(Then/Now) Cassie: I Fucked Up

November 2008

"Oh come on," Savannah wheedled.  I regarded my cousin with disdain.  I didn't really care for Savannah, but now that she was going to school in Denver, she seemed to pop up whenever she needed something.

"No, Savannah.  My dad keeps inventory."  If she thought that I was seriously going to sneak her into my dad's restaurant in the middle of the night so she could steal some booze from his storeroom, she was out of her fucking mind.

"It's fine, I have some empties.  I'll fill them up with water.  I only drink clear liquor anyway," she reported.  "He won't even notice for months if we take the right bottles.  Don't be a pansy."

I didn't really care what kind of liquor she drank.  We were both 20, and apparently the latest boy she'd been sleeping with--who had, of course, also been buying her booze--had decided she was too high maintenance for his tastes and had taken his I.D. and credit card (and the rest of him, but that was apparently easily enough to replace) away.

"Go away," I said, holding open the door to my tiny apartment.  It was a studio (which Savannah disapproved of completely), but I was paying my tuition and my rent on my own, and I was proud of that.

"You are so lame," Savannah replied, but she flounced out the door.  I closed it tightly behind her and looked at the clock.  Shit, Savannah had distracted me for too long, I needed to get ready for work.

I pulled into the parking lot of my dad's restaurant, which I'd been working at since I was 15, and parked my car.  My watch read 4:49, which meant that I had one minute to get inside and clock in  before bar time said I was late.  I grabbed my stuff and booked it inside, clocking in seconds after the clock had changed to 5:00.  Stupid bar time.

We were dead that night, and I had my sidework done and was out by 9:30.  I also hadn't made shit for tips.  Oh well.  Tomorrow--Friday--would be better for sure.

I had a message on my phone, and I rolled my eyes when I listened to it.  It was Savannah, continuing to bug me about getting her in so she could take some alcohol.  I deleted it and didn't call back.  I didn't understand why she couldn't just find a new 21+ toy to play with.

Over the next week, though, Savannah badgered me to my breaking point.  I finally agreed to let her in for one bottle.  My dad made a ridiculous profit on alcohol anyway.  And hopefully after that she would let it be.

We went at 3am on a Saturday.  I pulled my car up behind the restaurant.  I had to go in the front door to disarm the security system, but Savannah insisted on waiting for me to open the kitchen door for her.   As I unlocked the front door, I looked automatically up at the camera like I always did, and I realized why.  "Bitch," I muttered.  I could think of a million ways to explain away my presence though, if my dad looked at the tapes for some reason.  And hopefully, like Savannah said, he wouldn't even realize his alcohol had been tampered with until months later, so he wouldn't put two and two together.  Hopefully.

My stomach roiled and clenched with nerves and I botched my first attempt at disarming the alarm.  "Shit, shit, shit!" I muttered to myself.  I quickly put in the correct numbers as the warning beeps grew louder and closer together, signaling that I was running out of time.  When it chirped and quieted, I briefly shut my eyes as I breathed out in relief.

Why am I doing this? I wondered to myself.  I was seriously questioning my own sanity, but it was too late now.  I walked quickly through the dark restaurant and flipped on the kitchen light--the only one that wouldn't be seen from outside.  Then I hurried to the kitchen door and pushed it open.  Savannah stepped in, looking as cool and collected as she always did.  "I was starting to think you wussed out and left me here alone," she sniffed.

I rolled my eyes and led the way to the store room where my dad kept the extra alcohol.  I unlocked it quickly and pushed the door open.  Savannah tried to slip past me but I put an arm up, blocking her.  "No way," I said.  "I know how this stuff is organized.  Give me your bottle and I'll make the swap."   She sighed and handed me the Ketel One bottle and I quickly found the case of Ketel One and pulled out one bottle and stuck hers in.

"Here," I said bitterly, handing it to her.  "Go straight out the kitchen door and don't touch anything else.  I'm turning the light off."  She took out her cell phone to illuminate the way.  I waited until she was at the door and flipped it off.  I heard the door open and I made my way back to the front.  I was insanely nervous again, and I peeked out into the parking lot before I emerged.  I locked the door quickly and walked around to the back.  Savannah was already sitting in the car.  I glanced at the kitchen door, then started the car and drove home.

"Never, ever again," I reiterated as Savannah and I got out of my car in front of my apartment building.

"You are such a drag," she replied.  "Thanks though!"  I waited until she was in her car, then I headed into my apartment.  I was shaking from the adrenaline of what I had just done, and I was so tired.  It was nearly 4 am by this point.  I pulled off my clothes and fell into bed, tossing and turning for nearly an hour before I finally fell asleep.

I was awakened rudely by my phone ringing loudly.  I fumbled for it before I realized it was still in the pocket of my jeans, which were across the room.  I squinted at the clock and saw it was only a little after 7.  The ringing stopped, and I decided I'd take care of it when I got up.  I rolled over and started to try to go back to sleep, but my phone rang again.  Swearing, I stumbled out of bed and fished it out, then answered.

"Cassandra."  My mom's voice was tight and anxious sounding.

"Yeah?"

"Your father's restaurant is on fire."  I was silent, trying to wrap my brain around those words.  "Cassandra?"

"Mom, don't call me that," I replied pointlessly.  "On fire?"

"On fire," she reported.  "The fire department is there now trying to put it out.  Your father is down there."

Suddenly, panic jolted me.  I would clearly be on tape, entering and exiting the restaurant at 3 in the morning.  Would they blame me?  "I...wow.  D-do they know how it...started?"  The words weren't coming out the way I wanted them to.

"Of course they don't," my mom snapped, and I could tell she was losing her patience.  "It's still burning."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing, right now," she replied, and her voice was kinder.  "I'll keep you posted, I just wanted you to know.  I didn't want you to get up and turn on the news and hear about it that way."  Like I watch the news on Saturday mornings.

We said goodbye and hung up, and I immediately dialed Savannah's number.  It went right to voicemail.  I cursed and left her a curt message demanding she call me back as soon as she got up.  I didn't even bother laying back down.  Instead, I got up and made myself some coffee.  I sat down with it, but was only able to sit for a few minutes.  I didn't know what to do.  I decided to go for a run.

I'm not a runner, but running is what people do when they're stressed, right?  Well, I'm not sure how it helps.  All it did was make me sweaty, sore, and out of breath.  I got back and took a shower.  I was checking my phone over and over but Savannah hadn't called back yet.  Finally, I got in my car and drove to her apartment.

I slipped into the controlled access building with someone else and ran up the 6 flights of stairs to her apartment.  I pounded on her door for nearly a minute straight until she finally opened it.

"What the hell, Cassie?" she demanded.

"My dad's restaurant is on FIRE!" I practically shrieked, shoving my way into her apartment.

"I know," she replied.

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned.  "What do you mean, you know?" I asked.

"It's all over the news, don't look at me like that."

"Well what am I supposed to do?  My face is all over the security footage."

Savannah shrugged.  "It'll probably be destroyed in the fire."

"And if it's not?" I demanded.

"Your dad won't ever believe that you arsoned his restaurant," she said dismissively.  It was clear she wasn't at all worried.  I couldn't stay here with her, she was pissing me off.

After I left, I decided to drive to the restaurant.  When I got there, I realized Savannah was most likely right that there would be nothing left of the security tapes.  The restaurant was still on fire.  Firemen were everywhere.  I had to park several parking lots over.  I sat and watched the firemen fight the blaze for nearly an hour.  It didn't seem like they were making any progress.  I felt absolutely sick.  Regardless of how they determined the fire was started, my dad's restaurant was destroyed.

My mom finally called me the next day.  "It's out," she reported.  "It's gone.  They'll tear down what's left."

"Do they have an idea how it happened?" I asked meekly.  I was exhausted.  I hadn't slept.  I still felt vaguely like I was going to throw up.

"They think it was arson," my mom replied, and my worst fear was confirmed.  I sat down hard on the floor.

"Shit," I muttered.

"Cassandra," my mom warned, but it was a very lackluster warning.

"Is there anything left?" I asked desperately.  "The security tapes?  Can they see who was there?"

"The tapes didn't make it." I breathed a sigh of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks.  I realized my mom was still talking.  "Which is unfortunate.  Since it's arson, the insurance won't pay unless we can prove who did it.  Your father and I just lost a lot of money."


*****

Now

I sat in the conference room in Brody's office suite and looked at Liv, willing her to be sympathetic.  Instead, she just looked confused.  I don't blame her.  She thought I was coming here to explain what was going on, and I had just told her a story from nearly 7 years ago.  I was planning on telling them what was going on, but the story was necessary.

"Okay, and?" Brody asked.  Even from here I could see the set of his jaw.  I looked at James, who nodded reassuringly.

"In June, Savannah and I were forced together for my brother's birthday dinner.  I mentioned that I had a new neighbor," I looked pointedly at Liv, "and she was suddenly really interested.  She told me she wanted to know more about you, but didn't want me to tell you I knew her.  It was fine at first.  We had a few conversations, I fed her a little info, she mostly left me alone.  When I realized she was scheming, I said no more."  I looked desperately at Liv, whose expression morphed briefly from confused to angry before she smoothed it into a placid, expressionless mask.  Her therapist face.  "I was getting to know you, and I liked you.  And I didn't want to be in the middle of her feud."

"But you kept telling her things anyway," Liv said.  "That's how she knew about my dinner with John.  That's how she knows about James and Jordan.  You just kept telling her.  Plus, you took that job to spy on us!  And what does your story about the fire have to do with any of this?  Because I'm starting to feel like you're wasting some more of my time, and I'm not very happy about it."  Brody laid a hand on her leg, but she brushed it off.  She was working hard to keep her face unreadable, but she was clearly furious.  I couldn't blame her.

"I'm getting to that," I replied patiently.  I took another deep breath and James bumped my knee with his under the table.  "When I told her I didn't want to do it anymore, she showed me that she had pictures of me in the restaurant the night it burned down.  She had taken them on her phone, and they sucked, but it was clearly me.  And they were date stamped on the phone.  I don't know where she'd been keeping that stupid old thing, or why, but she had it.  She said she'd tell my dad."

Liv's expression didn't change, but a muscle in Brody's tightly clenched jaw twitched.  I was worried about his teeth.  "I couldn't bear for my dad to know I had been in the restaurant that night.  I still don't know if Savannah set me up or if it was a big coincidence, but my dad lost the most profitable of his establishments that night.  He would be devastated to think I had something to do with it."

Liv and Brody remained silent so I continued.  "I was desperately trying to figure out a way out of it by the time she started asking me to stir up some rumors about Brody doing illegal business.  I was trying to avoid you, so I wouldn't have much to say to her.  She told me this was the last thing she wanted from me.  When everything backfired and you supported Brody and the rumors didn't take, Savannah told me to just get out of the way.  That's why I went to my parents' house.  I just needed to get out of here and be somewhere where I couldn't do any more damage."

"So why are you telling us this now?" Liv asked, her tone bitter.

"Because I heard about what she did this weekend.  Enough is enough."

Liv snorted and rolled her eyes.  I had never seen her this angry.  Brody put his hand back on her leg and this time she allowed it to stay.  "So what do you want from us now?" Brody asked.

"Nothing," I replied honestly.  "I wanted you guys to know the truth.  I want to apologize.  I'm so incredibly sorry.  I fucked up.  I fucked up really, really badly, and I regret every second of it.  I don't expect you to accept it, or to forgive me.  I just want you to know.  I told my dad everything, too.  He called her dad and he flew out this morning to collect her and take her back to California.  I don't know what they're going to do, but I'm pretty sure she's done gallivanting around with my uncle's credit card."

I tried hard not to shrink under Liv's glare.  Brody nodded though.  "Thank you," he said, surprising me.  Apparently it surprised Liv too, because she gave him a funny look.  "I appreciate you telling us this, but now you need to leave.  And I think it would probably be best if you didn't contact either of us unless we contact you first."

"That's fair," I agreed.

"It doesn't fucking matter if it's fair," Liv snapped.

"Liv--" Brody started.

"No!" she interrupted.  "She doesn't get to come in here and talk about "fair" after the shit she's done."

"I get it," I said softly.  "I deserved that."

Liv looked about ready to throw something at me.  "It's time for you to go," Brody said.  He motioned to the door and James and I stood.  He walked us silently to the door of the suite and held it open.  I heard the lock click behind us.

"Well," James said.  "Now what?"

I shook my head.  "I have no idea."




 

(Then) Savannah

Eyes on Cornell Part 3

December

I walked into the house after school and dropped my bag in the middle of the floor.  It really never got old.  I went into the kitchen for a snack and saw Mother and Daddy sitting stiffly at the kitchen table.  "Hi," I said, ignoring the weird looks they were giving me.  I had no idea why they were sitting there.  We never sit at the kitchen table.  Only poor people sit at a kitchen table.

"Savannah," Mother said, in a strained voice.  It was the voice she used when she wanted to yell but wouldn't, because people who Maintain Appearances don't yell.

"What?" I asked, not turning from the fridge, where I was digging for an apple.

"Please come sit down," Daddy said stiffly.  Now I was a little nervous.  I abandoned my quest for the perfect apple and walked over to the table.  I sat and stared from Mother to Daddy.

"What?" I asked again.  Silently, my mom pushed an opened envelope and letter my way.  "What is it?" I asked.  Then I saw the Cornell letterhead.  "You opened my mail?"

"It's a good thing we did," Daddy said firmly.  I pulled the letter to me, butterflies dancing in my stomach.  The butterflies quickly turned to large lead weights that settled at the bottom as I read.  "...regret to inform you that due to the plagiarism in your personal statement, your application will not be considered, and applications made in subsequent years will be unable to be considered as well.  This decision is not able to be appealed."

My mouth hung open as I read the sentences over and over.  There was more, but it didn't matter.  I looked up at Mother and Daddy.  "This is a mistake!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in volume and pitch.  It earned me a disapproving look from Mother, but I continued, getting closer and closer to squeaks.  "I didn't plagiarize!  I wrote my statement.  I worked so hard.  I worked on it for weeks!  Julia helped me edit it.  Julia..." I trailed off as a thought occurred to me.  I remembered what Julia had said about my personal statement.


***

I opened the email from her, my hand shaking with nerves.  Did she hate it?  Was it awful?  I read carefully.  "Savannah, your statement is good!  I made a few small changes.  I also added a paragraph at the end that nicely sums everything up and will make the readers think a little.  If you hate it, feel free to take it out, but I think that it helps bring it from a really good statement to an amazing one.  Let me know if you have questions about the changes!"

I opened the document next, looking at the changes she'd made.  She was right about the last paragraph.  It really pulled everything together, and it was good.  It didn't sound exactly like my writing, but I liked it, so I decided to keep it.

***

"Shit!" I shrieked.

"Savannah Lynn," Mother admonished, but I was already racing out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room.  I pushed the button to start my computer.   With shaking hands, I opened the personal statement document.  I copied the last paragraph and pasted it into Yahoo search.  When I hit Enter, my screen was immediately filled with exact matches.  Panic gripped me.  Why hadn't I searched it?  Why had I trusted her?  "Trust no one" is pretty much unwritten rule number one of Maintaining Appearances.

The panic increased as I realized I had used the same essay with some small changes for Penn State and Purdue.  I began to cry, forgetting that my parents were waiting for me downstairs, probably completely irritated at my sudden outburst and flight from the room.  I got up and turned the lock on the doorknob, then threw myself on my bed.  I was sobbing uncontrollably now.

30 minutes later, the panic had subsided to numbness, and I lay on my bed, curled in a ball.  I was no longer crying, just staring at the wall.  A knock sounded at my door. 

"Savannah?  Can I come in?" Daddy's voice was gentle.  I didn't respond.  "Savannah," he continued, undeterred.  "We can fix this.  If you really want to go to Cornell, I can call--"

"NO!!  I don't want you to fix this!" I wailed. 

"I just wish you would have told us, sweetheart."  Ha, so they could talk me out of it before I bothered applying, I'm sure.  I was silent.  "Okay, well, we can talk more later.  Maria says dinner will be ready in 15 minutes."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

I didn't go down to dinner.  I didn't go down for breakfast the next morning.  I was thankful it was Saturday, because I wouldn't have to go to school.  I laid in bed, wallowing, until a gentle knock sounded at my door around 11:30.  I wasn't going to answer, but then a soft voice followed.

"Savannah?  It's Maria.  I brought you a sandwich.  You must eat, love." I dragged myself out of bed and cracked the door open.  Our cook and housekeeper Maria stood there, promised sandwich in hand.  "Let me in, love," she prodded gently.  I pulled the door open and she stepped in.  She closed it behind her and handed me the plate with the sandwich.  She sat on my bed as I ate.  When I finished, she took the plate and set it on my desk.   Then she pulled me into a hug.  The tears came again, and I sobbed into her shoulder as she stroked my hair and whispered soothing words to me.

When I stopped, she held me at arm's length.  "Tell me what happened," she directed.  I told her the whole story.  My plans to go far, far away for school.  Struggling with the statement, asking Julia for help.  Using the same, plagiarized statement at my top 3 schools.

"Did you apply anywhere else?" she asked kindly when I had finished.  I nodded miserably. 

"Cal Poly and Denver," I hiccuped.

With a decisive nod, she said, "Well, then I guess you are going to Denver, yes?"

With a wry, watery smile, I replied, "I guess I'm going to Denver."
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This wraps up this part of Savannah's story.  I'm sure there will be more on her later, but for now I'm going to move to other characters.  Thanks for reading!

(Then) Savannah

Eyes on Cornell Part 2

Julia had offered to help me with my essay as soon as I told her I was applying to Cornell, but unlike most of the people I knew, I wanted to try it on my own first.  Well, now I had tried and failed.  Not getting into Cornell wasn’t an option, so hopefully Julia would be able to help. 

She came over the next day and carefully read the part of my application that told me what to write.  Then she gave me some tips and talked me through my ideas.  She had me write down some notes, then told me to write and email it to her to edit when I was done.  I hugged her and thanked her for her help.  I actually had an idea of what to write now.

I did some writing and revising.  I couldn’t spend too long working on it at once without Mother getting suspicious, so I did the best could over the next several days.  I felt good about it the morning of the party, but decided to sit on it for a couple more days before sending it to Julia.

Mother helped me get ready for the party.  Or, rather, Mother stood in my bedroom and directed the people she had hired to help me get ready for the party.  I sat perfectly still like a good little doll as Mother’s hair artist (Seriously, lady? Hair Artist? Come on.) swept my long blonde hair into a perfect updo.  Then the makeup person, who must be new, painted my face.  Mother was horrified after and snapped something about drag queens.  Then she made the makeup person take it all off before she fired her and did my makeup herself. 

I regarded myself in the mirror when they were all finished fussing over me.  I looked like I could have been one of the developers’ third wives.  They go younger and younger each time, you know.  Mother frowned and regarded my arms, which were perfectly sculpted from hours of tennis practice.  “It’s a good thing we got something with a little bit of a sleeve at least,” she muttered, poking at invisible fat at the back of my arm.

“Don’t frown, mother.  Your plastic surgeon works hard enough already.”  It came out with the perfect amount of haughtiness.  It’s a tone that’s well known amongst the people that “Maintain Appearances.”  She quickly forced her face into a relaxed state, but it didn’t stop her from glaring at me.  You only need your eyes for that.

She ushered me out of my room and we walked downstairs.  I walked as easily in my 4 inch stiletto heels as I do barefoot (not that being barefoot is allowed, being barefoot is for poor people).  Another one of those things I’ve been forced to practice since I could walk. 

“You look beautiful, honey,” Daddy said, as I made my way down the stairs.

“Thank you, Daddy!” I chirped, kissing him on the cheek.  We waited patiently while Mother rattled off the rules.  I don’t know why she bothered.  The first thing Daddy did every time he took me to one of these things was give me a glass of champagne.  That was definitely against Mother’s rules. 

We arrived at the party venue, a chic museum that had been transformed, with a string quartet near the ticket window, a bar opposite, and tables lining the empty spaces.  The middle of the entrance hall now contained scale models of properties: houses, golf courses, even this very museum.  Because of course Daddy had done the flawless addition to this building 6 years ago.  One of his assistants stood near the models, answering questions politely. 

“Mr. Charles!” came a voice.  “And is this the Mrs. Charles?” The tall man took my hand and kissed it.  Who was this guy?  No one does that anymore.

Daddy chuckled.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bob.  This is my daughter Savannah.  Savannah, this is Bob Bradley.  Bob is an owner at Bradley and Smithson Development.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Bradley,” I simpered, with a coquettish smile.  Daddy nodded in approval. 

“Bob, please,” he said, smiling broadly.  And ogling.  Daddy never insisted anyone call him by first name.  He said it was a sign of weakness.  Mother would say that only poor people insist someone call them by their first name.   Mother makes a lot of assumptions about poor people, because I’m pretty sure she’s never met someone who actually qualifies as poor.

The rest of the evening was much of the same.  Daddy didn’t limit my champagne, and by the end of the night I was a little wobbly on my feet.  I also didn’t notice the lecherous stares as much. 

We left the party a little after 1, with Daddy insisting it was improper to keep a 17-year-old out any later, because nothing good happens after 1 am.  This statement, which he repeated over and over, was accompanied by a wink and a laugh.  I did my best to paste a smile on my face and not shudder.

In the car, I loosened the straps of my shoes and wiggled my toes, which had now been numb for roughly 4 hours.  They tingled slightly as the blood flowed back into them. 

“Another successful event,” Daddy muttered.  “Thank you, Savannah.”  I nodded silently. 

When I got home, I pulled off the dress and left it in a heap on the floor.  I took a long, steamy shower, scrubbing the makeup off my face and trying to exfoliate away the lingering memories of the stares and hungry smiles.  Each time I went to a party like this, I got a little more used to it.  A small part of me even started to enjoy the attention.  But after, I always felt gross.

The next day, I got up and re-read my personal statement.  I made a few small changes.  I still couldn’t bring myself to send it to Julia, so I told myself I’d give it one more day, then send it.  I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day.  I went to tennis practice, then to the beach with Jeff and some of his friends.  I told Mother I was shopping, of course.

As I read the statement one more time the next afternoon, I couldn’t find any changes to make.  I knew it was time to send it to Julia.  Summer was almost over, and I needed her to have plenty of time to look it over.  I was planning to apply early decision to Cornell and I wanted to get everything take care of as soon as possible. 

I took a deep breath and hit send.  I felt a rush of anxiety as the “Your message has been sent” dialogue popped up, but there wasn’t anything more I could do but wait to hear back from Julia.

(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.”