live with us and distance herself from our mother a little more. To finally breathe the way I know she wants to. It’s going to be a long wait, but I’m willing to suffer through it.
“Good.” She nods.
I pause for the rest of her question, but it never comes. “You’re forgetting your other daughter.”
“Lily is twenty-one,” she refutes. “She’s lying in the bed she made for herself.”
I shouldn’t have said anything.
“How can you plan her wedding if you’re still bitter over the scandal?” I ask in detest.