Kennedy’s home—or rather herparents’home—was like every other mansion in upstate New York. Gothic brick architecture, sprawling gardens, and bosky beaches. Kennedy lived about an hour from Crowne Point, and much less when you took my family’s helicopter, but for my wants, it felt like I was an entire continent away.
No Underworld.
No shifting family dynamics.
Just…this.
“I’m telling you,” Kennedy said to Blaire, lifting herselfonto the white marble sink. “Bumping makes a huge difference.”
“I’m tellingyou,” Blaire countered. “Your nose is gonna fall off. Ya gonna look like a moldy-ass jack-o’-lantern.”
Kennedy’s foot was in the sink, her shimmering and sheer lilac dress trailing to the floor. Blaire sat on the toilet, scrolling on her phone as she took a hit off her vape, rolling her eyes at Kennedy.
What would America think if they knew their favorite sweethearts didn’t trade gossip in the bathroom, but drugs?
Kennedy and Blaire went back to arguing their points on the bumping versus ingesting debate. I stared at my face in her antique, feminine mirror. The longer I looked, the more distorted I became. I took a hit off Blaire’s vape, obscuring my reflection in smoke, and the beehive inside my chest, the thing that urged me to end it all, quieted a little.
I’d been friends with Kennedy and Blaire for over a decade, but they didn’tknowme. They sold my secrets to tabloids. They talked shit behind my back. They would drop me in a heartbeat if I wasn’t Gemma Crowne.
I know that, and I was okay with it, because real friendship was a Hollywood lie.
I was using them too.
My mom had done some focus group shit, and people really loved it when I supported other women. They didn’t give a shit if I actually meant it, or if the women I promoted were good people. They just liked the buzzwords.
You see, I wasn’t really a person. I was just…an entity. So Gemma Crowne had to have a squad, because Gemma Crowne was girl power—rah!
Kennedy put some of the powder on her finger, lifting it to Blaire. “Just try it?—”
“I can’t fucking listen to this anymore!” Blaire lifted herhead from her phone. “You realize bumping benzos does nothing, right? Like, they’resupposedto be digested. All you’re doing is fucking up your nose. Chew them if you want to get higher.”
Kennedy’s brow furrowed. “But?—”
“Do you get any special perks?” Blaire asked, turning her attention to me and cutting off Kennedy.
Blaire was one of those girls who was friends with everyone. You had to be wary of the bitches who were friends with everyone. You couldn’tbefriends with everyone. That chick who has everyone’s back? Yeah, she was watching no one’s.
But most girls really thought she was their friend, and that was a huge fucking network.
I sank into Kennedy’s claw-foot tub, one leg dangling over the edge. “Perks?” I blew musky, hazy smoke through the glittering cut-crystal chandelier, until the glimmer died in the smoke.
“Like, when you become god queen,” Kennedy said.
“Godmother,” Blaire corrected.
Kennedy used me because being friends with Gemma Crowne helped promote her makeup line. She sold more of my secrets than anyone, but she had a demographic I’d never reach on my own: the poor. Kennedy hadn’t been poor since she was a baby and her mother married the heir to a supermarket chain, but she sold herself as a rags-to-riches girl, and the world bought it.
She made me appear relatable—said my mother.
Kennedy made a face. “Whatever. My godmother always sent me these weird preachy books on my birthday. Like, thanks, but who asked you, bitch?”
“That’s what she’s supposed to do,” Blaire said. “She’s agodmother. She guides you in your faith.”
Everyone paused, then laughed.
Meguidingmy niece? What would I guide her in? Her first trip?Be sure to check your shrooms for mold, little Sonnet. You’re not supposed to get nauseated when you trip. If you do, you’re eatin’ mold, kid.
Or maybe I could teach her how to self-harm without anyone knowing. Safety pins—a stab from a safety pin looked just like a freckle.
