“Maybe she knows Mara’s a little whore like her mother,” Angelica says sweetly. Angelica has the round, cherubic face you’d expect from her name, but she’s the meanest cunt in that whole group. Worse even than Mandy. “Everyone knows she married your stepdad for his money.”
This is something so fundamentally acknowledged, even between Randall and my mother, that I can’t possibly deny it.
The problem is, Randall doesn’t have that much money anymore. From the shouted arguments I’ve overhead, even with my pillow pressed over my ears, I’ve gathered that Randall’s sons are running his business into the ground and my mother is trying to spend whatever is left before it all runs out.
“I guess those short skirts don’t work on Danny,” Mandy says, smiling enough to show her pearly white teeth.
We all wear the same uniform at Windsor Academy—the same white blouse, plaid skirt, maroon knee socks, and loafers. That’s why accessories like cheerleader bows and smart watches are so important—they’re the only way to show who’s in and who’s out.
I’m out.
I was never even close to in.
The short skirts are a different problem entirely. Randall refused to buy me new uniforms this year, even though I’d shot up two inches. My home room teacher keeps making me come to the front of the class and kneel in front of everyone, to prove that my skirt doesn’t come down to my fingertips. She’s given me detention six times.
Randall punishes me every time I’m late coming home, but he won’t buy me new clothes.
I’m going to be late now if I don’t run the rest of the way home.
I don’t have time to continue this conversation with the Peachy Queens. It wouldn’t matter either way. I’ve tried being nice to them. I’ve tried fighting back. They despise me, and nothing will change that. Even the kids that used to be nice to me, the ones I would have called friends, have learned better than to say a word to me where these girls can see.
“Tell me what does work on Danny,” I say to Mandy. “If he ever starts to give a shit about you.”
I’m already sprinting away as the calls of, “Freak!”， “Slut!”， “Bitch!”， ring out behind me.
I run until my chest burns and the backpack full of books slams against my ass with every stride.
Still, once I reach the red brick colonial, I stop and stand on the sidewalk, dreading opening the front door and stepping inside.
It’s hard to believe I was excited when I first saw this house.
I’d never lived in a house before. I’d never had my own bedroom, or even a proper bed with a frame.
Back then, I still believed I could win Randall’s approval if I was very, very careful and very, very quiet.
I knew I annoyed him. He wanted my mother, not another kid. His own sons were already grown. I met them at the wedding, where they barely consented to shake my mother’s hand. She laughed and said they were worried about their inheritance.
My mother never looked more beautiful than on her wedding day, her dark hair pulled up in a magnificent shining mass topped by a sparkling tiara, her mermaid gown encrusted with even more gems, to complement the rock on her left hand.
I was so proud of my flower girl dress that I couldn’t stop looking at myself in every window I passed. I had never had a dress like that, as puffy and ethereal as Sarah’s in The Labyrinth.
I got too excited though. I vomited, and a little splashed on the skirt of the dress. My mother was so furious that she slapped me across the face. I had to walk down the aisle trying to hold back tears, with my basket of petals and a livid handprint on my cheek.
The day ended sadly for her, too. She drank too much wine at the reception. When it came time to cut the cake, she smashed a handful of it in Randall’s face. She laughed wildly, head thrown back, swaying a little on her stilettos. Randall couldn’t say or do anything in front of all those people, but even I could tell he was shaking with rage.
That was the first night we spent in the red brick house. From down the hall in my new bed, I could hear the familiar sounds of my mother fucking. I was used to her theatrical shrieks of pleasure and even the banging of the bed against the wall. That night there were other sounds: slaps and screams.
In the morning, the left side of her face was more swollen than mine. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee and glaring at Randall, who ordered her to make him some eggs, then calmly sat down to read the paper.
She got up and made the eggs, scrambling them in a frypan. Then she walked over to Randall and dumped them in his lap. He hit her again, so hard that she slammed into the wall and fell behind the table, sobbing pitifully.