Chapter 3
MICHELLE: GAG ME WITH A SPOON
“So, there we are, right?” Donald Lavelle the Third—Prince—leaned across our table, grinning like he thought his was the freshest voice in comedy.
He tugged at the cuffs of his custom-tailored tuxedo before continuing.
“Middle of the frat house basement, three in the morning. We’ve got Conrad bound in Saran Wrap.
I'm talking head-to-toe, Michelle. Complete mummy situation.”
I blinked, horrified. “Could he breathe?”
Prince slapped the table. His laughter was obnoxious and unapologetic. “We cut nose holes. Anyway, it gets better. Dude’s still passed out. We drag him out to the quad, right? It’s like negative ten degrees outside. He wakes up and totally freaks—” Prince paused, clearly expecting applause.
I nodded politely, though I was already mentally drafting a list of the possible crimes.
“—we're upstairs, looking out the window, totally losing it. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”
I forced my lips into something smile-shaped. “I'm surprised Conrad didn't get hypothermia.”
“Oh, he did. Totally. But don’t worry, the family's loaded. They own, like, half of Boston. And probably three-quarters of the Caribbean.”
Prince laughed louder at his own punchline, waiting for me to join in. I offered a prim chuckle but found myself picturing Scott instead, leaning against his beat-up truck with that amused expression on his face. My smile was real this time, and it definitely wasn’t for Prince.
He mistook it for encouragement and barreled on. “Last year’s rush week? Insanity. We had pledges swallowing goldfish, jumping off balconies into snowbanks. Patrick Sullivan IV—you remember him, right?”
“Of course,” I lied, already replaying Scott’s thigh nestled against mine at the gas station while Prince droned on.
“Amazing,” I said on autopilot, though my eyes had wandered to the room behind him.
The crowd of elegant patrons milled around in their sparkling gowns and bow ties, nibbling on bite-sized crab cakes and laughing at precisely the right volume to convey the artificial cheer of upper crust philanthropy.
And at the center of it all was my mother, Lydia Carver, dazzling in her floor-length emerald gown, poised like royalty and holding court with her wealthy benefactors.
But make no mistake, in this room tonight, she was the wealthiest of them all.
Daughter of an oil tycoon, Mother had married “beneath her”—to a mere hotel tycoon—and she never let my father forget it. Not that he was around much to hear the reminders, as infidelity took a considerable amount of his time.
Mother’s laugh floated across the ballroom, perfectly demure, but I knew that look in her eyes.
She was as bored with her conversation as I was with mine.
Yet she’d endure, the way she always did, for the sake of appearances…
and charity. This was her annual fundraiser, the event of the season, drawing deep-pocketed donors from around the globe to support whatever fashionable cause she currently embraced.
It was never something mainstream like the Red Cross or the Shriners Children’s Hospital.
No, my mother picked the most obscure charities she could envision, like “Save the Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth” or—my personal favorite—the “Give Back Yoga Foundation,” which sought to make the fitness fad accessible to underserved communities.
Prince snapped his fingers in my face. “You still with me?”
“Yes, sorry. I was thinking about Conrad in the fountain.”
“No, Michelle.” He sighed, milking the moment. “That was Patrick. Conrad was wrapped like a mummy.”
“Right. Conrad the mummy.” I nodded, maintaining my composure. “There are so many pranks. It’s hard to keep them straight.”
He puffed up proudly. “That’s Sigma Delta. So many legendary moments! Hey, have I ever told you the one about the inflatable sheep?”
That was it. If I had to listen to another word… I pushed my chair back and stood.
Prince jolted. “Whoa, where’re you going?”
“Ladies’ room. Be right back.”
From across the ballroom, my mother’s eyes locked on mine, sharp and unrelenting.
Instinctively I straightened, tugging the fabric of my dress downward in self-conscious haste.
Mother lifted her chin a fraction, never breaking from her polite conversation, but her gaze pinned me in place.
With a subtlety visible only to those raised under her judgment, she placed one perfectly manicured hand flat against her own taut stomach, pressing inward just enough to suggest a graceful concavity.
Translation: Suck it in, fatty.
My abdominal muscles tightened on command; muscle memory drilled into me since childhood.
This wasn’t about poise. It was about perfection, an ideal I could never live up to.
The body type my mother prized—slim hips, delicate bones, visible collarbones—was hers.
Hers and my sister Melanie’s. Not mine. I’d inherited my father’s frame: broad shoulders and long legs that had stretched me to five foot eight by fifth grade.
A Carver in name, but not in the ways that mattered to her.
Not that she didn’t try. Her solution was always the same: diet harder, shrink smaller, chase happiness on the other side of the scale.
But I’d seen the toll it took on Melanie—the glassy eyes, the fainting spells—and decided early on that I’d rather be strong than fragile.
Still, moments like this made me feel twelve again, hollowed out by a single look.
Mother’s course correction continued from afar. With only the faintest ripple of displeasure crossing her serene face, her gaze flicked to my shoulders, and she gave the barest adjustment of her own posture, straightening her spine and extending her regal neck upward.
Translation: Stand up straight, you pathetic hunchback.
I obeyed, shoulders back, head high, feeling both ridiculous and helpless.
Mother’s satisfied smile lasted all of half a second before she turned back to her donor, her conversation as flawless as her posture.
And just like that, the fight drained out of me.
That was her power. Impeccable manners for everyone else, but rules didn’t apply when she wanted to draw blood.
“You okay?” Prince’s voice cut in, confusion creasing his brow.
“Yes. Fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. I sank back in my chair. “You were saying… inflatable sheep?”
Despite skipping a bathroom break during the first round of story time, I didn’t hesitate when it came around again, especially after little Baa Baa, the inflatable sheep, took a hard left into felony territory.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pushing my chair back for a second time. “Turns out I do need the ladies’ room after all.”
I didn’t wait for Prince’s reply. Any delay would have only slowed my escape. I crossed the ballroom quickly, keeping my eyes low to avoid Mother’s glare, and nearly collided with a couple tangled up in the hallway.
“Oh, god, I’m…” The apology died on my lips, derailed by too much skin, too much tongue, and my sister’s very familiar, very unbothered face. I sidestepped the unnecessary display and slipped into the bathroom.
Melanie followed a moment later, shutting the door behind her with practiced nonchalance. Lipstick smudged, hair mussed, she looked thoroughly pleased with herself.
“Oh, relax,” she said, catching my expression in the mirror. “I promise it was consensual.”
“On your part or his?”
She smirked. “Did he look like he was suffering?”
Come to think of it, no. He did not.
“Who is he?” I pressed. “Because I’m fairly certain he’s not on the approved list of wealthy suitors.”
“Like good ol’ Prince?” She poked me with a grin.
“No. You’re right. Gavin is not on the list. I met him at a movie premiere.
He’s an actor. You probably recognize him from that movie last year—the one about the alien born in a flower field who gets adopted by a horticulturist, then ages super-fast and falls in love with her? ”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Marigold Martian?” she tried again.
I shook my head, though of course I’d heard of it. I just didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Sounds awful.”
“It is. He’s a terrible actor,” she said. “But he’s pretty.”
“And Mother’s okay with him?”
She arched a brow. “Mother knows nothing about him. That’s why we’re sticking to the hallway.”
“She has eyes in the back of her head. And loyal spies. I assure you—she knows he’s here.”
“Even better.”
Her response drew a pout from me. “Why do you get to carry on with your flowerbed alien, and I get stuck on a date with Prince? He’s your age. You should be the one sacrificed, not me.”
“Do I look like the kind of girl who’d date a dweeb like that?”
I hated to admit it, but no. Melanie was porcelain perfect, the sort of beauty men turned for. But still… “It’s not fair. I’m not that girl either.”
“Then say no. That’s what I did. And now Mother has written me off—because she knows she can’t control me.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Melanie might not play by the rules, but she was still playing the game. She stepped over the line, sure, but never all the way out. Never enough to lose the credit card. Money like ours had a way of keeping people tethered, no matter how high they tried to fly.
“I tried,” I said. “I even stole her car.”
“I heard.” She looked entertained.
“Got five miles before the universe turned me back around.”
“And that’s why,” Melanie said, blotting the lipstick smudges around her lips, “you’ll be a Lavelle in no time.”
“Never. That’s where I draw the line.”
“But Michelle,” she mocked lightly, “you’re the good one. The dutiful daughter. Traditional. Respectable. Juilliard pianist. That’s catnip at cocktail parties. Oh, how Mother brags! And you off being your perfect little self leaves me room to be bad.”
There was no envy in her voice, only relief.
I’d unknowingly picked up the family crown when she dropped it.
Melanie had once been the heir to the throne.
The oldest. The prettiest. The face of the Carver family.
But then came the shoplifting incident at sixteen.
And even though the charges were dropped and the scandal quietly buried, Melanie didn’t claw her way back to high society.
Instead, she leaned into rebellion. That left me, the family’s uncomfortable, but reliable last chance at a respectable legacy.
Melanie’s eyes found mine in the mirror, and her tone softened just a fraction. “You want my advice, little sis?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Run.”
Once Melanie left, I locked myself in a stall.
I couldn’t face going back out there. Back to Mother’s laser-beam stare and Prince’s sheep debauchery.
My sister’s parting words echoed in my head.
Run. She’d done it and lived to tell the tale.
Why couldn’t I? Why did my mother’s disapproval still freeze the blood in my veins?
And then there was Scott and his charming normalness. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a resume to be presented at cocktail parties. He wanted to blow my mind, and for once, I wanted to let someone try.
From my purse, I pulled out the crumpled Rabid Jackal flyer.
Performing at nine. My watch read seven forty-five.
It would be tight, but if I timed it right, Mother would assume our driver, Mr. Blatch, had driven me home from the charity event.
She’d never guess I’d doubled back to steal her car for the second time today.
It was reckless. Stupid. Exactly the kind of story Melanie would brag about for months.
But the more I let the idea spin, the better it sounded.
Because tomorrow everything changed. Tomorrow I would tell my mother the truth about Juilliard—that I wasn’t going back for my sophomore year.
That I couldn’t. The letter from the conservatory would arrive soon enough, and she’d know anyway.
Her fury would be volcanic, her disappointment endless, and she’d try to steer me back to a place I didn’t belong.
If tonight was my last night of freedom, then I needed to make it count.
I peeked around the corner. Clear. Exiting the bathroom, I made my way down the grand hallway of the Beverly Regent, one of my father’s prized hotels, and through the gold-adorned doors. Mr. Blatch spotted me instantly and hurried to open the car door.
“Where to, Miss Carver?” he asked as I slid into the back seat.
“Home. I think I’ll turn in early,” I lied smoothly.
“That’s a fine idea,” he said, closing the door with a click.
Clutching the flyer in my hand, I allowed myself a secret smile.