Chapter 2 #3
“She was beautiful,” Irene says. “Mixed race, which was rare back then in rural Massachusetts. Her father was Algerian, I think, and her mother very British. She had this thick, glossy black. Skin like porcelain. Bright green eyes. She was the kind of pretty that didn’t seem real.”
She takes a slow sip.
“She got straight A’s, teachers adored her, the town adored her. Her father dressed her in designer clothes—Chanel, Dior, all imported. Back then that wasn’t normal. Most families couldn’t afford anything close to that. She stood out. She was special.”
Aunt Susan hums. “Alexis.”
Irene nods. “Alexis.”
She turns back to me.
“She ruled the school from third grade to twelfth grade. Dated every popular boy. Got every lead role. Made every team. Her two best friends guarded her like secret service. And I mean that literally—only the same two girls sat with her at lunch from fifth grade through senior year. No one got in. She wasn’t cruel to me, but she didn’t help me either.
Her sidekicks? They made my life hell. And she let them. ”
I shift on the couch, uneasy.
I know exactly the type.
I’ve lived the consequences of girls like that.
One spark from them can burn down your whole world.
“One summer,” Irene says, eyes drifting toward the window like she can still see that day, “I was home from college. I remember walking into the mall—because malls were the big thing back then. We didn’t have online shopping. Every teenager lived at the mall on Saturdays.”
She smiles a little at the memory.
“I wanted to buy my mom something fancy for her birthday. Perfume. Something expensive. So I went to the makeup counter.”
Her smile fades.
“And who was standing there behind the register?
Alexis.”
My breath catches.
“She was wearing the little black jacket, the acrylic name tag, the whole getup. And I remember thinking, Why is she here? Why isn’t she married to some Wall Street executive? Why isn’t she living in a penthouse? Why isn’t she… everything she was supposed to become?”
Irene exhales.
“And that’s when it hit me.
She couldn’t leave.”
My brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“She couldn’t leave the town,” Irene says simply. “Because the town was the only place she was somebody.”
The sentence drops like a stone.
“She needed that bubble,” Irene continues.
“Needed to be the queen. Needed the admiration, the gossip, the fear, the pedestal. Out in the real world? She was just another pretty girl. And she couldn’t handle being ordinary.
She told me her parents divorced. Her mother took more than half of her father’s money.
They sold their house and his business. And that was it.
No more designer clothes and luxury cars.
She takes my hands again. Warm. Steady.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Jade?”
I swallow.
“I… think so.”
She squeezes.
“Real power doesn’t come from being the girl everyone talks about,” Irene says softly. “It comes from surviving the moments when everyone is talking about you for the wrong reasons.”
Her eyes sharpen, not unkind but intensely honest.
“Jealousy, envy, insecurity—those fueled every girl who ever hurt you. They saw something in you that they wanted.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have anything they want.”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “You do.”
I look up.
“You have athleticism. You have authenticity. You have grit. You have heart.”
She brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek.
“You have things their money can’t buy.”
My throat goes tight.
“And girls like that?” Irene continues, “They would rather destroy you than risk you figuring out you’re stronger than them.”
I stare into the fire.
My chest aches.
But it’s a different ache—lower, deeper, less panic and more truth.
Aunt Susan clears her throat. Her mask has cracked into a hundred little pieces across her face.
“Irene tells this story every time someone forgets they’re the main character,” she says, trying to lighten it.
But Irene shakes her head.
“No. I’m telling it because Jade needs to hear it.”
My eyes sting.
The fire blurs.
Irene pulls a blanket over my legs and holds my hands again.
“You survived the kind of humiliation that would’ve destroyed girls like Alexis,” she says gently. “Destroyed them. And you survived it twice.”
Her voice softens.
“You are not weak, sweetheart. You are not broken. You are not finished. You’re becoming.”
I breathe out slowly.
I stare at the fire for a long moment before I ask it.
“What happened to her? To Alexis?”
Irene leans back, sighs, and props her feet on the ottoman like she’s settling into a memory she hasn’t touched in a while.
“Well,” she says, “the next summer I was home from college, I went back to the mall.”
She gives me a mischievous look.
“Back then, we didn’t call it a glow-up. But that’s what I wanted. I had a crush on this boy who played soccer. Thought maybe if I got a new foundation and a better haircut, I’d stop looking like an extra from a John Hughes movie.”
Aunt Susan snorts. “You always looked cute.”
“Cute wasn’t the assignment,” Irene says. “Hot was the assignment.”
They both laugh.
I almost smile.
“So I went back to the makeup counter,” Irene continues, “and who do you think was standing there?”
I already know.
But I whisper, “Alexis?”
“Yup.”
She shakes her head, almost tenderly.
“She was still there. Same counter. Same little black blazer. Except she looked… tired. Sad. Like the spotlight she’d lived under finally burned out.”
My chest tightens.
“She told me she was dating some guy,” Irene says. “Said she’d probably marry him because, quote, ‘at least he has money. I don’t love him. Or even like him that much.’ No dreams except staying afloat.”
Aunt Susan’s jaw tightens.
Irene continues, her eyes catching mine in the glow of the fire.
“She asked me about college. About my friends. My classes. The city. My plans. And the whole time, her eyes were getting wider and wider. And I realized—”
She pauses.
“She was jealous of me.”
I swallow.
“She had everything,” I whisper.
“No,” Irene says. “She only had everything in that tiny little town bubble. Outside it? She had nothing to fall back on. No grit. No confidence. No identity outside being pretty and popular.”
I look down at my hands.
“And then she told me something I’ll never forget,” Irene says. “She said she was never actually smart. Teachers favored her because she was beautiful. Not because she earned it. Not because she worked.”
Silence settles over the room.
A raw kind of truth.
Irene leans forward, elbows on her knees, and fixes me with a look that feels like a spotlight.
“There is a sad truth in life,” she says. “We don’t say it out loud because it sounds cruel, and people will cancel you for it today, but I’m old and I’m allowed to be honest.”
She gestures toward me.
“No matter what the world pretends—pretty privilege is real. People treat you better when you look a certain way. Fix your skin, your hair, your body? Suddenly doors open. Suddenly people listen.”
I don’t know whether to nod or cry.
“But here’s the other truth,” she adds. “Looking pretty is not the same as being powerful.”
The fire cracks sharply.
“You,” she says, pointing again, “are fit. You’re smart. You’re driven. You’re authentic. Those kids at Royal Oaks? They have to buy their futures. You’re going to earn yours. That’s why they came after you. Because girls like you make girls like them nervous.”
The words sink in deep.
I don't fully believe them.
But, I want to.
A lump rises in my throat.
“But I’m so angry,” I whisper. “I don’t know what to do with it. The injustice. The unfairness. It’s not right.”
“No,” Irene says. “It’s not.”
My voice cracks.
“So what do I do?”
She sits back, thoughtful.
“Anything constructive,” she says. “Write. Journal. Scream into a pillow. Tell your story someday. Hell, turn it into a bestseller. But don’t let it rot inside you, Jade. And don’t let it stop you from becoming who you’re meant to be.”
Her voice softens.
“You’re seventeen. Your whole life is ahead of you. None of this bullshit gets to steal that from you.”
I nod, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
Irene suddenly claps her hands once.
“Okay! Enough vulnerability. Time to watch Old Lady Porn.”
I blink. “What?”
She grins. “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.”
Aunt Susan groans. “Not again.”
“It’s a classic,” Irene says defensively.
I look around the room.
“Is… is that a DVD?”
Irene gasps, offended.
“Yes, Jade. I don’t stream the classics.”
Susan mutters, “Because she can’t figure out Netflix.”
“Lies,” Irene says. “Slanderous lies.”
And despite everything—
the pain
the anger
the fog
the fear—
a tiny laugh escapes me.
For the first time since homecoming,
I don’t feel broken.
Just bruised.
Somewhere between Angela Bassett finding happiness and Irene loudly critiquing everyone’s fashion choices, my eyes start to droop.
The fire is warm.
The cocoa is sweet.
My whole body is heavy in that bone-deep way that happens after too much crying.
I drift sideways on the couch until my head finds a pillow.
Someone—probably Aunt Susan—tucks a blanket over me.
The last thing I hear before I fully fade is Irene murmuring,
“She’s safe. Let her sleep.”
I wake up when someone gently shakes my shoulder.
“Come on,” Aunt Susan whispers. “Let’s get you to a real bed.”
I nod groggily and follow her down the hall.
The guest room is small but elegant, old-school in the way that feels intentional—not outdated, but nostalgic. Whitewashed walls. Quilted blue comforter. A little lamp with a seashell base. A window overlooking the black ocean.
The waves crash below, steady and rhythmic.
A lullaby.
I crawl into the bed.
The sheets are crisp and cold.
The pillow smells faintly like lavender.
When Aunt Susan turns off the light, the room glows silver from the moon.
I fall asleep instantly.
The dream starts soft.
Warm breath.
Warm hands.
A cliff at dusk.