(Then) Savannah

Author's Note:  This is the first post in my new Friday series.  It's a Savannah back story flashback, and it's told from her perspective.  Going forward, you'll be able to know if it's a flashback because it will say (Then) in the title.  A different character's perspective on the current storyline will say (Now).  The character will be denoted in the title too.  I hope it won't be confusing, but if it does get confusing, please let me know and I will figure out how to make it more clear.  I hope you enjoy the first part of Savannah's story!

And of course, credit where credit is due:  If it weren't for Marci at Love Life LA asking me to do a guest post on one of her character's backgrounds awhile back, I probably would not have thought of back-stories for my characters!  Check her blog out if you haven't already.
_____________________________________________________

 

Eyes on Cornell Part 1

I walked in the door after my tennis lesson and dropped my bag on the floor.  Right there, in the middle of the living room.  No one would say anything about it, but it gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction anyway. 

I moved into the kitchen, hoping for a snack.  But of course Mother was there, barking directions at people.  She looked at me with disdain.  “Savannah, aren’t you going to change?  And shower?”

“I just got home, mother.  I’m pretty sure the shower will be there for awhile.”  I opened the fridge, but I could feel her judgmental eyes on my back.  I grabbed a bottle of water instead of the leftover chicken I was eyeing and shut the door. 

“Your father called,” she said, when I was about to walk out of the kitchen.  I turned back. 

“Oh?” I prompted.

“He wants you to attend a party with him next week when he gets back.”  She looked at me critically.  “We’ll probably have to get you a new dress.  I don’t think you’ll fit in the navy one anymore.”  The comment was made casually, but it stung.  “We’ll go tomorrow.  We’ll find you something a little more grown-up than the navy one, anyway.”  With that, she turned and I was clearly dismissed. 

I walked out of the kitchen and back through the living room.  My bag was already gone, probably stashed safely away in the entry closet.  I trudged up the stairs to my room and got in the shower.  I wanted nothing more than to put on a pair of sweats, but I was probably causing Mother enough stress by needing a new dress, so I pulled a sundress out of my closet and shimmied into it. 

I flopped on my bed (flopping wasn’t allowed, but it certainly didn’t stop me) and tried not to think about my purpose at the party next week.   In a couple years, I’d be too old to be of much interest to the middle aged men that liked to ogle me as Daddy paraded me around.  At least all they did was ogle.  Ogle.  What a stupid word.

As the 17-year-old daughter of one of Orange County’s richest, most successful developers, I had very little purpose but to be ogled.  Seriously, who made up that word, anyway?  I had been created as a toy to dress up.  “Maintaining Appearances” is the only thing that matters in my parents’ world. 

The next day, I spent 3 painful hours shopping for a dress with Mother.  She rejected all of the choices pulled for me by the personal shoppers, then huffed about having to find something herself.  We walked out with a floor length black dress with a sweetheart neckline.  Its lace sleeves started just below the bust and went up over my shoulders, then down to the waist in back, leaving a deep V of bare skin showing.  Bronze stilettos and accessories complimented my blonde hair and tan skin, which I’m sure Mother will insist I get sprayed again before the party.  Can’t have tan lines from tennis practice showing.  Only poor people have tan lines. 

When we got home, Mother shoved the dress into one of the staffs’ hands and strode away.  I walked up to my room and turned on my computer.  I pulled up the essay I was working on for my Cornell application.  Not only did Cornell have the best Hospitality Management program in the US, but it was also in New York.  Do you have any idea how far away New York is from California?  My parents would have a cow, but all I would need to do was remind them of how much fun they would have telling all their inane, vapid friends about how their darling daughter was going to Cornell. 

I had been working my ass off to keep my grades at Ivy standards.  Luckily, part of “Maintaining Appearances” is having a well-rounded high school resume.  I attend an exclusive prep school (excuse me, Preparatory Academy) where I was president of the Italian club and National Honor Society, an associate editor of the yearbook, and treasurer of our school’s chapter of SADD.  I also had landed the lead role in the last 2 school plays and had my eye on the lead for the fall musical in my upcoming senior year, and I sat on Student Government.  Then, of course, there was tennis.  My school doesn’t have sports, but I play in the local club league, and I’m number 1 singles.  I also dutifully do my volunteer work: feeding the homeless in Chino (Mother fought that one), walking the dogs at the shelter, reading and singing to the old people at the nursing home.   All I have to do is not bomb my SATs.  If I can get to an interview, I’m sure I can charm the interviewer.  Charm is another essential ingredient for “Maintaining Appearances.”

Of course, I had backups.  Pennsylvania State, Purdue, Cal Poly, University of Denver—in that order.  Cal Poly is probably the only one that Daddy would approve of (can't have his little doll too far away, becoming corrupted by the outside world), but I had been manipulating him since I was old enough to speak full sentences, so I wasn’t too worried.  I just had to get in. 

My boyfriend Jeff had promised to help me study for the SATs.  He’s one of those annoying people that are perfectly brilliant but refuse to apply themselves to anything worthwhile.  Mother hated him right away. (“He goes to public school!” she had shrieked, as if it was the worst thing in the world.  Of course, only poor people go to public school, so to her, it probably was.)  Daddy was on the fence, but a few bats of my genetically perfect eyelashes had Daddy convincing Mother to tone it down.  It’s disgusting how easily I can manipulate him.  Sometimes I feel bad about it, but then I remember being paraded around galas and fundraisers and charity balls, and that kills the guilt straight away.

Daddy wasn’t even convinced of the need for me to apply to colleges at all.  He thought he’d just set me up with a son of one of his business partners and marry me off the second I graduated from high school.  Luckily, Mother was on my side for that one, but only because she thought I’d find better potential husbands in college, and being able to brag about all the worthy potential life partners throwing themselves at my feet was appealing to her.  Ah, the Mrs. Degree, alive and well in sunny Southern California!

I stared at the two paragraphs I had written so far in my personal statement.  I read through them and frowned.  I quickly stopped frowning, though, because wrinkles won’t get you anywhere in life.  I sighed (sighing is allowed, in fact, it’s encouraged—at least if you judge by how often Mother does it in a typical day) and deleted everything.  I had started and deleted this statement at least 17 times.  Finally, I picked up my phone.

“Hi, Julia!” I said cheerfully when she answered the phone.  My friend Julia was the editor of our school newspaper and founder and president of the Poetry Slam club.   “I’m ready to take you up on your offer to help me with my Cornell personal statement.”