Epilogue
Sawyer
Remember Regina George from “Mean Girls?”
How about Blair Waldorf from “Gossip Girl?”
Or Cheryl Blossom from “Riverdale”?
If your mind runs more to literary references, picture Veruca Salt from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” or Caroline Bingley from “Pride and Prejudice.”
(Can you tell I have three sisters? I do. And I’m flanked by two rom-com movie- and book-lovers—Parker and Reeve—in birth order.)
You know what Regina, Blair, Cheryl, Veruca and Caroline all have in common? I’ll tell you: they’re all stuck-up, snobby, and snooty. Entitled, beautiful and popular. They’re “rich bitches,” and my sisters hated them all.
But me?
They’d kill me for saying it, but I kinda liked the challenge this female archetype presented...I liked the idea of knocking them down off their high horses. Not to be confused with the “gold digger” stereotype—a woman who’s only seeking romance as a vehicle to solvency—“rich bitches” are already flush. They know it, they flaunt it, and they allow their status to affect their choices and decisions. It amuses me that a woman like that could see me—and my working-class family—as “peasants.” A girl like that is the ultimate conquest...as long as you don’t actually fall for her.
But dumbass that I am, I did.
I fell for Ivy Caswell.
From one of the wealthiest families in Fairbanks, Ivy spent her teenage summers with “the little people” down here in Skagway, living with her aunt and uncle, and working seasonal jobs. That’s how I got to know her—from a distance, at first, but then up close and more personally. We even made out a few times—nights that are burned into my memory—not that they meant anything at all to her.
Last I heard, in fact, she was dating the Lieutenant Governor’s son, Clark Clement Rupert III, whose surname has a direct link to Prince Rupert Island in British Colombia. Before they were Americans, the Ruperts were among the first Canadians, appointed by the British monarchy to bring order and civility to the wild, wild west. And class, of course. Lots and lots of class. (Gag.)
According to a recent engagement announcement in the Anchorage Daily News, Ivy Caswell and Clark Rupert met at the University of Alaska-Fairbanks, where they were both double-majoring in politics and business. The newspaper predicted a summer wedding in Fairbanks the likes of which Alaska has never seen. And no doubt, with their combined trust funds at work, the Caswell-Ruperts would someday be celebrated as the First Couple of Alaska, following closely in the footsteps of their revered families.
Bearing all of this in mind...
It was more than a little weird when I saw Ivy walking around Skagway with her little cousins last week. Why? Because it’s October, and I’m certain that she’s never stayed in Skagway beyond Labor Day. By this time, she should be long gone from Skagway, sitting pretty on her parent’s eight-bedroom, fifteen-acre estate up in Fairbanks, or in her boyfriend’s two-million-dollar waterfront mansion down in the capital city of Juneau. (I looked up both on Zillow. Whew! Talk about posh!) But no. There she was—entering our provincial little grocery store during the off-season, slumming it in Skagway with her Versace sunglasses perched on top of her head, a Prada bag slung over her shoulder, and a rock the size of Denali sparkling on the fourth finger of her left hand.
So now I have a couple of questions...
The first is:
What the hell is Ivy Caswell doing in Skagway?
And the second is:
What am I going to do about it?
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