12. Victorious
VICTORIOUS
When I go downstairs, I’m not surprised to find Blythe’s arm looped with my sisters as she brings her over to who I can assume are Senator Walker and his wife.
“This is my stepdaughter, Vanessa,” she introduces, gushing and fawning over her, as usual. I’d like to blame it on the fact that she’s pissed at me when she waves a hand vaguely in my direction and simply says, “That’s Everett’s youngest.”
The words themselves and even the delivery aren’t mean. It’s the fact that it only dawns on me now…that’s how she always introduces me.
Blythe claims Vanessa as her own. But me? She verbally distances herself as much as she can.
I’m not her stepdaughter. Why would she want to be associated with gangly, little awkward me?
I only belong to my dad.
I get to stew on that little nugget for the next twenty minutes of our meal, because nobody so much as addresses me.
All I do is sit there and pick at the quail legs and fig chutney.
It’s not that I’m against eating meat, but after witnessing my uncle kill a family of quail and serve them to us when I was five, I’ve been forever scarred by this particular bird.
And Blythe knows this.
Yet, here they lay, covered in tamarind glaze.
It’s still the most pleasant part of the evening compared to listening to Blythe. She’s all too happy to flex her family’s political affiliations, and she would “love some insight” for my father’s possible aspirations.
Honestly, Dad looks nothing more than humored by the idea. Blythe, on the other hand, is as serious as a heart attack. And I can’t figure out why.
The only time Dad is ever passionate about politics is after he’s had a few beers when he’s hanging out with his friends. Never once has he endorsed a political figure or announced what party he supports.
Now, having witnessed the Grand High Witch without her mask, I can’t help the flood of information running through my mind.
The media only began gossiping about my dad possibly running for office coincidentally after Blythe brought it up to him. Seeing the show on display in front of me, I’d bet my left tit that she’s the one who started the rumor.
If that isn’t grating enough, I’m even less impressed by the dear ole Senator. At first, I thought maybe I was just prejudiced against him because of what Jase said. However, the longer I take in the finer details about Matthew Walker, the more he rubs me the wrong way.
He looks to be in his forties, with a touch of gray around the temples in his otherwise brown hair.
It has that “politician” side part, and he’s wearing a suit Blythe immediately recognizes from some designer’s recent collection.
Everything about him screams excessive wealth…
which is curious, since he’s living off a congressional salary and supposedly got elected because of his “blue collar” roots.
I’m not sure if politics are played differently in other parts of the country, but around here, it’s nothing more than theater.
You can find purported “sworn enemies” on the Senate floor yucking it up together with a bucket of balls on the golf course come Sunday morning.
No matter what side of the aisle they’re on, all the lawmakers I’ve had the displeasure of meeting have proven themselves to be career politicians with the sole interest of lining their pockets.
And Senator Walker here is no different.
I can understand why people would think he’s a nice guy. Jase’s warning is the only reason I’m paying close enough attention to see the slip-ups, the micro-expressions he can’t quite hide.
Walker finds Blythe to be quite amusing…just not in the way she’d like. Apparently, her so-called political clout isn’t up to snuff, because he repeatedly buries his smirk into his wine glass every time she mentions it.
He takes her about as seriously as he would a small child.
My dad, on the other hand, seems to have earned his attention, because the senator keeps eyeing him with a look I can only classify as predatory.
Seriously, it’s the kind of appraising look I’d imagine a serial killer giving an intended victim, scoping out what body parts he might want to save to eat later.
He sees someone he can use, to either manipulate or turn into an ally.
What the hell did his wife ever see in him?
From what I can tell, she seems genuinely nice, complimenting Blythe on everything from the meal to the house’s design to her choice of music.
That last one tests my gag reflex.
Ever since Dad married her, Blythe has insisted on playing music during dinner—something about a scientific study that says it encourages conversation.
I have no problem with that, except all she ever plays is classical music of her favorite ballets, giving her the perfect excuse to start talking about herself or Vanessa whenever a guest acknowledges it.
Sure enough, Blythe goes on about how “there’s nothing quite like performing this” at whatever theater, earning a curious look from Mrs. Walker.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you still danced,” she says, the remark coming out more like a question.
Can’t blame the woman, because that’s exactly what Blythe makes it sound like, opening the door to exactly what my stepmom hoped for.
“I did,” Blythe explains with a begrudging sigh, going on about how she had suffered from a “career-ending” injury and that her priorities shifted to “raising the children.”
To those unaware of the circumstance, you might find that admirable.
I, on the other hand, want to projectile vomit.
For someone accusing me of victim-playing, she sure as shit has this art down to a T.
Because noooo, surely that “career-ending” injury wasn’t a stress fracture that healed in six weeks. And retiring had nothing to do with Blythe’s frustration that she never became a principal dancer or soloist by the time she was thirty.
If you’d asked me yesterday why she lied, I may have been more inclined to believe it came from a place of insecurity. “My mother never fostered my talent,” she had said on more than one occasion. I assumed that’s why she dotes on Vanessa’s passion.
But this isn’t a simple lie you tell to sweep the subject under the rug.
She deliberately sets the scene—time and time again—all done just so the subject can be brought up.
Blythe’s words get cut off mid-sentence as the music abruptly changes, the volume dialing up loud enough that it’s the only thing anyone can hear.
The song of choice?
“Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing” by Set It Off.
For a moment, I’m just as confused and taken aback as everybody else at the table…until I listen to the lyrics.
Blythe mouths (or maybe yells) an apology and fiddles with her phone. The speaker system has a central console but can also be controlled via Bluetooth. The latter doesn’t appear to be working, because the punk rock number keeps blaring.
My stepmother’s eyes lock on me just as the oh-so-perfect chorus calls out a liar who hides beneath a mask of innocence, revealing her true—and very ugly —colors.
Yeah, this isn’t a simple electronic malfunction, and we both know it.
Blythe’s composure slips as she gets up and not-so-gracefully storms off into the living room for the control console. The music suddenly cuts back to the classical number she’d previously been listening to, and the volume is dialed back to the appropriate level.
As expected, her smile is once again plastered to her face when she reemerges with an apology. The moment she sits back down at the head of the table, however, the music spikes in volume and begins a new number.
Evanescence’ s “Everybody’s Fool.”
“Ali!” Blythe points toward the kitchen, trying and failing to hide her rage. “Would you mind helping me?”
Oh crap.
Dad rises from his seat just as I do, and he pardons us.
The second we’re out of sight, Blythe whirls on me, all too ready to play judge, jury, and executioner. Dad tries to calm her down, but she’s past the point of pacifying.
“I know it’s her! Ali’s always the one using the speakers. She’s doing this to get back at me—”
“How? Telepathically?” I deadpan, showing her my blatantly empty hands.
“You had your hands under the table,” she hisses.
Either Jase is a mind reader or he has the world’s best timing, because just as she makes the remark, the song changes again.
With my bare hands still in the air.
I’m pretty sure Jase is now just screwing with my stepmom as Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” blares throughout the downstairs. The title is too perfect, and the raunchy lyrics?
Oh, they have Blythe turning red, especially once she tries turning off the entire speaker system, only to find it won’t.
After another minute, the lights in the entire downstairs go out, and it’s only then that we hear heels clicking up from the basement.
Vanessa emerges just as the senator and his wife enter the main hall, clearly baffled.
Always the fast-on-her-feet respectable young lady she is, my sister explains that she flipped the circuit breaker and offers an excuse about the Bluetooth probably getting its signals crossed with one of the neighbors.
“It’s happened before, and it probably won’t be the last time. ”
Since it’s summer, plenty of sun is coming in through the front windows, so we don’t need the lights on to finish the meal. Once we do, everybody gravitates to the back patio…save for me.
“I believe you’ve had enough excitement for one night,” Blythe says sweetly. Too bad her eyes say, “I’m going to wring your neck.”
Still, I can’t bite back my smile as I head up the stairs.
It’s tempting to climb out my window and go to the party, especially since it’s still so early, but I know the risk would be reckless. Blythe is just aching for a reason to punish me, and I’m not about to make it that easy.
Slipping out of the blouse and dress pants I’d been forced to wear, I happily settle onto my mattress in my pajamas, still grinning like an idiot as I reach for the TV remote.
My fingers freeze on the edge of my nightstand when I catch sight of a bright pink square in my periphery.
I sit up and push my pillows aside to find it’s a sticky note tacked to my headboard.
It isn’t unusual to see one around here; I have them shoved away into books, drawers, and folders all over the room, and stragglers sometimes get stuck to random spots.
It’s not until I peel it off that I realize the handwriting isn’t mine.
Dear Birdie,
Don’t you fucking dare let anyone make you feel less than. You’re perfect in every way that matters.
-J