The year was 1991, and Mom and I were driving to Paradise Hills to celebrate my cousin Shannon's eighteenth birthday party.
Shannon had never liked me. In fact, she hated me. She was always poking fun at my weight, or clothes, or just how I walked and talked. There was always something wrong that Shannon could find fault with.
Her mom (my aunt Martha) had married into generational wealth which had only skyrocketed in recent years thanks to President Reagan's financial deregulations and tax cuts. When my uncle passed away a couple of years ago, she inherited it all.
It meant that Shannon was rich (disgustingly rich.) She afforded the latest fashions, drove expensive cars, took multiple vacations a year, and attended the most elite all-girls school in the state, the prestigious
Paradise Institute
.
Meanwhile, I was someone who still took the bus to my crappy public school, despite being a senior.
Aunt Martha had never worked a day in her life. She met my uncle in college and married him soon after graduation. She lived a life of ease and luxury, enjoying the service of a 24-hour maid, allowing her to focus solely on beautifying herself with the best cosmetics, nutrition, surgery, and exercise that her vast fortune could buy.
It wasn't fair. Mom struggled every day to afford what little we had. Dad abandoned us when I was still a girl, and Mom had been working as many odd jobs as she could find to keep us afloat.
I didn't like to think about her in that way, but for sure the stress over bills and groceries had taken a toll on her looks. She was a gaunt woman with lank hair and permanent dark circles under her tired eyes.
It was hard to believe Martha was her sister. She was so classically beautiful with high cheekbones, perfect posture, and a firm, proud bosom. Unfortunately for Mom, Martha had stolen all the best genes from my grandparents for herself, leaving Mom with the leftovers she never wanted.
Mom had a massive inferiority complex in regard to her sister. She always tried extra hard for us to look presentable in front of her, often spending way more than we could afford on new clothes. It was kind of sad.
Today was no different. Mom had me wear a dress with a stupid spinny skirt and a bow on the back. It made me feel like a little kid going to her first dance. I wore a cardigan to cover my arms in an effort to hide them from Shannon's inevitable jabs about my weight.
My default aesthetic was grunge. I loved Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. I had band t-shirts, flannel shirts, and torn jeans. I felt comfortable like that. It was kind of cool, plus it hid my body. But Mom freaked when she saw me dressed like that for Shannon's party. She was always hyper tense before meeting Martha and the last thing either of us needed was an argument.
'Mansion Martha,' as Mom liked to call it, was a grand colonial fenced property situated on 88 acres, with a long winding driveway, a circular motor court around a stone fountain, and lush, manicured lawns. There was a four-car detached garage, a front portico supported by Corinthian columns, and a large rear patio overlooking the grounds and gazebo. It held an aura of elegance and power.
The party had been going on for a couple of hours and the driveway was full of expensive cars all belonging to Shannon's rich friends.
The embarrassment on Mom's face was obvious as she parked her run-down Buick Estate Wagon with torn seating and a broken radio between a brand new Chrysler TC Maserati and a BMW E30 M3.
"I sure hope nobody sees this is our car," she muttered, looking around anxiously to make sure we were alone.
She was always like this. It made me feel bad for her. Yes, Martha was rich, but it wasn't as if she'd done anything to earn it. It was all inherited from her husband. Mom worked hard to provide for me. She was a good person. She always tried her best. That counted far more in my eyes than whatever snooty school she could or couldn't afford to send me to.
Sure, Shannon obviously had an advantage over me in terms of her education, connections, and good looks, but that wasn't going to stop me making a success of myself.
I was going to be a novelist. I loved King and Koontz. It was my dream to be a bestseller. I specialized in horror and gothic. I'd even had a short story accepted for publication.
I channeled all our hardships and struggles to aid my creative flow. One day, Mom would see, and then everything she'd been through would be worth it. I fantasized about her proudly declaring to Aunt Martha how I was top of the New York Times bestseller list. Finally, she would have something to brag to her about for once.
No matter Shannon's privileges, she could never write a novel anyone cared about reading. Art was created through suffering. What could Shannon possibly write about? The time her maid brought her the wrong kind of juice?
Mom took the key out of the ignition and turned to me with a serious expression. "Julia, listen to me. I know Shannon can be difficult-"
I had to smile. That was the understatement of the century.
"But please don't make a scene tonight."
I furrowed my brow. "What do you mean?"
She swallowed a lump. "It's just one night. Be nice and respectful and we'll get through this. Please don't rock the boat."
"Um, I don't know what you're talking about. I've no intention of rocking anything. I don't even want to be here."
She placed her hand on my leg and gripped it firmly. "Promise me!"
I was taken aback. The pleading in my mom's eyes was frightening. "Sure, I promise. I'll be good."
Her face lightened with relief. She smiled and gave me a kiss.
"Mom? What's going on?"
She shook her head. "Nothing to worry about. I'm just going through some things and I think your aunt might be able to help."
I didn't like the sound of that. "Mom? Are we in trouble?"
"No," she answered too quickly and brightly for my liking, "everything is fine."
If she was asking her sister for money, then everything was definitely not fine. She'd always hated the idea of being in debt to her. She would much rather have gone without than suffer that indignity.
The hopeful sadness in her smile broke my heart. I smiled back. "Okay, Mom. Don't worry about me. I won't do anything to upset Shannon."
"Thank you," she said, "that's all I'm asking."
*
An entire carnival was erected on the mansion's grounds. There were hundreds of red and white striped tents that held all manner of fairground attractions and games such as bust-a-balloon, skee ball, and whack-a-mole. There was a large Ferris wheel, bumper cars, a carousel, and a pendulum. Magicians, fire eaters, and acrobats were performing tricks. There were plenty of vendors providing corn dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and slushies.
Hundreds of teens wandered around, laughing, joking, and screaming together. I followed Mom in a daze through the crowds. How did Shannon even know this many people, nevermind know them well enough to invite them to her party? I figured that was just what happened when you were pretty and rich. There was no shortage of people waiting to brown-nose you.
We walked through a haze of candy and perfume to a stage that housed the DJ booth and a baby pink throne like the kind of thing Madonna might have used in one of her music videos. Balloons were tied to the arms, proudly showing the number 18. Gifts were piled, wrapped in deluxe, glossy paper, and tied with bows. There were too many to count.
Mom held Shannon's birthday card in her hand. She had learned a long time ago that there was no point trying to buy Shannon a gift. Anything Shannon actually wanted, we could have never afforded. It was easier to give her money.
I can't say it didn't bother me, though, when she gave Shannon the same fifty dollars she gave me. It was almost as if she was placing her relationship with her niece on the same level as her daughter. But I understood rationally that it was less for Shannon's benefit than it was for Martha. Mom couldn't have coped with seeing the expression on Martha's face if she had given anything less than that.
Not that Martha had any problems in writing me a check for ten dollars every birthday (when she actually remembered.)
I complained once that as rich as Martha was, she only ever gave me ten dollars. My mom was appalled at how ungrateful I was being. Somehow, the irony was lost on her that as poor as she was, she managed to find fifty dollars for Shannon.
Whatever. Once I was a professional novelist, all these humiliations would be put to positive use.
Keep dreaming, freak.
I ignored the devil on my shoulder, always whispering negativity in my ear, always ready to remind me how worthless I was. I couldn't allow it to affect me. Not today. I had to be strong or I'd never make it.
Martha soon appeared wearing a black and white mini-patchwork open blazer with black and gold buttons and shoulder pads over a black, tight-fit body suit with a low crop top, gold trim, and a wide Chanel buckle belt, and a chunky gold statement necklace. The heels of her leather crush boots elevated her stature above my mom who noticeably shrank in her sister's presence.
Martha gave us a formal smile and leaned in to kiss my mom on each of her cheeks making loud "mwah mwah" noises. Mom blushed and went to kiss her back but Martha had already moved away leaving my mom foolishly kissing at air.
"So glad you could make it," she said, then turned her attention to me. "My my, Julia. Haven't you grown since the last time I saw you."
I likewise blushed. Martha knew full well I wasn't taller. I'd stopped gaining height at sixteen. I knew she was talking about my weight. Martha leaned in to give me an awkward hug and a single pat on the back. She smelled decadent. Rosewood, carnation, and sandalwood.
"Nice to see you, Aunt Martha," I said, maintaining the formal interaction. I always felt like my existence somehow annoyed her.
She quickly turned back to Mom. "So," she said, opening her arms to show off the carnival. "What do you think?"
Mom's smile was the same defeated, dead smile she reserved for all her interactions with Martha. "Really amazing. I think this is even more impressive than last year."
"Of course, silly. This is Shannon's eighteenth. She's an adult woman now. I want her to remember this night for the rest of her life."
"I'm sure she will. This is wonderful."
Martha dismissed the compliment with a flick of her wrist. "We're just getting started. We have a grand fireworks display planned that would make Gatsby himself green with envy."
"I can't wait."
Martha smirked.
"So, um, where is the birthday girl?"
"Oh, she's with her friends somewhere. Julia, be a dear and go and find her will you." She checked the time on her giant gold Rolex. "She should probably open her presents soon."
Mom nodded at me to get going.
I told myself I might have at least eye-rolled in rebellion had I not promised to be on my best behavior, but deep down I knew that was a lie. I was always going to do what Aunt Martha wanted. I'd adopted Mom's inferiority complex as my own.
