Cinderella-3
957 Words
BLOOD-RED ROSE PETALS danced down the air as girls blessed with model-like proportions and designer dresses and boys gifted with pretty faces and crisp tuxedos walked down the most incredible, Parisian-style staircase.
The ball had begun.
“Here’s your mask, mademoiselle,” an attendant said as he handed Hilarie a small red masquerade mask.
“Thank you,” she said, marveling at the intricate beaded detailing on the red silk and at the attendant’s Phantom-of-the-Opera-esque mask, which threatened to blind her eyes with the glittering diamonds studded on it. Then she looked at the center of the ballroom. Wow. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, looking like it could fall to the ground at any moment with its hundreds of pounds of gold and jewels.
“I love this song!” Jessica exclaimed, referring to the classical version of “Teenage Dream” that the orchestra played.
“He hired a full-size orchestra?” Hilarie’s eyes turned big as she stared at what had to be at least a hundred musicians. Jesus, just how rich is the new kid? She wouldn’t be surprised if he belonged to one of the world’s wealthiest families; in addition to the fancy masks, chandelier, and huge orchestra, the mansion where the party was held at rivaled the White House in size.
“This ball is so freaking lavish,” she muttered, trying to not trip over her gown.
“This French s**t is great,” Jessica said before emptying a champagne flute.
“Do you want a drink, mademoiselle?” a waiter asked Hilarie, holding a tray filled with pink drinks.
“Oh, no thank you,” Hilarie said politely.
“But I'll like another one, garçon,” Jessica said, handing her empty glass to the waiter and picking up one of the pink drinks. “Merci.”
“You’re welcome, mademoiselle,” the waiter said as he bowed and left to serve other teenagers.
“Slow down, Jess,” Hilarie said. “That must be, what, your sixth drink?”
“Fifth, actually,” Jessica corrected before taking a sip.
“I’m so glad Jeff will be the one driving us home.”
“Me too.” With a laugh, Jessica took a second sip.
Before Hilarie could say something else, a tall, dark, and handsome guy came to Jessica's side.
“Would you like a dance?” the guy asked Jessica in a swoon-worthy British accent just as the orchestra began playing “Bad Romance.”
“Do you mind if I go dance with him, Hil?” Jessica asked in a whisper. “It's hard for me to resist the urge to dance to Lady Gaga.”
“What?” Hilarie hissed. “You dragged me to this ball and you’re going to ditch me for the first guy that comes along?”
“Please, Hil? This Brit is so hot.”
Repressing an annoyed sigh, Hilarie said, “Fine. Just be sure not to vomit over Mr. British Dude's shoes.”
“Darling, I am not that drunk.” But just as Jessica said the words, her body swayed, causing her to drop her glass. The glass shattered into pieces as it hit the ground. Thankfully, it was empty, so at least no pink liquid spilled on the immaculate floor.
“You were saying...?” Hilarie stared at her.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I am that drunk, but I’m not going to puke over the sexy Brit’s Gucci loafers. I promise, darling.”
“Whatever. Just be sure to not have too much fun with him.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Jessica promised with a wink before saying yes to the English hunk and letting him take her to the dance-floor.
As soon as Jessica left her side, loneliness struck Hilarie. All around her were people who either didn’t know her name or were convinced that she was a giant s**t. Hoping for some soda or punch or anything that wouldn’t impair her decision-making skills, she walked to the refreshment table. Instead of finding nonalcoholic beverages, however, she found Timothy Buck.
“Oh crap,” she muttered. Despite everything, Hilarie couldn’t help noticing how well Timothy’s tuxedo fit him. She turned around, hoping to leave before he discovered her presence. But no such luck. The second her back faced him, she heard him say:
“Hilarie?”
What are you doing? Walk away! she screamed at herself. But her body wouldn’t listen; her feet stayed still.
“What are you doing here?”
She gritted her teeth. “What, you think I’d be too ashamed to leave my house because of my terrible slutty reputation?”
“No...um, I thought you didn’t care for parties,” he said.
“I don’t.”
“You look beautiful,” he said softly.
Still refusing to turn around and look at him, she said, “Is this seriously happening? You’re saying I look beautiful as if we’re still together, as if you never broke my heart, as if you’ve acted like I’m a human being who f*****g exists. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m sure not going to find out.”
“Hilarie—”
“Buck, go get a nasty incurable STD.” Finally, she walked—actually, ran—away. There was no way she was going to let him know she had tears in her eyes. Hell would freeze over before he discovered he still possessed the power to hurt her.
Like a masochist, she replayed the last night they’d spent together before everything—the pregnancy test, the doctor with her cold hands and kind eyes, the s**t-shaming campaign—happened. They’d lain in his bed on a night his father Senator Buck had been in Washington DC, holding each other like their arms would never move. He’d kissed her earlobe—she used to love how he did that—then whispered, “I love you.”
That had been one big lie.
Even though she knew she probably shouldn’t, she ran into the nearest bedroom and slammed the door shut. So what if I have no right to be here? She couldn’t bring herself to care about respecting the new kid’s privacy.
Seeing the white bed—which, she couldn’t help observing with annoyance, was larger than her bedroom—she let herself fall on it. Then she let the tears fall on the soft sheets.
Can this night be over already? Hell, can high school just be done now?
***
- Writer
