Chapter 5 Nellie
Nellie
I’ve been awake for an hour, but I’m still in bed, under the covers, stewing over the scene at the swimming hole last night.
Jane fucking Swift.
Ugh.
The sun smolders behind my thick curtains, the latest from Laura Ashley.
My whole room is done in this print—a cream-colored pattern with vines climbing vertically, green stalks dotted with red poppies.
Mom just had my whole room remodeled. By Jackson, of course.
There she was, dressed in overalls, hair twisted in a high ponytail, actually helping Jackson’s crew strip the old, yellowing wallpaper, her bright voice bouncing off my walls as they worked, grating in my ears.
I swear she did it just so she could look cute in those overalls, impress Jackson—and Dad. Remind them she comes from tough stock, because she sure as shit doesn’t dirty her perfectly manicured hands that often anymore. Also, to burn off some of that manic, demonic energy.
Sigh. She’s exhausting.
They worked in there all day, her fingernails chipped and shredded as she peeled off the husks of paper. That flawless face dusted with a fine coat of powder from the drywall.
I yank back the curtains, lift my window, the aluminum frame screeching as I do.
From the pocket of my robe, I dig out my pack of Marlboro 100s. Light one, take a stinging drag, spew the smoke down toward the pool.
Mom’s laugh assaults my ears, barking out of her, loud and needy. She’s such a sight, holding on to Jackson by his elbow, her actual lipstick prints on his butt cheeks, I’m sure of it.
But he needs her, too.
Needs our money.
She disgusts me. Embarrasses me. She’s embarrassing herself the way she throws herself at him, at others.
I smoke and watch them, eavesdropping on their gag-me-with-a-spoon conversation about how to decorate the house for Mom’s Bunco night. It’s hideous.
But I’m the pathetic one, really, because I don’t have anything better to do.
Not now and not all day. Everyone is probably already at Blair Chambers’s house.
It’s not as expensive or huge as mine, but it’s hers.
She runs everything in this town; she’s my lifelong nemesis.
She’s everything I’m not: tall, beautiful, a platinum blond with sheet-straight hair. Popular.
She was at the dock last night, too. Of course she was. She’s probably the one who invited Jane out there to the swimming hole. And I’m sure Jane has already been invited over to her pool, that she’s there today, lying out with the others, flipping through Teen magazine.
Blair and I started out as friends in kindergarten, but when we got to elementary, she turned on me, dumped me. Or tried to, anyway. Like I said, Mom’s always made sure I’m part of the group, still invited to everything.
“You’re not cool enough anymore, Nellie,” Blair said to me one day at recess, her switchblade eyes cutting me as she gave me a once-over. A few feet away, the gang of rich bitches who had up until then been my friends, too, laughed.
I was sitting cross-legged on the ground, building mud forts. Blair and I had just been doing that yesterday, when I guess it was still cool. Not anymore, apparently.
“You’re just…so weird,” Blair added with a snort before tromping off with the others.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that out of her snotty mouth. I’ve always been the weird one, out of step with everyone else.
Six months later, at Blair’s sixth birthday party, I gave her a shoulder when no one was looking. She tumbled down the concrete stairs near her pool and broke her leg.
“What did you do now, Nellie?” Blair’s mom, Monica, shrieked, stomping over to us.
I knew I was supposed to feel bad; I didn’t. A searing feeling oozed over me from watching Blair on the ground, wet blond hair sticking to the grass: vindication.
But I faked a fountain of tears. “I am so, so sorry, Mrs. Chambers! It was an accident—”
By then, Mom was by my side, pulling me into her, shooting daggers at her. “It clearly wasn’t on purpose, Monica. Good God,” Mom hissed.
Later, on the drive home, in the toasty heat of Mom’s Cadillac, she scolded me.
“You didn’t bump into her. I saw you. Jesus, Nellie, you don’t know your own strength sometimes.
Or maybe you do. You have got to learn how to play nice.
” She was shaking, fingernails clicking on the steering wheel as she drove, taking corners too fast, her nerves completely shot.
But she taught me then, as she’d taught me even earlier, that she would take my side, smooth things over, come to my rescue. She taught me that I could do whatever the hell I wanted, that she’d cover for me.
It’s not just for my benefit, though, that Mom does that, makes sure I’m still part of the clique.
God forbid Charleigh Andersen’s daughter is excluded from anything; Mom’s way too much of a social climber to let that happen.
It’s really all about how it makes her look.
And her desperate need for approval. From her friends and also from her own child.
I have her eating out of my hand. Fetch, Mom, fetch, I’m tempted to say to her sometimes.
So yeah, I’ll just sit here smoking, festering today, wondering about Jane and what she’s doing. Who she’s with.
And this is so pitiful to admit, but Mom’s the only one I can talk to about it since I don’t have any real friends.
Not that it made me feel all that great, baring my soul to Mom last night when I got home.
I’m well aware you’re not supposed to be best friends with your mom, not when you’re a teenager.
But it’s better than talking to the wall.
And when she said that whoever this little Jane bitch is, I’ll take care of her, well, yeah, that made me feel a tiny bit better. Because I know she means it.
But still, it’s pathetic I have to confide in Mom. I mean, she doesn’t even really know me anymore. How could she? She’s only familiar with the little monster she’s tried to shape and mold and control into something presentable. She’s incapable of understanding me.
She’s simple in her thinking, while I’m complex. And I resent her for it. Even as I cling to her, spill some of my secrets like this bullshit over Jane, I’m repelled by her. And grossed out with myself for confiding in her.
I suck in another drag that burns my throat, then grin as my fog of smoke descends upon them. Taunting Mom to say something. To look up here. Catch me.
She won’t dare.
It’s our sick little game. I know she can smell it, but she acts like she can’t, cutting a wide berth because she doesn’t want to set me off, get into it with me.
She’s weak like that.
Because she’s afraid of what I’m capable of.
I grind the cigarette out in the window seal, leaving the cherry burning, watching it roll in the wind against the screen like a trapped roly-poly. Another dare of mine: seeing if the universe will see fit to burn this whole house down.