Practice ended with a flurry of movement as the cheerleaders dispersed. Drivers pulled up one by one, whisking each girl away in their own cars. I grabbed my bag from the bench, slinging it over my shoulder as I halfheartedly waved goodbye to a few of them that waved first. The rest didn't even bother looking my way.
Our driver finally arrived, and I climbed into the car after her. Oddly, Blanche wasn't there, which meant the driver had already dropped her off first. Small mercies. I slid into the seat beside Frankie, and the car pulled away from the field.
The route back home was different this time, weaving through streets I hadn't seen before. My gaze flicked toward the window, hoping for even a glimpse of that mysterious fenced-off Eden that was running tiredlessly on my mind all day. But there was nothing. Just unfamiliar roads and ordinary buildings. It was frustrating, to say the least.
By the time we pulled up to the main residence, my mood was already souring.
As soon as we stepped inside, Tiffany was there, hurrying toward me like she'd been waiting all day. She collected my bag and handed me a glass of water in one swift motion. Another servant was at Frankie's side, offering the same level of attention. Of course, she had her own personal helper, too.
"Dinner's probably soon," Frankie guessed, following me through the foyer. She wasn't wrong.
The house had its rules, and one of them was that dinner started promptly at seven. The women in this family were all perfectionists, and that extended to everything—including punctual meals.
Sure enough, as we entered the dining room, my mother was already there, seated like a queen at the head of the table. She glanced up, spotted us, and waved us over.
"Wash your hands and join us," she said in that clipped tone of hers.
A kitchen maid stepped forward with a crystal basin, holding it steady as I dipped my hands into the water. Another maid appeared with a second basin for Frankie, who smiled at her before doing the same.
Once we were done, we took our seats. The room was quiet except for the faint clinking of cutlery and murmured conversation. But before anyone could fully settle into the meal, I turned to my mother and broke the silence.
"I need my car back," I said abruptly, trying to sound less rude and more polite even if that was not on list of things I felt at the moment. "Or rather, a new one. That old thing won't function properly anymore, anyway."
The room stilled. All eyes turned to me, and I could feel the tension rising like a thick fog. Blanche let out an exaggerated scoff, breaking the silence.
"Do you have to make every single event about you?" she snapped, glaring at me from across the table. "Can't we have dinner in peace for once without feeling like someone's going to throw a fit for attention?"
I rolled my eyes, barely resisting the urge to laugh. "What part of my sentence has your name in it, Blanche? No one called the foodie, so have your dinner in peace."
The sharp sound of a hand slamming against the table made me flinch slightly. My mother's glare bore into me from the head of the table.
"Do you have to do this all the time?" she barked, his voice rising. "What did I do to deserve such an insolent and stupid child like you?"
The room was deathly silent as I met her furious gaze with a glare.
"Well," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "no one forced you to have sex with father."
Marilyn and Frankie choked on their food simultaneously, coughing as they tried to regain composure. I bit back a laugh, though I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
My mother's face turned red, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Jackson cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand.
"That's enough," he said, sounding slightly annoyed and irritated. "You should never speak to your mother like that again, young lady!"
I scoffed internally, keeping my expression neutral. "Understood," I replied, my voice laced with false politeness. "Now, do I get a car or not?"
Jackson's face tightened, but before he could say anything, Blanche leaned forward, again, her eyes narrowing. "If she gets a car, I want one too," she demanded, crossing her arms like a child throwing a tantrum.
I swear if this girl dies, I'm going to throw a sleepover with everybody I consider an acquaintance or a friend and dance to my death.
"Fine," He snapped, rubbing his temples as if the conversation itself was giving him a headache. "I'll do something about it. Now, can we have dinner in peace?"
Frankie, who'd been quietly observing the exchange, and trying not to look like she's been, cleared her throat. "Is it the wrong time to say I want one too?" she asked meekly, glancing between her parents and ours. "Asher's already got one. Where's he anyway?."
Landon sighed deeply, fighting back a smile. "You'll get one on your birthday, sweetie," he said finally. "It's only a few weeks away."
"And your brother mentioned something about going to a party tonight," Marilyn added, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. "Now eat."
I leaned back in my chair, poking at the food on my plate without much interest. Tonight's dinner was the usual: salads arranged in perfectly symmetrical piles, steaks cooked to a level of perfection that screamed money, and what looked like peas glistening under the dining room lights.
Not that any of it appealed to me. I wasn't the kind of human who needed to carefully monitor what I ate. No calorie counting, no avoiding carbs, no worrying about "cheat days." I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and not gain a single pound.
Some might call that a blessing. My mother certainly did—well, after she stopped acting like it was some kind of anomaly.
I remember when Wendy first realized that no matter how much I ate, my physical appearance stayed the same. She was thrilled, of course. It was one less thing for her to nitpick about. But I could tell the wheels in her head were turning, trying to figure out if this strange trait could be passed off as something she deserved credit for.
The truth? It was more of a curse than anything. Sure, I didn't look bigger, but I still felt it. Heavy, sluggish, like I was carrying a weight I couldn't see. Wendy didn't care about that, though. She wasn't concerned about how much I weighed—just how I looked.
Because in her world, how you look is everything.
She once told me, in one of her classic lectures, that what I weighed didn't matter if I don't let it spiral out of control as none of her fellow "ladies" would ever dare walk around carrying a bathroom scale. It wasn't about the numbers; it was about the image.
That thought made me smirk a little. The visual of women in designer dresses and pearls, dragging scales behind them like purse. Honestly, kind of funny.
Still, the pressure to maintain perfection never wavered. My mother made sure of that. If I didn't look flawless at all times, it wasn't just a reflection on me—it was a reflection on her.
So, I picked at the food, eating just enough to avoid another comment about wasting dinner or how much work went into preparing it, or how perfect I need to look for whatever upcoming event she'd planned. I wasn't hungry, but the last thing I wanted was another lecture.
Blanche, sitting across from me, was devouring her steak like she hadn't eaten in days. She didn't have my metabolism, but she didn't care either. She lived to eat, not the other way around. If Wendy had her way, Blanche would be on a strict diet, too. But my mother never pushed Blanche the way she did me.
Maybe because Blanche was her husband's daughter and not hers. Or maybe because she knew Blanche would eat her weight in food just to spite her or maybe… just maybe, she was seeking for that validation. As if Jackson's obsession over her wasn't enough.