Chapter 4 Margeaux
MARGEAUX
This place isn’t real. There’s no way a place like this actually exists.
Paramount is one of the wealthiest cities in the country.
Maybe the world. I think you need to apply to live here.
All the streets are perfectly clean, with fucking fruit trees everywhere.
Do the rich residents of this town just walk around, wearing designer clothing, picking fucking apples on their way to the beach?
“Let’s drop our bags and quickly change. We have time for a couple of hours at the beach before we do our bachelorette bar crawl,” Haley, the maid of honor, announces. The entire bridal party squeals and shouts, rushing off to their respective rooms in our rental.
Margeaux: All these girls do is scream and squeal. It’s like I’m with a fucking group of dolphins.
Jazz: Maybe throw them some fish or something.
Jazz: It’s just a couple of days. Try to have fun. Later, bitch!
I tuck my phone away, trudge over to an empty room, and dig around for my swimsuit in my bags. I do like the beach, and I can’t remember the last time I had an actual vacation.
I pull on my high-waisted, black bikini– part of the instructions for the weekend were to bring black bathing suits– admiring how all my tattoos are on display in this suit.
My leg sleeve is my favorite. I spent over a year having it done.
It’s a beautiful mixture of vines, poison ivy, and venus fly traps.
It covers my entire left leg and stops just shy of my butt. It’s so sexy.
I meet Zoey and the rest of her Gally Gals in the main room of our rental, and they all stop talking and gasp like they’re staring at a ghost.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, looking behind me, and all around the room for anything that looks off.
Zoey quickly schools her face and puts on a facade of pure joy.
“Oh nothing. Just didn’t hear you coming.
” She rushes over to me in her pure white bikini.
“I’m so glad you made this trip, Margaret.
I hope I get to know you better. Especially since we’re gonna be sisters soon!
” she squeals. I’m already sick of all the squealing.
Zoey is nice. If anything, she tries too hard to be liked.
She’s from the same small town in the middle of the country that I am.
We grew up together but never became close friends.
She’s following the trend of our town to meet a guy and get married right after college.
My mom loves her. Pretty sure Zoey is the ideal daughter my mother wanted. Oh well.
I ignore the judgy looks from the rest of Zoey’s bridal party- a sea of skinny, petite, blonde women.
They all look like they belong in this posh city.
I know they’re looking at me like I’m an alien invader, and that Zoey only invited me because my brother is her soon-to-be husband.
I think they’re afraid of me since I tower over them and they’re gawking at my physique like I belong in a circus show.
Presenting the muscular woman! Get in line to see what a woman looks like when she trains for an elite sport!
“Yea, Zoey. Glad to be here. And you can call me Margeaux. Nobody calls me Margaret anymore,” I say, trying not to grimace at my given name. Gotta love being named after an old aunt of the family.
“Oh, yea. Obvi,” she says with a saccharine smile. “Okay, ladies! Party time!”
More squealing…
Okay, my opinion about Paramount is shifting. The beach was amazing! It had perfect, white sand, and water so clean you can see the ocean floor. This getaway is actually great for me. I’ve been cooped up training for months, and desperately needed this break and change of pace.
We’re back at the rental house, getting ready for the bar crawl tonight.
Zoey is wearing all white, and I imagine she’ll add in a sash that says ‘bride to be’ along with a tiara or something.
The rest of us are under strict orders to wear pink.
I fucking hate pink. Almost as much as I hate red lipstick.
I’m pulling on a pink tank top when a knock on my door grabs my attention.
“Yea?” I ask as I struggle to get the fabric over my shoulders.
“Hey, Margeaux. Oh. Cute top,” Haley says, letting herself in my room, and closing the door behind her. “I actually brought you this, too. I picked it up at one of the boutiques on the way back,” she says, handing me a small shopping bag.
I look inside and see bright, pink fabric. It’s a long-sleeve, pink top. I look at her with a puzzled expression.
“Do you like it? I think it would go great with a pair of long jeans, right?” she asks, tilting her head in a way that her blonde ponytail flops to the side.
“Uh. I already have an outfit for tonight.” I hold my arms out, showing my tank top and cut-off, black denim shorts. “Plus, it’s hotter than a ball sack in a steam room. I’m not wearing long pants tonight, let alone jeans.”
She cringes at my language, which I feel was quite poetic.
She squares her shoulders and stiffens her face, dropping her polite demeanor.
“Margeaux, listen. When we were at the beach, you got a lot of attention.” She motions to my tattoos.
“You were totally stealing the spotlight from Zoey. That’s not cool.
It’s her weekend. I get it, you’re a pseudo-celebrity, or whatever. But your body is distracting.”
“My body?” I grit out, feeling all my muscles tense.
“Look, I think you look badass. But you’re tall, Margeaux.
Like, super tall. And super muscular to the point where you’re kinda…
masculine. And you’re covered in all these tattoos and piercings.
It’s like you’re screaming for attention.
And it’s just really selfish of you to not think about how you being here is taking away from Zoey’s weekend. ”
I’ll give this girl credit for being ballsy enough to be honest with me. Doesn’t mean I’m not ten seconds away from erupting with pure rage. Who the fuck does this girl think she is?
“Well, if Zoey has such a problem with me, and how I look, she can tell me herself. She’s the one who invited me here this weekend, anyway,” I scoff, trying to act like this conversation isn’t one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
It’s taking every ounce of energy to keep my temper in check.
Haley cocks her hip and flips her ponytail to the opposite side.
“Margeaux, come on. Seriously? You’re her fiancé’s sister.
She had to invite you. Plus, some of the girls were thinking you’d introduce us to some of those hot wrestlers,” she says, waving her hands in front of her.
“Huge bust,” she mumbles under her breath.
I feel my jaw drop. I want to grab Haley by the root of her hair and smash her into the dresser.
Then watch her body flop onto the ground, giving me a chance to body slam her.
I can hear the crowd screaming for me to pin her- Haley the Hater.
I can picture her crying, her perfect blonde hair a mess and all her make-up running down her face.
The tapping of her wedge shoe breaks me out of my reverie. I stare at her blemish-free face, adorned with one set of simple earrings. I can feel her eyes counting all the extra holes in my ears. I’m sure our trip to the beach revealed the additional piercings in my nipples and belly button.
“So, let me get this straight,” I begin. “I’m only here as a pity invite. None of you want me here, especially Zoey. So why the fuck should it matter what I do? Or what I fucking wear?” I snap.
“Oh, Geeze. Don’t be so dramatic, Margeaux,” she huffs, chuckling at me condescendingly.
“You’re not going to be locked in here like the hunchback of Notre Dame,” she continues laughing.
I’m not laughing. “You can still come out. Just maybe don’t hang out so close with our party,” she suggests, shrugging her shoulders.
This is seriously high school shit. I should just leave. I don’t have to put up with this petty, mean girl bullshit. It wouldn’t be my style to back down from a fight, though.
“I have an idea, Haley.” Haley crosses her arms, jutting her boobs out, as if that’s supposed to intimidate me. “Why don’t you, and Zoey, and all the other pink-clad bitches in this house, go fuck yourselves!”
I storm into my adjoined bathroom. Before slamming the door behind me, I catch a reflection of Haley’s jaw dropping. And in the back of my mind I hear the crowd shouting my name as the ref calls the match in my favor.
I fire off a string of texts to Jazz letting her know what just went down with Haley. Being the great friend she is, Jazz reassures me that I’m a badass bitch and that I should still go out and enjoy myself.
Her final text is what gives me the inspiration to make this evening one for the memory books.
Jazz: Don’t get mad. Get even.