1. Petra #2
“We do support you, Petra.” My mother’s tone was softened with exhaustion, as if we had been at odds long before I had grown a will of my own. “But we want what’s best for you. We understand that—”
“No, you don’t understand,” I’d interrupted her coldly, enraged at the fake display of affection. “You’ve never understood. You’re always too busy with your own lives to even notice what I want or what I’m passionate about.”
“That’s not fair, Petra,” Dad had replied in a low voice simmering with anger. “We’ve always given you everything you needed.”
“Everything except your time and attention,” I shot back. “You’re never here. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what makes me happy or what I care about because you’re never around to find out.”
“Petra, behave!” my mother warned. “We’re doing this for you. We work hard so you can have a good life, the best life.”
“Oh, please, spare me the drama,” I was quick to retaliate. “You’re doing it for yourselves and because it makes you look good to other people. But it’s not what I want. I don’t want to be like you. I never want to be like you!”
The room had fallen silent as my parents had exchanged a look, perhaps of regret, perhaps of resentment . . . I didn’t know.
After that, I was back in my room, curled up on the bed, my body racked with sobs.
It looks like tonight might just be another one of those lonely, alienating nights.
As I stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror, Amelia’s words come floating back through the haze of sorrow. “You’re a special girl, Petra,” she had texted this morning; it was her birthday message for me. “You deserve to be seen and celebrated for being the unique, beautiful soul that you are.”
Like always, even the memory of her words jolts me out of my current funk. I open my eyes and adjust my hair. Light filters through the glass pane on the door, and music creeps in; now they’re playing Lil Nas X.
Over the strains of “Industry Baby,” I smooth down my pleated Thom Browne skirt. My fingers brush against the soft fabric, grounding me. Tonight, I’m leaving my comfort zone. I’m going to look those bullies in the eye and give them a piece of my mind.
Stepping out of the washroom, I spot a group of girls huddled together and instantly feel my hackles rise up when I recognize them from school.
There’s that icy blonde, Daphne, queen bee of the St. Anselm Hive, an IG page reportedly dedicated to the welfare of the student community—if “welfare” meant spreading vicious gossip about whoever has crossed or even slightly irked Daphne.
Next to her is Lenora, a tall brunette with a sleek bob and a perpetually bored expression. And then there’s Francois, the most pretentious guy at school, always preening and showing off because his mother’s French.
Their eyes flicker in my direction, and I catch my breath.
Uh oh, here it comes. Brace yourself, Petra.
“Ooh, the devil does wear Prada,” Francois says with a nasally twang that grates on my nerves.
“C’mon, Frankie, be nice! She’s probably here to see what normal people do for fun,” I hear Daphne say in a faux whisper that carries to the end of the room.
“You guys think she even knows what ‘fun’ means?” Lenora adds, doing nothing to hide her sneer or lower her voice.
“I do know what words mean, Lenora,” a cold voice responds, and I’m half-surprised to discover that it’s my own. “See, unlike you, I didn’t fail English last semester.”
The girls look up, startled. For a moment, there’s silence, then Daphne smirks and says, “No need to be so dramatic, Petra, we were just wondering . . . Parties are not really your scene, are they?”
“Well, what can I say? I’m a keen observer of animals in their natural habitats,” I say without pausing for breath.
“Excuse-moi?” Francois spits out.
“Is that what your mother told you when you asked her to hug you last, Frankie?”
Even I’m shocked at the undisguised vitriol in my voice, but I have been suppressing too many big, messy emotions for far too long. And no matter what people say about Daphne and her cronies, they are easy targets for me.
The trio is visibly flustered as scattered laughs follow my last remark.
“Wow, feeling really smug today, aren’t we?” Daphne manages to sputter out in the end. “Just so you know, we’ve placed actual bets on how long you’ll last before you bolt back to your cave.”
I smile sweetly at her. “Well, I’d simply hate for you to lose all that money, wouldn’t I? Oh, wait, I wouldn’t.”
And while the idiots are still scrambling to assemble a witty response between the three of them, I turn around and walk toward the drinks table.
I’m positively parched for a drink. In fact, I could down several shots of that jungle juice doing the rounds.
Not caring to get back into the crowd yet, I’m content to watch from the sidelines for now. If I know anything about Daphne, it’s that she won’t forget my insults in a hurry. She’ll be waiting and watching for any chance to put me down.
Well, her and everyone else, I can’t help but tell myself bitterly. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, but lately, the incessant feeling of not belonging anywhere has dimmed my spirits.
Once more, I remind myself of Amelia’s words.
At least I have her.
But though the darkness lightens up, it doesn’t recede altogether.
So I do something stupid. I pour myself another shot, my fourth, and let the liquid sear its way down my throat.
With every gulp, I feel mellower as a soft, cottony haze settles over the sharp edges of my righteous fury, and the world seems like a less hurtful place.
For a while, I just drift through the throngs of guys and girls dancing in the halls and drinking in the living room and making out in the myriad corners around the house.
The alcohol seems to have numbed me to any hostile stares or whispers. This is what all the fuss is about, I guess. I could get used to this—
Just then, I collide into something hard. And tall.
“Oh my God!” a deep, velvety voice exclaims while broad, sturdy hands gently hold my shoulders, steadying me. “Are you okay?”
I’m tipsy enough to appreciate the note of concern yet not drunk enough to ignore the fact that now my blouse is wet.
“I’m so sorry,” the same pleasant voice is rambling in earnest panic now. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I spilled my drink! Let me help you with that. It’s Petra, right?”
In that moment, I finally recognize the blue-eyed guy I’m speaking to.
“Yes, thasright, I mean.” I clear my throat and try to appear more sober. “That’s right. And you’re . . . Sinclair?” I slur.
“Sin Arnoult, at your service,” the tall—I should say “towering”—guy responds with a charming little half-bow.
And when he looks up next, something in his eyes makes my breath hitch in my throat.