Brooke

There are plastic stars on my ceiling.

They’ve been there so long I almost don’t see them. They glowed in the dark at the beginning, but that was a long time ago. I had a brief astronomy phase in middle school. A telescope is packed away in one of the closets, too expensive for someone who isn’t serious.

I can still recognize a few constellations. I remember having my ruler out, determined to get the relative spacing right while the maid held the ladder steady. The little dipper. Gemini.

It feels like I’ve lived my entire life as a child, my protective bubble lined with plastic and glitter. And suddenly, with a single phone call, the bubble pops.

Imagine how shocked your mother would be.

Shocked, probably.

Disappointed, definitely. All her hard work to turn me into a society lady down the drain. The booster club would never let me in. It’s a strange relief, even if they’ll never know.

How angry your father would be.

He would be furious at all the money he poured into me, into my private school and my designer clothes. Like I’m an investment that will never pay out.

I never wanted to be a society lady. Never wanted to be an investment, but they don’t ask what I want. Expectations. Requirements. A hundred different rules for me to follow, and I’ve complied with them all. They never realized that the pressure would build and build. That when I finally broke their rules, it would be by doing something as disastrous as this. As touching myself for a murderer.

Every person in that fucking birthday party, smiling for you, looking down at you like you’re some little kid. And meanwhile you’re fucking yourself with your fingers, hungry and slick, desperate enough to come for a criminal.

And I’d liked it. Loved it.

My body still hums from the orgasm, my muscles clenching even as the phone line went dead in my ear. How messed up is that? What’s wrong with me that I get off with a guy like him?

I need to stop. I know that, but my stomach twists at the thought of never seeing him, never hearing his voice. It’s a crush, like the one I had on Mr. Hernandez in the ninth grade. Silly and stupid, but the way my body felt when he spoke, I didn’t feel silly. I felt alive.

The bedroom door swings open, no warning, my mother waltzing in like she owns the place—which she does. Even so, it’s jarring, a shock. And my heart is still beating so fast and so hard, I can’t believe she doesn’t hear it.

“Where is that blue Armani?” she says, breezing into my closet. “We need to make sure it’s ready for the party on Saturday.”

Will she be able to tell? Can she smell it in the air? The faintest musk? A hint of sex? My body is completely under the covers, my right hand resting on my stomach. The phone slid down to my shoulder. I’m paralyzed. Afraid to move, like it will somehow reveal me.

Hangers clank. Fabric rustles. So much fabric. So many dresses. “Didn’t you spill something last time? Was there a stain?”

Someone bumped me, sloshing apple juice onto me. Which is why wearing ten thousand dollars to an overcrowded hotel ballroom isn’t the best idea.

Maybe it’s because I’m afraid to move or maybe it’s because I just came so hard I saw stars behind my eyelids, real sparks instead of plastic that doesn’t glow, but I say, “Does it matter?”

All movement stops. My mother emerges from the closet, but instead of looking angry, she seems concerned. “Is this because of Detective Rivera?”

“What? No.” Why is she bringing this up now? I don’t want her asking me about him.

And I definitely don’t want her calling him again.

“Are you sick?” she demands.

It makes my heart hurt that she would guess that. It’s the only reason someone might not care what other people think.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” I say, looking away. My birthday is tomorrow, but that doesn’t matter. It’s all about the party on Saturday. I guess even my birthday can’t behave properly. It needs to be fit into a more appropriate day.

“Well, what are you doing lying in bed? Help me find it.”

I sit up, keeping my legs hidden under the covers, like I might have a scarlet A written across my thighs. There might actually be a small damp spot beneath me, which is really the same thing.

“Mom.”

She spots a pile of clothes in the corner, eyes widening like she’s struck gold. And for her, she has. It’s not even fashion that makes her excited. It’s status. “These should be hanging up. They’ll wrinkle.”

“And what if I show up with a wrinkle?” I ask wryly. “Or a stain?”

She gives me a side look. “Don’t give me sass, young lady.”

My brain is still blissed-out from the orgasm. From the rush of talking to him. That’s the only explanation for my sudden rashness. “I’m being serious. What horrible thing would happen if my dress isn’t perfect or my makeup? If I’m not a size two?”

Instead of snapping at me, she sits down beside the bed, her eyes soft. “Are you having your period? I know it can make you bloated. That tea…”

I cut her off with a groan. “I’m not having my period. I just don’t understand why we do all this. Why we pretend so much. I don’t even know how to be myself.”

Her lips firm. “This is you. Brooke Carson. This is who you were born to be.”

If I was born to be like this, why does it always feel like a struggle? Not only for me. For her. For Daddy. “I just don’t want you to work so hard.”

“It won’t always be this way,” she says firmly, standing up and returning to the closet. “Your father has a large development deal he’s closing.”

There’s always some new deal on the horizon. Some new investment. Some new way to stall the debt collections. And we’re always spending more so that no one realizes how close we are to ruin.

It’s a miracle we’ve kept up appearances this long. A miracle that the glue on those plastic stars has held on all these years. Only a matter of time until they all fall down.