The Bride's Brood

June 10 2019, Geneva, Switzerland… I still can’t find the focus that I need to finish this finishing school. As I watch other women around me in the school’s colossal dining room whose faces are surmounted with glee, I can do nothing else but clutch my pearls and wonder why I’m here. The place is perfect, too perfect for my taste. The décor’s dainty, furniture’s hard wood and white, walls are painted with pastel grey. It’s like a place fit for a princess but somehow, the walls only remind me of my Siberian husky’s fur. It’s only my 2nd day in Geneva and I can’t constantly be thinking about Juno, my dog. My mother Olya, who’s a former beauty queen, has spent a huge fraction of our family’s savings for this. No matter how many times I’ve retaliated from the idea of marrying well, she just won’t stop. To be honest, I’m just doing this because I’m at her mercy. I don’t want to pay student loans and she agreed to pay for a real school only if I finish at the top of Madam Bossart’s School for Ladies. There are 4 titles that can be won yearly in this finishing school. One for winter, one for spring, one for summer, and one for fall with summer being the most coveted title. The reason as to why is that summer is the most competitive season because most ladies are on a vacation which means that they value their time and they’re not desperate enough for the title. Really? Not desperate but they are in a school which teaches how to bag rich guys. Please! My mom constantly reminds me of how graduating at the top of a finishing school opens a lot of doors for a young lady like I am. One of the perks of being this year’s Madam Bossart’s Lady of Summer 2019 is the quarterly invitation for galas, charity, and other social events wherein people from the high society mingle. After all, how can you marry well if you don’t strategically position yourself wherein the majority of men in the area are affluent? To be honest, I find Madam Bossart’s school as a huge joke. It’s 2019; I’m an independent woman and I can make my own money. I don’t need to be married to a rich man. I can be the rich man. Besides, even if I ace this finishing school, I don’t think wealthy men will be into me anyway. I’m 5ft 8in, too tall for average men and too short to be a supermodel. My waist line is 27 and that screams fat for single millionaires who are mostly superficial. I also eat pizza straight from the fridge without heating it and I don’t wear white because I’m fundamentally clumsy. However, I have to be smart and play the part because paying loans in the beginning stages of my career is not something that I want to go through. One day, I’ll have my own school, a real one, for children with special needs. For now, something’s got to give and I have to suck it up. “Miss Yulia Ivanov, kindly remove your elbow from the table. This is not a place for the uncouth.” Ms. Elaine Brighton politely requested. Ms. Elaine Brighton is the headmistress of the school. Her red hair is in a bun and her lips are perfectly lined with crimson. She’s dressed up like a first lady and her elegance is magnetic. She looks well-maintained for a woman in her late 50s as she should be. After all, she’s married to a CFO for a big company in Luxembourg. To be honest, I don’t know if I should feel bad. Ms. Brighton’s tone was very pleasant. Her calling me uncouth was uncalled for but she did it in a very respectful way. Free tuition Yulia, free tuition. I bow my head submissively and ask for an apology. After raising my head to check the board of lessons about “Lunch Etiquette”, I can’t help but notice 2 girls giggling while looking at me across from where I’m seated. “Ladies, is there a problem?” I ask. “Did you make your bun in the car?” an Asian girl with the longest neck I’ve ever seen in my life sarcastically asks. She hands me her Chanel face powder and there it is, 2 bobby pins sticking on top of my hair bun which makes me look like a Teletubby. At this very moment, I start to wonder why I’m here. How can I expect to be on top of this school if I can’t even look decent for one of its lessons? There are 18 other girls in the room and all of them look like they can be on the cover of Vogue. We all have our hair in a bun as required from the Welcome Booklet but they look like ballerinas and I look like I’m just trying too hard. Moments later, with my elbows nowhere near the table from the fear of being called uncouth again… “Ahh yes, Ms. Leconte, you can take that empty seat beside Ms. Ivanov.” Ms. Brighton said. Le… Leconte? Adrienne Leconte? I can’t believe it. Adrienne, one of i********:’s most popular models is in the same school as I am and she’s going to sit beside me. If I correctly recall, she’s also 19 and I know about this fact because of that one time that I was bored at the dentist’s clinic and all they had were piled up Seventeen magazines. I’ve always thought that i********: models were only made pretty by filters but Adrienne Leconte is truly a goddess. How could someone my age be in a pastel pink Chanel tweed jacket and white trousers, look well-contoured with barely any makeup, have shiny brunette hair like it’s never been abused by a hair dryer, and afford a Himalaya Birkin bag? Am I in the right planet? It’s game over. I have to psyche myself up for the student loans and a dingey 30sqm apartment with a roommate near Princeton University. “Hi, I’m Adrienne.” she introduces as she offers her hand for me to shake. This is overkill. Her hands feel softer than a plush toy and silkier than my hair after a hot-oil session. “Yulia Ivanov. Pleased to meet you.” She smiles and raises an eyebrow before tilting her head towards the board. I know for a fact that Adrienne lives in Manhattan and we’re both Americans. I’m pretty sure that at the very least, in this city in Europe, it’s something that we could bond over. Even if I’m feeling highly intimidated, her being from the same place as I am… well I’m from Brooklyn so technically, we’re not, gives me a hint of comfort that I’ll at least have a friend in this school. “for the Paris Suite, it will be shared by Ms. Ivanov and Ms. Leconte.” Wait what!? Adrienne gives me a very special look that’s similar to her fierce photos from modeling… darting brown eyes which almost forms a wrinkle on her forehead. “Julia, I’m a very light-sleeper and I really hope that you don’t snore.” she says. It’s Yulia and no, even if I wear 2 sizes larger than you I don’t! “Don’t worry, I don’t and I promise that I’ll face the opposite direction from you.” I reply. She smiles at me with a look that’s almost reassuring. I can’t believe that I’ve already been humiliated 3 times today. The thing is, the ladies in here do it in a very subtle and classy way that I’m almost catatonic to react. Normally, I’d go ballistic from sly remarks. Somehow, I’m starting to become a bona fide Madam Bossart’s Lady of Summer; Nonchalant, cold, and totally unbothered. Moments later, we arrive at the Paris Suite. Walls are pastel blue and embossed with silver snowflakes that are finished with white intricate molding. The chandelier is luxurious and is made more luminescent by crystal shards of different shapes. Furniture’s all white and the beds are identical. I saunter towards the bathroom and I’m welcomed with aquamarine tiling. The bathroom has 2 sinks that have brass metal. Actually, all the hardware’s metal in the bathroom is made of brass including the huge retro hot tub. “Yulia, you do know that you’re wearing your shoes in the bathroom, right?” Adrienne informs sarcastically while raising an eyebrow. “I…” Just before I could finish my sentence, she turns away. “Seriously, why can’t I just have my own room?!” Adrienne complains to someone on her cellphone while occupying the bed next to the bathroom without even consulting me. Since I don’t have a choice anymore, I might as well unpack… On my bedside table, an empty picture frame can be seen. I take Juno’s photo from my wallet and insert it in the frame. There, just like home. I take my phone out of my handbag and as I scroll through f*******:, I wonder… What’s so bad about being a Madam Bossart Lady anyway? There’s nothing wrong about attending lavish parties and marrying well. Not every girl has the chance to be in this school and I’m very lucky. I should stop being ungrateful. “She doesn’t belong here.” Adrienne says from a distance. I heard that. Who does this girl think she is? Does this blow-up doll think she’s better than I am? Yes, she has money and yes, most people may think that she’s prettier than me but I am sure that she won’t be able to keep a man with that kind of attitude. Even if she becomes Madam Bossart’s b***h, I mean lady… nobody will be able to stand such a diva. She barely knows me and she’s already judged me like I’m a book that she borrowed more than 10 times from a public library already. “You don’t belong here. Why are you even trying?” Adrienne says. I turn my view from my phone to face her and there she is, staring at me and totally unfazed. It’s on! I’m going to win this thing and this b***h will regret why she even tried crossing me. I’m Yulia Ivanov and I’m nobody’s lady!