Page 221 of Damaged Mogul
I try again to straighten up. This time I manage.
Victory.
I don’t even need to check to know I’m late.
My father is going to be furious.
I need to get out of here. Fast.
I step in front of the mirror and gasp in horror.
Puke stains my shirt and some of it is clumped to my hair.
Fuck.
I brush my teeth twice for good measure.
Once my breath doesn’t taste like rotten milk, I strip out of my soiled clothes, dump them on the floor in a messy pile, and jump into the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I’m clean, but I don’t feel perked up. Stepping out of the shower, I tiptoe to the mirror, apprehending the face that will be reflected back at me.
Yikes.
Even with my California tan, there’s a sickly tinge to my skin tone.
To avoid frightening young children, I do a five-minute face. I select a bright shade of hot pink blush to liven up my complexion.
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I sigh.
This will have to do.
Since there’s no time to blow dry my curtain of hair, I pull it back in a ponytail and braid it.
I assess myself in the mirror.
I don’t look like myself. Heck, I don’t feel like myself.
I don’t have the luxury to dwell on it for too long or else my puppet master will rip me a new one.
Go, go, go.
I rush to my bedroom and have a panic attack when I see the time on the clock sitting on the nightstand.
I sprint into my walk-in closet, slip into underwear, grab a purple maxi dress with three-quarter sleeves, and slip it on as Istep into a pair of white Hermes sandals. I exit my bedroom, snatch up my bag and my phone, and run out the door. As I descend the stairs, I open the taxi app to book a ride.
Thank God, I won’t have to wait too long.
I shoot my father a quick text.
His response is instantaneous.
Puppet Master: I loathe tardiness. Why can’t you be on time? Go-getters show up on time.
I roll my eyes.
Lily: Sorry. Rough morning.
Puppet Master: How rough can it be when I’m footing the bill? You don’t even have to show up for a goddamn job. Excuses will keep you in the same dead-end position as the average American. Being average shouldn’t be your life goal.
I want to hurl my phone against the asphalt. Instead, I grunt in frustration and stomp my feet like a three-year-old. I don’t care if my neighbors witness my meltdown.
