One
Dear Calla, I’m a loser. I hate being a loser, but I hate the beautiful, popular people even more. How can I be “authentic” and still be seen as someone other than a wallflower? ~Signed, Vine in a Garden of Flowers
The stranger purses her lips as if tasting the sour words about to come out of her mouth. She glances down at the place card table next to us and then back at me. I see the cracks in her matte lipstick when her mouth curls into a knowing smile. “So many familiar names here tonight, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you yet.”
While the crowded foyer table is full of cards for Mr. and Mrs., my single name is written in a slightly larger font, standing out among the bragging cards around it. With my fingers already on the seam of the cardstock, I have no choice but to free my name from the bullies around it.
When the woman reads my name, her deep-set eyes widen in mock surprise while her coy smile confesses her true opinion. “Calla Kennedy? As in the Calla Kennedy?” She fans her hand over the neckline of her black designer gown. “When Jacob told me he had invited you tonight, I told him how much I was looking forward to meeting you. Just the other night I was reading an interesting article about your rise to fame from a—” she pauses and leans in so that I can smell the Chardonnay on her breath, “—troubled childhood to an equally troubled adulthood.”
She takes a sip of wine and leaves a layer of her red lipstick on the rim. Shaking her head, she pouts, making her plump lips look like she’s blowing a collagen bubble. “Most people would’ve hidden away and never shown their face again, but you showed your fans that bullies cannot silence the strong. I think those were your exact words, weren’t they? I was telling my husband just this morning that you’re such a strong role model for this generation.”
When she picks up her own place card, I cringe when I read her familiar last name.
She wrinkles her pert, little nose. “What was your blog’s catch phrase again?”
I clench my teeth together, trying to bite back the words that sit on the tip of my tongue. Unfortunately, my clenched teeth force my lips into an odd shape, and I’m pretty sure I have the same expression I did in my second grade class picture. That particular photo earned me the nickname Ogre. From the vile things this woman and her catty friends were whispering about me in the bathroom a few minutes ago, I bet my new nickname is probably just as creative.
The stranger’s overly-plucked eyebrows arch when I hand her two business cards.
She brings my business card closer to her eyes, deepening the lines between her brows. “J-A-C. Just Ask Calla.” She barks out a startled laugh, sounding like a seal performing for a crowd. “Catchy.”
Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I wait for her to read the second business card. Time seems to slow as her expression gives way to gravity. Lines and wrinkles break through the heavy caking of her makeup when she closes her eyes. A hissing sound comes from her mouth like her plump lips are slowly losing air. I step back just in case the hissing precedes a pop.
Hiding behind her lids, she fails to see her husband walk over with his whitened smile and dark, pretentious stare. When he wraps his lanky arms around his wife’s waist, she stiffens and slowly opens her eyes. Her gaze lands somewhere over my shoulder, but by the stiff set of her jaw, I can tell she’s already mapped out her revenge.
Scorned women are quick like that.
Her husband presses his mouth to the top of her head and then puckers his thin lips like he tastes the bottle of hairspray holding in her updo. His bushy eyebrows curve up as he winks at me for the second time tonight.
Shaking my head—also for the second time—I watch his wife pull her shoulders back and shift her glare back to me. While her lips are tightly pressed together, I can practically hear the curses she’s mentally screaming. She slowly turns around and holds up the second business card that I handed her—the one that has her husband’s name and handwritten promise to be my “next Prince Charming”.
His face pales while his blanched lips part. His wife uses the opening to shove his business card between his molars. Turning back to me, she grabs my wine glass and storms away with an exit à la Scarlett O’Hara. I think about applauding but decide to take my cue from the small audience now snickering around us. A waiter happens to be among the crowd, so I nab a glass of water off his full tray and turn toward the emergency exit.
I am just about to sound the alarm when my date for the evening slips her deceptively strong arm through mine. Without saying a word, Mila steers me through another wood-paneled room and pulls us into a small alcove. Releasing her death grip, my best friend places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me down so that we’re eye to eye.
Releasing me, she pushes her long black bangs away from her smokey eyes and leans in. “Repeat after me. I’m Calla Kennedy.”
I close my eyes and take in a long breath, trying to ignore the voices on the other side of the thin wall. “I’m Calla Kennedy.”
“I’m a twenty-eight-year-old award-winning advice blogger.”
Opening my eyes, I shake my head. “Being runner-up for ‘Hottest Blogger’ by a group of college kids doesn’t really make me an award-win—”
She silences me with her well-practiced glare. “Was there a trophy involved?”
By anyone else’s standards, the beer bottle trophy accessorized with a half-naked Barbie doll wearing a hula skirt probably wouldn’t count as a trophy. By Mila’s standards, I should’ve left the stale-smelling glass on my mantel.
Resisting the urge to groan, I nod. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old award-winning advice blogger.”
Mila brings her glass up to her glossy lips, but doesn’t take a sip. “I graduated at the top of my class in school psychology.”
Learning my lesson, I close my eyes but shake my head. “Graduating summa cum laude didn’t do me much good since the school district still fired my ass.”
Although I’m locked in darkness, I can still feel the weight of Mila’s glower. Nodding, I whisper, “I graduated at the top of my class in school psychology.”
“You made sure that your students were protected from assholes like Drew Peters.”
A muscle twitches above my eye when I picture the upper classman who I found out was pimping out the virginities of the underclassmen to anyone willing to pay for it. Clenching my jaw, I repeat her phrase.
Her voice is thick with a familiar emotion when she whispers, “And showed the world that no one can break you.”
Dropping my chin to my chest, I feel the rounding of my shoulders as my body reflexively tries to protect itself. With the tightening in my throat, a groan finally escapes from my stiffly corseted chest, and I lean back against the wall behind me.
Growing up, I was never the type of girl who liked fairy tales. Even as a kid, I couldn’t stand the idea that I would need a guy to rescue me. While my friends were wearing dresses that made them look like rolls of cotton candy, I was scaling trees and fighting off the nose-picking princes in the neighborhood. My two best friends and I spent our Maryland summers under shaded porches, swearing off boys, and promising to never let a prince change us.
Over time, hormones severed the connected roots of our pact. While my friends ran off with any prince who promised them a happily ever after, I kept my heart safe and refused to believe their lies.
Unfortunately, fate doesn’t really give a shit about conviction.
Nor did my ex-boyfriend who not only videotaped us having sex but also made an entire fairy tale themed web series out of it called “Once Upon a Cock”. In spite of the juvenile title, the series has gained a devoted following. With a new video released every two weeks, he’s made sure my life has been in a constant downward spiral since the moment I broke up with him.
Mila reaches down and laces her fingers through mine. Her confident expression fades into a painful sort of sympathy when she squeezes my hand. “And you continue to survive and use that humiliation to take a stand against the asshats of the world. What do you think these prissy women are? They’re just bullies draped in diamonds.” She leans back, her wicked green eyes darkening with mischief. “And you know what I say about cocktail parties.”
I try to suppress a giggle, but the mental visual is too vivid to ignore. “That cocktail parties are full of cocks wearing tails.”
Mila releases my hand and straightens, shaking out her arms. “You know darn well you could steal any of these cocks from their wives, but you choose to remain single because you have morals and standards. Something this fundraiser seriously lacks.” She tips her chin toward something in the room next to us. “I mean look at the size of that woman’s lips. I swear she must’ve asked her plastic surgeon to match the lips on her face with the ones between her legs.”
I roll my eyes and smack her lighter than she deserves. “That’s disgusting.”
She reapplies her lipstick and smacks her lips together. “I wasn’t the one who had her lips done. Yell at her.”
Leaning against the wall, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I hate that Jacob has to rely on these wallets to keep his company in the green. He says he feels like he has to sell a part of his soul just to create jobs for his clients.”
Mila looks at me like I’m an idiot, an expression she’s perfected over the years. “He runs a non-profit for the homeless, Calla. His soul’s not the issue. It’s these other souls who might want to prepare for the afterlife. Someone should tell them that stop, drop, and roll won’t work in hell.” She clinks her chakra ring against the side of her glass and looks into the other room. “You’re just here so that he has a friendly face in the crowd, and I’m here because there’s an open bar.”
“And because you love Jacob,” I sing like a ten-year-old and pull up the neckline of my gown.
She waves off the thought with a blush deeper than the color of her fingernails. “While you were talking to Ms. Pucker Lips, I heard a tasty morsel of gossip that might redeem tonight.” She gestures for me to bend down. “He’s here.”
Most people take one look at Mila and assume her legs open as easily and as often as her mouth. Whether their opinion comes from her lack of fabric or etiquette, some people refuse to see her as anything other than white trash. Those of us in her tightest circle of friends know she has strict criteria for the men she invites between her legs. Whereas I just fantasize about men in leather, Mila only opens shop for men who are dark, troubled, and look damn fine running from the law. Incarcerations tend to be the perfect ending for a woman afraid of commitment. I can’t imagine any of her “he’s” would be here.
Mila pulls at the sides of her high-neck gown to expose some of her side boobs. “The prince.”
My heart drops. “Prince Harry? He’s here? In Baltimore?” I shriek like the slightly obsessed stalker that I am. I may or may not have had twenty-one pictures of Harry taped to every wall in my bedroom growing up. There may or may not be one still hidden behind the clothes in my closet.
Mila draws her lower lip between her teeth and leans in. “No. Prince Ashton.”
I open my mouth then close it—needing a second to search the royal library inside of my mind. “I’m pretty sure there’s only Harry and William.”
Draping her arm back through mine, Mila pulls us out of the alcove. “How have you never heard of him before? You’re a freaking relationship blogger. You’re online all of the time. His face is on every page of the internet. Just the other day I was searching for frankincense, and Prince Ashton was smiling up at me from the sidebar.”
I duck to avoid a waiter carrying an empty tray of glasses. “You need to clean your cookies...”
I cringe the minute the word is out of my mouth, remembering that Mila refers to her clitoris as her “cookie”.
Not missing a beat, Mila pulls me in closer so I can see the wild gleam in her eyes. “I would rather the prince do that for me.”
“I mean you need to clean the cookies from your hard drive!”
Mila guides us over to the bar and waves off my advice. “I have no idea why people call him a prince since he’s not actual royalty. But he is the hottest commodity on the east coast—as in a good that can satisfy wants and needs. Wait until you see that man’s mouth.” She stares up at the ceiling with her tongue darting out to lick her lips. Her voice grows louder when she moans. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve imagined those lips…”
I hand her my water glass, hoping to keep her tongue occupied. I hate to call my friend easily distracted, but it’s one of my favorite things about her. Where I analyze the living hell out of every situation, she flits through life like a hummingbird looking for its next fix.
She finishes my water and dabs at the corner of her lips with a napkin. Unfortunately, the water seems to have amped up her giddiness as she fans herself with her free hand. “His whole family is rich as sin, so it’s possible he just lives out of his daddy’s wallet. He has a few restaurants he uses as cover, but I heard that he runs a respectable escort service on the side. No matter what he does, everyone agrees he and his brother are the most eligible bachelors in the entire country, and I’m determined to have me a taste of him.”
Mila hands her empty glass to a man walking by. By the severe scowl on his splotchy face, I don’t think he appreciates being confused for a waiter. Mila grabs two glasses off the bar just as a woman is about to pick them up. Handing one to me, she leans over. “You know me, girl. I’m a single female who is proud of her body. I know one day my uterus will insist on babies and college funds, but right now my cookie is in charge, and she happens to adore men. I’m not going to waste my time on a potentially good lay when I can have a man who’s a definite.”
She steers us through the growing crowd—her years of Black Friday shopping finally paying off— and I fall in step behind her, trying not to trip in my two-sizes-too-large heels. We cross under a tall, ornate archway and slip into a larger, slightly musky-smelling room.
On one side of the cavernous space stands the elite collection of bow-tied millionaires, each trying to out-laugh the other. Across from them stand their trophy wives, locked behind their fake smiles and even faker conversations. Slipping through the cracks between them, Mila pulls us into a small seating area donned with high bar stools and even higher tables. I accidentally step on the hem of my deep purple ball gown and feel the satin edge of the bodice slip further down my breasts. Putting my glass down, I search the crowd of unfamiliar faces, hoping not to catch anyone’s eyes while trying to shimmy my dress back into place.
As if on cue, a stranger tips his chin up at me from across the room. Actually, I’m not entirely sure he sees me at all. Just like the other jerks at tonight’s gala, he seems more interested in the cleavage Mila suggested I wear this evening.
I think about shaking my shoulders so that the ladies can wave back, but I’m afraid I might get arrested for indecent exposure if this dress falls any lower. Not for the first time I wonder if I should just take my boobs out so that people will have their fill and stop staring at them. Maybe then they’ll stop staring at me, too.