Work Me Up

But closer to hand, I’d just shoved Mrs. Samson’s car door straight into one of those very potted plants, cracking the enormous white ceramic urn it was in, and sending a miniature lemon tree, heavy with fat Meyer lemons, crashing sideways into another car parked beside us in the long driveway.

“Shit,” I breathe, as I stare wide-eyed at the damage. Not only did the plant’s upper branches crash through the passenger side window of the car, taking one of the mirrors with it, but the base of the thing, the heavy ceramic pot, looks like it dented the car door itself, and took a few heavy chunks of paint with it.

Pretty, deep burgundy paint, on a car that looks like it costs almost as much as my parents’ house. It’s some kind of vintage model that looks like it belongs in Cuba or an old silent film from the 1950s. The kind of car you only bring out on special occasions, to go driving somewhere that you hope people will stop and stare and point and notice you.

Fuck.

I’m still staring when Mrs. Samson hurries around to my side of the car. I barely even noticed her slamming the driver’s side door or stepping out.

“Well, that is a pickle,” she’s saying, cooing and tutting with a heavy frown on her face as she examines the damage.

“I… I didn’t mean to, I just didn’t see it,” I stammer. Then I glance from the damage up to the house and back again. As if in response to my thoughts, my phone buzzes in my pocket once more. “Er… why don’t I go and get my parents? My father will know what to do.”

Mrs. Samson looks over and me, still frowning, and crosses her arms, nodding. “I think you’d better do just that, yes. You’ll need to find the owner of this car before the end of the party.”

Heart in my throat, I slam her car door, wincing yet again when I notice a scrape of paint missing from her car door as well. Crap. That’s going to cost us.

Not that money is much of an object for my parents, but still. It’s adding inconvenience on top of the trouble I’m already in, which I know based on the number of texts on my phone is deep.

Just keep digging this hole, Selena, I think to myself as I start up my parents’ driveway toward the house. I make it almost all the way to the front door before a figure swathed in black nearly knocks me over, it collides with me so hard.

“Darling, you made it!” From the scent drifting off of her, Mom used about four times her usual amount of perfume—something she tends to do whenever she’s feeling nervous or anxious about an event. Not that she’d ever admit to feeling anything like nerves or inconvenient feelings when it comes to these sorts of things. She’s always been the very picture of refined, competent elegance. Determined to come across as cool and easy, breezing through life with effortless aplomb.

Only those of us who see her behind the scenes, like immediate family, know how secretly demanding and strict she has to be to make everything look so effortless.

It isn’t easy being easy, as she always says.

“Mom.” I hug her back, and she squeezes me a little too tightly, leaning in to hiss in my ear.

“We’ll talk about your tardiness later.”

“I’m sorry,” I manage, before she’s already drawing back and spinning me forcibly toward a stranger in a suit, practically glaring at me until I offer my hand to shake.

“Mr. Gordon, may I present our daughter, Selena?”

“It’s a pleasure,” Mr. Gordon says, squeezing my hand just a little too hard.

I smile at him through my teeth. “So good to meet you. Thank you so much for coming tonight, it means the world to us.” Mom has me trained well. She and Dad used to throw these sorts of company events all the time when I was younger. Before everything in our personal lives went to shit. It’s probably why she’s so nervous about tonight’s party. This is the first soirée in a while, and one to celebrate a huge merger.

But I can’t get distracted by her, not just yet. “Mom, is Dad here?” I ask her softly, turning my head before Mr. Gordon can respond to me. “I need to speak with him privately.”

The lines around Mom’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly with worry. She glances at Mr. Gordon, smiles huge and fake for him, then gracefully spins me away, calling over her shoulder to him that she’ll be back in a jiffy. We’ve barely taken a step away from him before she leans in to whisper to me once more. “Is everything all right? Have you been taking your medications? Do we need to call Dr. Rosen? I have him on speed dial.”