“I’d say you’re lucky.” Mac tugged a loose thread on her old Bermuda shorts. “I just wish she’d find some project or charitable foundation or something to do besides trying to be my buddy. She’s always bugging me to get facials with her or have our nails done, saying things like, ‘Oh, but you’d look so much better with a shorter haircut,’ or, ‘If you’d let me tweeze your brows, your pretty eyes would just pop!’ She’s such a pageant parrot, and you know how I hate those girls. They’re a bunch of sheep in Prada heels and Stila lip gloss.”
“Maybe if you’d give her a chance, you’d realize she’s not as horrible as you think,” Ginger suggested, shrugging. “She seems okay to me.”
Mac stuck her finger partway in her mouth and made gagging sounds.
Ginger kept pressing Honey’s case. “She tries too hard, yeah, but I’ll bet she has good intentions under all that—”
“Spackle?” Mac cracked. “She must’ve learned how to apply her makeup at Lowe’s.”
“Never mind,” Ginger said, and began looking intently at the highway signs, murmuring, “We should be close to our exit…. Yeah, there it is.”
Mac looked up and saw the white letters on green, spelling out “Bunker Hill,” and felt something relax inside her. Maybe she really was a Memorial Isolationist, which was what Alex liked to call everyone who lived in the Villages and rarely ventured out of the Bubble, except for an occasional foray to the Galleria in Post Oak, to Minute Maid Park for a ball game, or downtown to a museum or the symphony. As a kid, Mac had learned that the Villages had been founded in the 1950s by corporate execs who wanted country-estate living outside the city proper. For the most part, it was their wives who’d started the Glass Slipper Club. Their daughters had been the first-ever Rosebuds. Mac liked knowing the history of the place, and she loved the vibe of living in the burbs. Besides, driving ten miles across Houston meant getting stuck in traffic that could take half an hour or more to wade through, and everything Mac needed was close to home: her house, her friends, her school. Although she wouldn’t have minded if her daddy’s new wife lived somewhere far away, basically anywhere that wasn’t the Mackenzies’ renovated Colonial off Knipp Road.
“Look, if you want to whine about Honey, it’s okay,” Ginger said, as if reading her mind, though Mac realized she’d bitched plenty already, maybe too much. She’d been complaining about Honey since the day her father had introduced them.
“The thing is,” Mac tried to explain while a familiar bubble of frustration pressed against her chest, “Honey’s not my mother, and she never will be. My mom was unselfish and funny and she didn’t pressure me to be anyone but myself.” She stopped as tears swam to her eyes. God, she hated when she got weepy. She blinked them away, slouching against the car seat and crossing her arms protectively. “I just wish Daddy’s new wife would leave me the hell alone, that’s all,” she whispered. “It’s hard enough without having her to deal with.”
And if Mac hadn’t had a part of her mom to keep with her, words she carried around every day, she would’ve felt an even greater loss, if that were possible. Particularly with Honey redecorating the house, removing traces of Jeanie Mackenzie each time she replaced a seventeenth-century walnut side table with a shiny new piece from Ethan Allen, or put a treasured English pastoral oil into storage in favor of an Andy Warhol soup can.
“I still miss her,” Mac whispered, and Ginger’s right hand left the wheel to squeeze Mac’s arm.
“Oh, girl, I’m so sorry. I know you do. Sometimes I forget how you must feel, ’cuz you always act like you’ve got it under control. But if you ever want to talk about it, let it out. Remember, no secrets.”
“I know, I know. But I can’t. Not now. I don’t want to go there, okay? And if you start feeling sorry for me, I’m going to throw myself out the car door.”
“Hey, I’m on your side,” her friend reminded her. “You have every right to feel the way you feel, and I don’t think you need to change for anybody, definitely not for Honey. You’re always the one telling me and Laura to be ourselves, right? You’re pretty as you are, besides, and you know how I feel about superficiality. Natural is always better than artificial. It’s just some peeps aren’t comfortable being themselves. They always want to be someone else. Maybe Honey is like that.”
“What she’s like is annoying,” Mac grumbled. “And you can see for yourself if we stop by the house first so I can pick up my stuff for the sleepover.”
“I’ll play bodyguard,” Ginger offered, hunching her thin shoulders in an effort to look menacing—As if, Mac thought—“and I’ll keep Honey far enough away so you won’t even catch a whiff of her Aqua Net.”
“Fat chance,” Mac scoffed; Honey sprayed enough of the stuff on her do to destroy what was left of the ozone layer.
They tooled down Bunker Hill Road, passing apartments, gas stations, and strip malls, until they turned onto Taylorcrest and, after that, Knipp, where all the yards seemed wide and green and landscaped, almost tropical, with blooming white jasmine and lavender lantana, even palm trees and cypress trees dangling Spanish moss. As the grounds grew increasingly lush, so did the houses, which basically came in two handy sizes: large and supersized.
The Mackenzie residence fell more into the “large” category. The place Ginger’s dad had built off Piney Point—way before he divorced Ginger’s mom—now, that was supersized. It wasn’t called “the Castle” for nothing, and Mac had always loved spending the night there. There were so many rooms to explore, so many places to hide where no grownups could find you, and Ginger’s room even had a turreted ceiling. It was beyond cool.
But first things first.
As they turned into Mac’s cul-de-sac, she closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.
“What’re you doing?”
“If I’m lucky, Bridezilla won’t be home,” Mac explained, daring to peek as the car bumped onto the circular drive in front of the House the Bimbo Had Taken Over. “Crap,” she breathed, uncrossing her fingers when she saw Honey’s midnight-blue Beemer parked smack in front, beneath the shade of a huge old elm. “My luck sucks big-time today, huh?”
First Laura had blown them off, and now this.
She wondered why her stepmom hadn’t gone to the country club with her dad so she could hang out with the other trophy wives, sipping vodka martinis and yakking about Botox, backtalking stepkids, and Brazilian bikini waxes while they waited for their hubbies at the 19th Hole. Maybe they’d tossed her out for wearing too much makeup or for bringing back the Farrah Fawcett flip when it should’ve stayed dead and buried.
“We all have our crosses to bear,” Ginger joked, shutting off the ignition and flipping her keys into her palm. Her green eyes flashed impishly. “C’mon, stiff upper lip and all that, like you’re always saying to me and Laura.”
Mac pouted. “Yeah, but it’s more fun when I’m giving the advice, not taking it.”
They got out of the Prius, and Ginger followed her to the door. She paused as she jammed her key in the brass lock, remarking, “In and out in five, you got that?”
“Got it.”
As soon as they entered, stepping out of the damp heat and into the chilly marbled foyer, a voice rang out. Mac shivered, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the blast of artificial cold or from the sound of Honey’s voice.
“Mah-chelle! Is that you, sweet pea?”
Mac cringed at the syrupy tone, wondering if that was the voice Honey had used when she’d been named Miss Congeniality in the state pageant a couple of years ago, just before she’d latched onto the widowed and wealthy Daniel Mackenzie. Honey so overdid the Southern belle routine, right down to her name, which was too sugar-sweet to be true: Honey Potts.
Oh, wait. It was Honey Potts Mackenzie, Mac corrected herself, and swallowed down the bitter taste the name left.
Before Mac could say “plastic,” there she was, floating toward them in a cloud of Aqua Net and honeysuckle perfume. Ugh. Her father must’ve lost his mind, mar
rying such a ditz.
“Hey there, darlin’, and Miss Ginger, nice to see you, too.” Honey picked her way across the black Carrera tiles in her spike heels, nearly spilling out of her tiny pink top. She gave them both air kisses and even made a bit of small talk with Ginger, asking about her trip to Louisiana, before Mac interrupted.
“Excuse us, okay? We’re just here so I can pack a bag. I’m staying over at Ginger’s tonight. Laura’ll be there, too.”
Honey’s pink-painted mouth settled into a disapproving frown. “But, Michelle, didn’t we have plans for this afternoon?”
No one called her “Michelle” but her teachers at Pine Forest Prep…and her lovely new stepmummy.
“Sorry,” Mac said, not meaning it. “But I’ve already promised Ginger and Laura, and I don’t remember making plans with you.”
And she couldn’t imagine having agreed to go, unless she’d been hypnotized.
“Hell’s bells”—Honey set her hands on her size-two hips and made a moue, looking honestly upset—“we’re all set for deep tissue massage and facials at the Uptown Salon.” She cast a critical eye on Mac’s sunburned nose. “And not a minute too soon.”
Massage and facials with the stepzombie? Mac glanced at Ginger and had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Was this a joke?
It was the third weekend of August, which in Texas terms meant the final days of freedom before heading back to Pine Forest Prep for another scintillating year of lectures, homework, and snubs from the Bimbo Cartel. The last thing she wanted to do was waste a moment of her Saturday afternoon at the day spa with Miss Surgically Enhanced Knockers.
“Maybe another time,” Mac said as diplomatically as she could, feeling only the vaguest twinge of guilt at the disappointment in Honey’s face.
“But I thought we’d do some shopping afterward, too,” Honey pressed.
“Thanks, but no,” Mac said firmly. She didn’t need new clothes, not when she wore a uniform to PFP five days a week; and she had fresh ones—tailored, pressed, and ready to go—hanging in her closet. Her dad’s secretary always made sure of it. Besides, it wasn’t like she dressed in anything but jeans and T-shirts when she wasn’t in PFP’s regulation white shirt and plaid skirt. She was hardly Jo Lynn Bidwell, the school’s reigning fashionista (and a total Oompa-Loompa—was she ever less than perfectly bronzed, even in the dead of winter?). Mac wasn’t into labels or spending Daddy’s money like it grew on trees.
But Honey sure was. Shopping was Honey’s specialty, and she had a stuffed-to-the-gills walk-in closet the size of Rhode Island to prove it.
“Oh, c’mon, Michelle, pretty please?” Honey clasped her beringed hands and held them up like a beggar. “I’d even spring for you to get a haircut.” She cocked her head, studying Mac with narrowed eyes. “Your bangs are pretty shaggy, and your brows could use a little pluckin’.”
“Mac, I could leave,” Ginger said, “and you could come by later, after you’re done with Honey. It’s no big deal.” She slung her hemp bag over her shoulder and took a step toward the door.
“No!” Mac cut her off and grabbed her wrist, not wanting to be left alone with the step-Barbie. But apparently Honey felt otherwise.
“Oh, Ginger, sweet pea, that’s a great idea.” The blonde clapped, and her six-carat Harry Winston engagement ring caught the light of the Austrian crystal chandelier, nearly blinding Mac with its glare. “Why don’t ya go on home and Michelle can join you later.”
“Sure, Mrs. M, no problem,” Ginger said, shooting Mac a look and mouthing the words stiff upper lip until Mac released her hand. “Come by when you’re finished, okay? I’ve got a few things to do in the meantime anyway.”
Mac mouthed back, I will get you for this.
Her friend smiled. “Later, gator.”
Mac stood by helplessly as the redhead gave a backhanded wave before she slipped out the door, leaving Mac with no graceful way out. She released a slow breath, tempted to dash around Honey and her double-Ds and make a beeline up the curving stairwell for her room. But her stepmother caught hold of her arms, keeping her where she was.
Miss Runner-Up Bayou City stared her down and said, “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, sugar? You listen here, Michelle Mackenzie, you’ll need to look polished as shoe leather when you’re presented at the Rosebud dinner, and you will be on the list. I have inside information. Invitations go out this week, and I want you to look your best. You know how your momma wanted this for you. Your daddy told me so himself.”
Mac squirmed, hating to agree with Honey about anything. But this time, she was right. Jeanie Mackenzie had wanted Mac to debut. She’d left letters behind, ones that Mac had read so many times the linen stationery was worn soft. She kept her favorite with her always, folded and stuck in her wallet. It laid out all the things Jeanie had wanted for her daughter—things she wouldn’t live to see Mac do—and becoming a Rosebud was one of them.
I can picture you already, Mackie, walking out on your father’s arm as you’re introduced, holding your chin up and smiling, showing the world the kind of woman you’ve become, beautiful inside and out. You can do a lot of good, baby, and set a fine example for other young girls at PFP. You have so much to offer. I don’t think you even know how much yet. And you can believe I’ll be watching you, feeling my heart swell, and wishing I could be there beside you to tell you how proud I am of you….
“Mah-chelle, did you hear a word I said?”
She shook her head, unapologetic. “I was thinking of something else.”
Something that made her heart clench.
“I asked if you knew what being a legacy meant.”
Hello? Did Honey think Mac had an air bubble in her cranium, too? She’d received a nearly perfect score on the verbal portion of her SATs, for God’s sake. She knew words that would doubtless cause a short circuit in Honey’s brain if she tried to pronounce them.
“I know what it means, yeah,” she said, wishing she could explain to Bridezilla that accepting an invitation to the debutante dinner was trickier than just buying the perfect dress at Needless Markup. Mac was all about being herself and not having to prove her worth to anyone, which was why she wasn’t sure she was cut out to be a Rosebud. Wasn’t it all about showing off, hobnobbing with the likes of Jo Lynn Bidwell, Camie Lindell, and Trisha Hunt, and throwing good money away on an expensive gown that she’d only wear once? But she wasn’t about to explain her tangled emotions to Honey Potts, of all people.
“You’re as good as in,” her stepmother explained needlessly. “Being introduced into Houston society is a huge honor. You never know what’ll come from that. It’s how your momma met your daddy, so I hear, and I’ll be there to watch you every step of the way to make sure you don’t stumble.”
“You’ll be watching me?” Mac repeated.
Honey bit her lip, rising up on her toes, looking fit to burst as she announced, “Daniel got me into the Glass Slipper Club, and that nice Bootsie Bidwell put me smack-dab on the selection committee. How sweet is that?”
Whoa.
From what Mac had heard, there was a waiting list to get into the club. And Honey didn’t even have a blue-blood pedigree.
“I thought someone had to die for a new member to get into the GSC,” Mac blurted out, unable to stop herself. “So who’d my father kill to get you in?”
“Kill? What on earth?” Honey blinked. “What your daddy did was make a very generous donation to the Glass Slipper Club Foundation. Oh.” She put a pink-tipped finger to her lips, and a grin broke out on her made-up face.
“You’re just pullin’ my chain, aren’t you?”
“That depends,” Mac replied, her inner bitch surfacing so quickly she didn’t have time to fight it. “Are you one of those dolls who won’t quit talking unless someone stops pulling your chain?”
Honey giggled like a fourteen-year-old. “Ah, Michelle, you’re so funny!” She slipped her arm through the crook of Mac’s elbow, guiding her toward the front door.
<
br /> “You and me, we’re gonna have the best time this afternoon!”
Mac rolled her eyes and prayed to God she’d get through the next few hours without losing it completely and trying to murder her stepmummy with her spearmint Binaca.
Would she have to wear an orange jumpsuit if she committed Honeycide, or could she do blue? Orange—particularly burnt orange Corvettes—made her sick to her stomach.
* * *
To us the world is a museum; to them it’s a store.
—Fran Lebowitz
They’re not SUVs. They’re Urban Assault Vehicles. Seriously, what soccer mom really needs to drive a Hummer?
—Ginger Fore
* * *
Three
Ginger’s cell started making lip-smacking noises—her text-message alert—just after she’d left Mac’s house and climbed into the Prius, which felt like it was 350 degrees. Forget frying eggs. She could’ve baked veggie muffins in there. The leather seat stuck to the back of her thighs, and her newly shorn red hair began curling against her damp neck.
Get the AC on fast or I’ll melt! her inner voice shouted at her.
So Ginger multitasked, starting the car, cranking up the air, and fumbling with her hemp bag, finally fishing out her Razr and finding a new message waiting. She figured it was Laura, giving her a quick 411 on her “ride home” with Avery. Oh, boy.
But when she saw the message, a tiny ping went off in her chest.
Where R U? Will U B back soon? Want 2 talk 2 U.
Ohmigawd.
Javier Garcia was looking for her.
Her heart pounded faster than when she’d tried out for the track team her freshman year and had nearly collapsed at the end of the 400-meter.
What could he possibly want to talk to me about? The mural he was painting for Deena in the formal dining room? An upcoming Go Green rally that he was leading?
Or did he want to ask her out? Even though he’d already told her she was too young for him, seeing as he was a senior at the University of Houston and she was still in high school. It was like Hayden the Hunky Hammerer all over again.
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