“Oh, he did. Totally. But don’t worry, the family's loaded.They own, like, half of Boston. And probably three-quarters of the Caribbean.”
Prince laughed louder at his own punchline, waiting for me to join in. I offered a prim chuckle but found myself picturing Scott instead, leaning against his beat-up truck with that amused expression on his face. My smile was real this time, and it definitely wasn’t for Prince.
He mistook it for encouragement and barreled on. “Last year’s rush week? Insanity. We had pledges swallowing goldfish, jumping off balconies into snowbanks. Patrick Sullivan IV—you remember him, right?”
“Of course,” I lied, already replaying Scott’s thigh nestled against mine at the gas station while Prince droned on.
“Amazing,” I said on autopilot, though my eyes had wandered to the room behind him. The crowd of elegant patrons milled around in their sparkling gowns and bow ties, nibbling on bite-sized crab cakes and laughing at precisely the right volume to convey the artificial cheer of upper crust philanthropy. And at the center of it all was my mother, Lydia Carver, dazzling in her floor-length emerald gown, poised like royalty and holding court with her wealthy benefactors. But make no mistake, in this room tonight, she was the wealthiest of them all.
Daughter of an oil tycoon, Mother had married “beneath her”—to a mere hotel tycoon—and she never let my father forget it. Not that he was around much to hear the reminders, as infidelity took a considerable amount of his time.
Mother’s laugh floated across the ballroom, perfectly demure, but I knew that look in her eyes. She was as bored with her conversation as I was with mine. Yet she’d endure, the way she always did, for the sake of appearances… and charity. This was her annual fundraiser, the event of the season, drawing deep-pocketed donors from around the globe to support whatever fashionable cause she currently embraced. It was never something mainstream like the Red Cross or the Shriners Children’s Hospital. No, my mother picked the most obscure charities she could envision, like “Save the Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth” or—my personal favorite—the “Give Back Yoga Foundation,” which sought to make the fitness fad accessible to underserved communities.
Prince snapped his fingers in my face. “You still with me?”
“Yes, sorry. I was thinking about Conrad in the fountain.”
“No, Michelle.” He sighed, milking the moment. “That was Patrick. Conrad was wrapped like a mummy.”
“Right. Conrad the mummy.” I nodded, maintaining my composure. “There are so many pranks. It’s hard to keep them straight.”
He puffed up proudly. “That’s Sigma Delta. So many legendary moments! Hey, have I ever told you the one about the inflatable sheep?”
That was it. If I had to listen to another word… I pushed my chair back and stood.
Prince jolted. “Whoa, where’re you going?”
“Ladies’ room. Be right back.”
From across the ballroom, my mother’s eyes locked on mine, sharp and unrelenting. Instinctively I straightened, tugging the fabric of my dress downward in self-conscious haste. Mother lifted her chin a fraction, never breaking from her polite conversation, but her gaze pinned me in place. With a subtlety visible only to those raised under her judgment, she placed one perfectly manicured hand flat against her own taut stomach, pressing inward just enough to suggest a graceful concavity.
Translation:Suck it in, fatty.
My abdominal muscles tightened on command; muscle memory drilled into me since childhood. This wasn’t about poise. It was about perfection, an ideal I could never live up to. The body type my mother prized—slim hips, delicate bones,visible collarbones—was hers. Hers and my sister Melanie’s. Not mine. I’d inherited my father’s frame: broad shoulders and long legs that had stretched me to five foot eight by fifth grade. A Carver in name, but not in the ways that mattered to her.
Not that she didn’t try. Her solution was always the same: diet harder, shrink smaller, chase happiness on the other side of the scale. But I’d seen the toll it took on Melanie—the glassy eyes, the fainting spells—and decided early on that I’d rather be strong than fragile. Still, moments like this made me feel twelve again, hollowed out by a single look.
Mother’s course correction continued from afar. With only the faintest ripple of displeasure crossing her serene face, her gaze flicked to my shoulders, and she gave the barest adjustment of her own posture, straightening her spine and extending her regal neck upward.
Translation:Stand up straight, you pathetic hunchback.
I obeyed, shoulders back, head high, feeling both ridiculous and helpless. Mother’s satisfied smile lasted all of half a second before she turned back to her donor, her conversation as flawless as her posture. And just like that, the fight drained out of me. That was her power. Impeccable manners for everyone else, but rules didn’t apply when she wanted to draw blood.
“You okay?” Prince’s voice cut in, confusion creasing his brow.
“Yes. Fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. I sank back in my chair. “You were saying… inflatable sheep?”
Despite skippinga bathroom break during the first round of story time, I didn’t hesitate when it came around again, especially after little Baa Baa, the inflatable sheep, took a hard left into felony territory.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing my chair back for a second time. “Turns out I do need the ladies’ room after all.”
I didn’t wait for Prince’s reply. Any delay would have only slowed my escape. I crossed the ballroom quickly, keeping my eyes low to avoid Mother’s glare, and nearly collided with a couple tangled up in the hallway.
“Oh, god, I’m…” The apology died on my lips, derailed by too much skin, too much tongue, and my sister’s very familiar, very unbothered face. I sidestepped the unnecessary display and slipped into the bathroom.
Melanie followed a moment later, shutting the door behind her with practiced nonchalance. Lipstick smudged, hair mussed, she looked thoroughly pleased with herself.
“Oh, relax,”she said, catching my expression in the mirror. “I promise it was consensual.”
