“I don’t understand what your problem is, Tiffany. Are you scaring off all the eligible bachelors in San Diego?” She made it sound like getting a good man was as easy as filling a gas tank at the gas station.

“No, mother,” I muttered.

“Speak up, dear. That mousy voice of yours is half the problem. No man wants a mousy girl. Show some confidence. You’re a Kingston-Whitehouse.”

“Can I go now?” I asked in a garbled voice.

“Yes. But be ready when those dresses arrive. I want to see how they look on you.”

She was determined to treat me like a dress up doll no matter what I did. I opened my door and stepped into my bedroom.

“Tiffany?”

I stopped, my back to her, bracing for the usual criticism. I still clutched the brass doorknob. I imagined myself yanking it off the door and planting it right in the center of Gwendolyn’s forehead.

“Is that skirt tight on you?” she asked thoughtfully. My mother had the heart and eyes of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.

Yes, my skirt was tight. It looked like it was painted on, and I looked awesome in it. I worked my ass off at the gym and ate like a mouse to make sure of it.

“Do you need to lose a pound or two? Your waistline is a bit puffy today.”

Typical Gwendolyn.

I didn’t answer.

“No matter,” she sighed heavily. “Those dresses will be here shortly. With any luck, you won’t burst any seams when you try them on.” She sounded defeated already. Double crossed by the puffy waistline of her traitorous daughter. Didn’t Gwendolyn know what a period was? Oh, wait. I think she had her uterus removed a long time ago. My guess was that she’d hired a surrogate to carry me to term rather than stretch her waistline. And I knew she would never have stooped so low as to have an elective C-section. It would’ve left a scar.

I quietly closed my bedroom door behind me and walk into my expansive walk in closet. It held more awesome outfits than a Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. At least there were some perks to being a Kingston-Whitehouse. I placed my red lacquer soled Louboutins in the shoe rack amongst dozens of others.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled a photo album off of my desk and sat down on my plush comforter atop my four poster bed. I leafed through it. There were photos going back to when I was a little girl.

Certain ones stood out, and I lingered on them.

A school play in the fourth grade. Robin Hood. I played Maid Marian and Christos was Robin Hood. Of course. He was dashing even then.

An Easter Egg hunt when I was six. I had known then that I was in love with Christos. I’d even told him I wanted to marry him that day.

Christos at the beach, sometime in high school. He was shirtless and ripped. No tattoos yet, but muscled and handsome. The man he would become was already obvious. All the girls had eyes for him.

My eleventh birthday party. Surrounded by balloons and confetti and friends. The birthday cake was right in front of me and I was blowing on the candles. Christos was leaning toward me, a sly look on his face, kissing my cheek. I hadn’t washed my cheek for a week after that day, I remember.

I rubbed my cheek longingly.

Tears dripped onto the plastic sleeve covering the photos. I pulled the photo out to get a better look.

Christos Manos.

Christos.

I squeezed my eyes shut and my head dropped to my chest. I stifled my sobs. Gwendolyn had ears like a vampire bat and would no doubt sense me out and give me shit if she heard me crying in my room like a baby.

Christos was gone.

I shook my head, not wanting to believe it.

It was that stupid Samantha.

She’d ruined everything.

She’d taken him from me.

It was all her fault.

Christos and I had been getting closer over last summer, before classes had started. We’d been hanging out all the time. Almost every day. I had started to think maybe we’d had a chance. Christos had finally cleaned up his act, working on his paintings, becoming a respectable young man. It had been touch and go with him for several years. But he’d finally gotten his shit together. He wasn’t an embarrassment anymore.

And Samantha had swooped in and stolen his heart.

I fucking hated that bitch.

I hated her.

I hated her with all my heart.

I was going to make her life miserable if it was the last thing I did.

Starting with her hearing in front of the SDU tribunal. She was getting kicked out of SDU. Whatever it took.

I stood up from my bed and walked into my closet, closing the door behind me. I went to the back of the closet and pushed aside coats and gowns. Like I needed yet another gown for the summer gala. I had three that still fit. But no, they’d been worn once. In public. Gwendolyn would be ashamed of me for even suggesting I wear one again.

Hidden in the corner, behind my ski jackets and snow pants was a duffel bag. I sat down on the carpeted floor of my closet and unzipped the bag. I reached inside and felt immediate relief.

I pulled an old, ratty teddy bear out of the bag. Her fur was tattered and she was missing one button eye. If Gwendolyn knew I still had Ms. Bear, she would’ve burned her. Gwendolyn had thrown out every doll and stuffed animal I had when I turned thirteen. She’d said they were childish. I’d managed to save Ms. Bear by hiding her under my bed when Gwendolyn wasn’t looking.

I hugged Ms. Bear to my chest.

Still weeping, and in a shaky voice, I said, “You still love me, don’t you, Ms. Bear?”

Ms. Bear stared back at me blankly with her one eyed smile.

I hugged her to my chest and sobbed silently. My body shook and spasmed with sadness.

Forty minutes later, when the gowns arrived, there was no sign left on my face that I’d been crying.

I never allowed myself to cry long enough for my face to get puffy.

Gwendolyn would never tolerate it.

SAMANTHA

“Let’s crash this bash!” I cheered as me and the gang walked into Charboneau Gallery on the night of the Contemporary Artists Show.

The place was packed with people. Unlike the crowd at Christos’ solo show last year, which had been more upscale, this crowd was much younger and hipper. They had a DJ instead of a string quartet. People were talking much louder, and drinking more freely. I saw cans of Red Bull in people’s hands instead of wine glasses. It was a party vibe for sure.

Kamiko was already inside. She’d arrived early because she was one of the artists. Christos and I had picked up Romeo and met Madison and Jake on the street before coming inside.

“Let’s go find Kamiko,” Romeo said, “I want to see what cosplay character she dressed up as this time.”

“Okay,” I said as Romeo pulled me along.

Christos, Madison, and Jake strolled behind.

Despite the bomb my mom had dropped about asking my dad for a divorce, I had managed to hold myself together in the days since she’d called. Sure, my legs were still wobbly and I wanted to throw up every five minutes most days, but I was determined to enjoy myself tonight.

“This place is packed,” I said, “we’re never going to find Kamiko.”

Romeo was examining a piece of paper, “I grabbed one of the paper price sheets. It says she’s number thirty-two. She should be over there somewhere,” he pointed toward the right.

The four of us walked in that direction.

“Dude,” Christos said to Jake as we wove our way through the crowd, “you still thinking about surfing the North Shore all summer?”

“Hells yeah,” Jake smiled. “I’m dreaming about Pipeline every night.”

The two of them were right behind me and Madison. I frowned at her and whispered in her ear, “Is Jake talking about your pipeline?”

Madison cackled, “No, silly Sam. He’s talking about the reef break at Banzai Beach, in Oahu.”