by Felicia Lynn
“Hello, Laura, it’s so lovely to see you again,” my mother coos then stands to lightly embrace the woman approaching our perch. Laura Odom is a regular attendee in settings such as these. She’s a divorcee, and her ex-husband is an oil tycoon from Texas. Their split was as amicable as could be since he heavily padded her bank account as a parting gift.
I smile at my mother’s side while she compliments Laura on everything the eye can see. My face is aching from the rehearsed, constant smile I’ve been wearing for hours that takes more effort than I care to admit. “Good afternoon, Ms. Odom. It’s so nice to see you again,” I lie.
She carefully assesses my appearance and gives her lackluster acceptance by nodding and greeting me with a simple, “Hello, Charlotte. Nice to see you as well,” before returning her attention to my mother.
“Sandra, my son, Davis, whom you met when he attended the dinner with me a few weeks ago, is graduating from Brown University next spring and will be moving back to the South. Maybe we should introduce Charlotte and Davis to one another?” she inquires, reaching for my mother’s approval of the arranged setup. My stomach tightens at the thought, and I struggle to maintain the appearance of fake happiness. Another staged setup is the last thing I need.
Clearly, my mother disagrees about my needs when she responds directly to Laura. “Laura, that would be a lovely connection. Let’s talk schedules and plan a dinner for the two,” she sweetly replies, as if I’m not inches away—only proving I don’t have a voice in the decision. It’s apparent this guy has her approval, and she has no interest in my input. It’s a done deal in her mind.
If I could have a wish, it would be to be anywhere other than a campaign trail. I crave the normalcy of life, and this is not normal. The main priority in my life set up by my parents and enforced strictly by my mother is to play this role. It’s what I was born to do, as she’s reminded me every time I’ve requested to do any of the things normal kids do.
I wanted to have playdates, go to gymnastics class, and attend birthday parties. I yearned for friends I could see after the school bell rang. I could never relate to movies I watched growing up when normal girls wished for riches and fame because I wanted the opposite. I would have given anything for one of those disgusting school lunches with pizza and mandarin oranges in syrup instead of the grilled chicken salad with a measured dressing portion, fresh fruit salad, and bottled water. The opportunity to commiserate with my school friends over the gross school food would have been fun, but alas, that day never came.
Off to college and away from my mother’s watch, I should be taking advantage of the time and enjoy some of those things I missed out on, but I haven’t and I won’t. I’m hyper-focused on studying and eager to make something of myself that’s bigger than my surname.
As the two women engage in conversation, I take advantage of the distraction to excuse myself politely to the ladies’ room while my mother puts her skills to work. The fact that an escape to the bathroom leaves me feeling a little giddy is insane, but I have a reprieve for a short time so that’s all that matters. I leave my mother and Ms. Odom to their superficial conversation, which will likely result in a substantial financial contribution.
I catch the eye of Morgan while making my escape. She excuses herself from the small group gathered and rushes over to join me, so I pause to wait for her to catch up. Her arm links through mine, intertwining them elbow-to-elbow. “Hey. Finally. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all night,” she whispers. “How’s it going with Sandra?” she asks quietly with concern as we walk into a ladies’ room that exudes the same opulence as the rest of the club.
Leather chairs frame a gas-burning fireplace in a sitting area just outside the restroom area. Soft music is playing, and the coffee table contains the latest designer magazines. I look toward the area yearningly as Morgan pulls me to the mirrored vanities instead.
She releases my arm at the counter and opens her handbag to gather the items to refresh her makeup. I watch as she carefully and meticulously touches up her lipstick before passing it to me to do the same. My eyes silently answer her earlier question, and they tell her all the things that my voice cannot. I don’t have to use my words to tell her how terrible I feel. Or that I’m miserable and hate being forced to play this role. And she already knows my mother is being as awful as normal—our unspoken language with eye contact is nothing new, and neither is her response. As usual, she is full of encouragement to do what I have to do to make it through the night peacefully.
“Tomorrow, we should study for our calculus exams poolside. That’ll be fun, right?” she sings a little too cheerfully, knowing that studying is what I really want to be focusing on right now. I smile at her attempt to covertly cheer me up, and since the night is more than half over, I accept it.
“That would be lovely,” I say with as much cheerfulness as my terrible personality will allow, and we both laugh as we take one more glance at ourselves before vacating the ladies’ room. Morgan thankfully follows me back to my mother’s table and takes the seat next to me, which leaves my mother no choice but to play nice with me and avoid dissecting my every action aloud.
Saved by Morgan again. The dinner bell rings, and people quickly make their way to the assigned tables as the dinner service begins. My father joins us as well as Morgan’s parents. I’m grateful to have the company since it will hinder my mother’s critiquing. She would never want anyone to overhear her comments, even my father. As she always says, Eyes and ears are everywhere. Be careful what you say and do. You’re a direct reflection of your father and me. She would die before anyone else became aware I’m not the epitome of perfection.
Growing up, Morgan was the one and only friend she allowed me to spend time with. Her father has been my father’s lead political advisor for years, and because of that, our families have always been very close. Morgan’s childhood was much like my own with the politics taking priority, but she had a lot more freedoms than I did and grew up with some sense of normalcy. Plus, her parents actually love her and enjoy her company as more than just a showpiece. She, unlike myself, wasn’t brought into the world to play the part of a political pawn. Morgan walks the golden edge of both lives, normal college student and political socialite, and she transfers back and forth with ease. Thankfully, I’ll be able to watch Morgan make that transition very soon when we escape the evening and drive the two hours back to campus.
The craziness in the sorority house right now could likely compete with the behind-the-scenes dressing rooms at the Miss USA pageant, I suspect. Girls are running around half-dressed to primping stations throughout the rooms of the house. With some painting nails, others doing makeup, and clothing being exchanged all around, the house is filled with craziness and excitement as my sorority sisters get ready for the Fraternity - Sorority Mixer this evening four full hours from now. I’m confused why it should take anyone that long to get ready for any party or event that doesn’t include a beautiful white dress full of lace with a long train where every eye in the room only focuses on two souls. Shaking my head in confusion, I hurry upstairs past all the chaos to the second-floor room I share with Morgan.
When I open the door and find her lying on the bed with earbuds in staring into her iPhone taking selfies with puckered lips, angled head, and whatever else she does, I can’t hold back my laughter. My best friend is a goofball, but she’s pretty much like every other goofball girl I know, so maybe that makes me the goofy one.
Music radiates from every room in the house. It’s loud even with the door closed. I toss my backpack onto the bed and plop down still laughing at her as she turns to me and removes an earbud from one ear.
“You look insane, just so you know,” I tell her, and she makes her stupid duck face in response while I mimic the face back to her.
“How was the day in the world of Miss Perfect? Saving the world, one failing student at a time,” she asks sarcastically. She doesn’t approve of my volunteer work. She thinks I need to
live a little and have more fun, but I like it.
I’ve been at the library leading a peer tutoring session with other college students for the past few hours. As exhausted as I am from tutoring others and helping out, I now wish I’d stayed there to study on my own instead of coming back to this zoo of a place we call home. I tell Morgan as much, but she responds with her usual eye roll since she also doesn’t approve of what she believes is my excessive need to study. Truthfully, I probably don’t need to study as much as I do, but I’m a perfectionist. I also have nothing more productive to do, even though Morgan considers studying a waste of time and is content with minimum effort and average grades. She’s fully invested in college as the social experience.
I’m not sure what I was thinking coming back here. The mixer has been the talk of the house this past week since it’s the first huge party of the spring semester. I’ve been through many of these primping parties despite the fact I’ve never attended one. Most college students LIVE for parties, but I wouldn’t know anything about that since I LIVE for far different things under the strict guidelines as a presidential hopeful’s daughter. Not many things make the list of acceptable extracurricular activities for me, and I’m confident that list does not include college parties of any sort. My life is probably as boring as Morgan tells me, but I’m okay with it. I could still be living under my parents’ roof, so I’ll take this boring life over that any day.
Finally remembering her question before my thoughts ran away with me, I answer. “It was fine. I probably should have just stayed there, but I wasn’t expecting the girls to need four hours to prep for a party. What kind of party is this, anyway? What’s the big deal? It’s just a normal gathering and not a formal, right?” My obvious frustration filters through my voice, but actually, I’m curious to understand.
Her eyes narrow with her matching annoyance, only she’s annoyed at my questions on the very same party topic that we’ve rehashed countless times. “You know what, Char, I’m not going into the details with you AGAIN. You should just come. It’ll be fun, and you’ll enjoy yourself.” She attempts to persuade me for the two-millionth time since we left for college two and a half years ago. I turn away from her not wishing to once again have the discussion and list the reasons why I allow myself to be under my mother’s thumb when she’s over two hours away from us and would never know. Despite the distance between my mother and me, breaking her rules is not a risk worthy of the consequences.
My excuse is the same as always. “I have to study, and I have a paper due next week. Maybe next time.” I situate myself on my bed faced away from her scornful glare. I nonchalantly pull my brunette locks up into a messy bun on top of my head before pretending to consolidate my already perfectly organized notes in my backpack.
I can still feel her sneering at me, scorned by my rejection. I know I won’t be getting anything accomplished while the rest of the house is prepping for this party. I know I could just pop in my earbuds and read, but I don’t want to rehash the same argument with Morgan, so I need a quick escape. I stand, leaving my organized books ready for me when everyone is gone, and walk over to the closet. I search for my workout gear and running shoes attempting to appear uninterested in the dumb college party.
Let’s be honest, it can’t really be that great anyway. They do the same stuff as always while seeing the same people, right? Although, at this point, it feels like I’m trying to convince myself of this more than anyone.
I see Morgan watching me out of the corner of my eye while she shakes her head, but I sit on the floor and lace up my Nikes ignoring not only her but also my own questions about the fun that’s to be had by all this evening. I can’t say anything more to avoid her look of disappointment, but I know she won’t try again to convince me. It’s a waste of her breath, and I won’t be going to a party—now or ever. I’m interested in understanding, but a massive difference exists between me understanding and me experiencing. I have zero interest in experiencing.
“I’m going for a run. Will I see you later?” I ask, feeling a little guilty. I already know she won’t be back tonight.
This is the biggest and only real battle in our friendship. I hate that as my best friend, she is just another person I struggle to understand. I know her better than anyone else does, and my guess is she feels the same. I know all her secrets, her hopes and dreams, every single insecurity, and I know all her good and bad habits. Just like she knows mine. Because of that, I know she understands I’m walking out the door to avoid more than just the noise in the house. I’m avoiding this conversation.
Morgan’s beautiful, popular, and lives life fearlessly as a college student. In spite of the perfect daughter status she pulls off so well outside campus life, she’s somewhat of a wild child at school. Not only will she attend this party, but she’ll also attend every other one that comes up after this. She doesn’t have to worry about how her actions will affect the future presidential hopeful. She’s not tied to him like I am, so she’ll strive to be the life of all the parties even though it’s the complete polar opposite of how she appears to the real world. Well, the only world I actually know and understand. Maybe it’s not the real world.
I’m envious that she’s able to lead this double life so effortlessly and never has to worry about getting caught or causing trouble for her parents. However, even if the roles were reversed, I’m not sure it would change anything. Morgan is braver than I am. She’s a risk taker, but most importantly, she’s fun. She knows how to get everyone in a room to pay attention to her. That could be annoying if she weren’t so amazing, but people love being around her.
It’s no wonder our friendship leaves people to question how she and I could be as close as we are, but we are. I suppose the saying opposites attract works in best friendships as well.
“Ah … we’ll see. Depends on how the night goes, I suppose,” she mutters dismissively, her attention returning to her phone and her selfie charade on Instagram. Even with her vague answer, I know that tonight I’ll have the room to myself. Morgan will have after-party entertainment tonight in the company of whichever hottie she chooses, leaving me to think about another thing I’m clueless about. Shaking my head, I grab my iPhone and earbuds and walk toward the door deciding to brush off the envy as it pertains to Morgan. It’s not her fault that my life is not as simple as hers is.
“Enjoy your night, if I don’t see you before you leave ...” I look at her and wait for her to snap the next picture before she glances up with a smile. All hints of her earlier disappointment are gone like lightning in the night. “Make good choices,” I sing as she joins me finishing the statement in unison, another of my mother’s Sandra-isms that has become our own little inside joke. But it’s something I always tell her before she embarks on the adventures of college life while I stay behind with my nose in a book or studying. Secretly, I’m living vicariously through her.
God- I’m pathetic.
The noise on my way out smacks me again in the face, and I attempt to rush through the craziness as Ashley corners me.
Ashley, my little sister in the sorority, is more like me than anyone else in the house. She’s short and adorable with her quirks and slightly nerdy appearance. I truly love Ashley. She and I have spent countless hours together sitting across from one another at the coffee shop studying. And by studying together, I mean mostly ignoring each other and only really chatting when the caffeine runs low and we have to break for refills.
Ash heavily focuses on her academics, but somehow, she seems to make time for the social aspects of college as well. She wants to follow in the footsteps of her father who is a renowned neurosurgeon. This girl works tirelessly to achieve an almost perfect GPA so she’ll have her pick of the best medical schools in the country. Even though I know she really only wants to go to Johns Hopkins University where her father is an alumnus. She’s a daddy’s girl; she idolizes her father, and she moves mountains to make him proud. I’m pretty confident she won’t have any issue
s getting into any medical school, but she’s building her academic resume just to leave no question.
“PLEASE tell me you’re going for a quick run, and you’re coming back to get dressed for the party,” she asks. Before I even have a chance to respond, I see disappointment written over her with her scowl.
“Sorry, Ash. I have a paper due next week. I’m taking advantage of the quiet house tonight.” I scurry past her with her right on my heels as I’m reinitiating the plan for a quick escape. I’m plotting how to turn a quick run into a four-hour tour so I won’t have to endure the judgment and pleading from anyone else before they leave.
Unfortunately, I’m not off the hook with Ashley because even though my steps are quick, she’s right on my trail. “Char, don’t even try it. I already know you are almost completely finished with that paper, and you’ve been through all your class syllabuses time and time again. You have the time to come out and have fun with us, so you’re refusing for a completely different reason. At least, be honest with yourself about that, okay.”
I don’t have it in me to make excuses for why I don’t attend parties to my sorority sisters again and again, but Ashley’s different. The excuses won’t work on her because she’s the only one in this house who cares about her grades as much as I do and makes that a priority over everything else. She also knows that even if I didn’t open a book for two weeks, I could show up to class and be fully prepared for all assignments or exams and still do just as well.
“Ash, I can’t do this. Please? You know I hate disappointing you,” I say when I’ve finally reached for the handle of the front door. I turn to her just before opening the door hoping that she’ll read my pained expression and let it go. She nods her head, and thankfully, she lets it go just as I turn the handle and walk out of the house.
Ashley has become a friend over the last year. Even though we don’t sit and share our deepest, darkest secrets or sit around campfires singing “Kumbaya,” we have a lot in common, and I enjoy hanging out with her. She knows party life isn’t my thing. Even if I haven’t broadcasted the specific reasons, she’s a super smart girl. I’m sure she can put two and two together.