The gossamer gown I’m wearing reflects every glittering crystal along the ballroom walls.

Laurel Jameson turns 18 today, and the entire class of Westwick Preparatory Academy is gathered in the hotel ballroom to celebrate her. Every lavish design, expensive gift and extravagance has been laid at Laurel’s feet. The catering is something to be reckoned, some of it getting better plane tickets that people who are flying into this city. It is a despicable waste of time and money, but who am I to say so? I have never wanted to celebrate my birthday at all, much less by parading the entire class around with a show of extravagance and then pretending like everything personally offends.

“You must be having fun,” Laurel says to me in a biting voice, flouncing her wrist in my direction. “You’ve got no life, Carrie. But I can’t believe my parents let the caterers freeze and reheat these trays. And serving four kinds of salad? And this seafood stinks.” Laurel drops her glass on the ground, and it doesn’t shatter against the plushly carpeted floor, just spilling. Laurel walks away from me, done with her current jab and the beverage that so dissatisfied her.

I see her stalking toward one of the caterer’s staff members. The woman fearfully makes her way towards Laurel to give her a new champagne flute, even though everyone knows she didn’t drop the glass by accident.

“This is my birthday!” Laurel says, slamming her hands to her hips and squeezing herself for added emphasis. “I want real fucking champagne, not this sparkling kid shit. I am an adult at my fucking birthday and you’re serving me bubbling fucking piss. If I tell my daddy how you treated me, he won’t even send the check. And do you think your boss is going to pay you if he doesn’t get paid?” Laurel steps close enough to press her nose to the server’s nose, hunkering over her to make sure she feels just how low she is. Really, a class act.

“Ma’am…I can’t…you’re underage–” The server stammers. Doubtless she’s new and hasn’t dealt with enough prep school socialites to know that they all act like they’re entitled to the fucking air around her and no one else should be able to breathe it.

Lindsay stomps over in little steps. Her seven-inch heels aren’t conducive to much more than costing six thousand dollars and making her tall enough to tower over the server. “My mother is planning to use your company for my party next, and if I tell her about this, there’s no way that your shitty caterer boss is getting that job if you don’t stop harassing us,” Lindsay says with what seems to be genuine indignation.

“Stop,” I groan. I don’t mean to talk to these girls, but I can’t stand how they’re treating this woman. When they pick on me, that’s one thing. I can ignore them. But the poor server doesn’t deserve this treatment. “We’re all 18, we can’t have real champagne. Money can buy the law, but not quite like that.” I narrow my eyes. “This woman is just trying to do her job. Leave her alone.”

It works. The whole gaggle of prissy bitches who run Westwick Prep turn and circle me.

“It doesn’t matter how hard your desperate mother tries to buy you what’s in season, you’re always going to be a fucking joke. Don’t ruin my party or I will tell your mother what a cunt you’re being,” Laurel says, one hand on her hip and the other wagging a finger at me.

Mara, another one of the future trophy wives, jumps forward and pulls on my dress. “You are so fucking weird, even this dress can’t change that. I almost bought the same one. No way I can now. I’d gag thinking about you.” Mara shoves me.

The needless viciousness from my peers might be painful if I cared at all. But I don’t. Not in the “that’s what I say because really I’m so torn up inside” way. I don’t care at all. It’s how I deal with the fact that my parents are too worried about keeping up with everyone else to ever worry about their daughter. My parents only care about themselves, so I’ve never felt any real affection for them as long as I can remember. It would be lonely, but I spend most of my time buried in a book. Fictional worlds are much better places to be.

I turn and leave, a sea of gasps and bitchiness fading into the noise behind me.

The hotel bar isn’t very crowded tonight. I sit on the far end and pull out my phone.

“What’ll ya have?” the bartender asks, his eyes forming two slits when he sees me, obviously underage.

“Ginger ale, please,” I say, handing him a wad of the money my mother gave me for tonight. Never go anywhere without enough money to look like you can just spend and it doesn’t matter, that’s what my mother always says.

The bartender nods. “Sure thing.” He returns momentarily with a full glass of bubbly ginger ale. I take a sip and look at my phone. I should just read a book, wait for my mother’s call. The white noise of the bar could be nice for reading. But I don’t want to be here. I want to be in my room. I want to be alone.

I dial Mother’s number into my phone, because even though I should, I don’t have her as a contact. I don’t know why I didn’t add her number, but I don’t have any contacts in my phone anyway.

Just like I don’t have friends at this party.

Likely, it’s a waste to call Mother. I know what she’ll say. It’ll be just like Lindsay’s party the week before. What the next party will be like.

I call, and the phone rings several times. I can almost hear Mother sucking her teeth. I can smell her cloying perfume when I start thinking of her.

My options are slim.

One, I can remain in the Maxor Hotel’s ballroom. Drowning here in the empty conversations and endless mockery, or…

Two, I can go home. Suffocate in the inescapable obsession over my appearance and my social status.

My heart is aching for a place that’s truly home. It isn’t a place I’ve been before. I don’t know if it’s a place that I’m going.

“Hello?” Mother picks up the phone, finally, and pretends that she wasn’t watching my phone call on her phone’s screen the entire time.

“I’d like to come home, please. Could you pick me up, or send Father?” I ask. My voice sounds like it’s fading away. Am I whispering? “The party is winding down.” I hope this detail will grant me an exit, but it won’t. Mother wants me to schmooze, to never miss an opportunity to make impressions and connections. “Other people are going home.”

“No,” Mother says. “You’ll stay. We’ll let you know when you can come home.” I can almost hear her eyebrows knit in frustration. She’ll stop when she thinks of the lines that might form on her skin. “Socialize!” she groans. Mother hangs up.