Page 6 of What Is Love
My room was longer than it was wide. To my right as I walked in, there was a small sitting area made up of a cream armchair with gold legs and a little gold-and-glass side table. To my left was the only part of the room that was me: an easel and a small art desk in the corner.
On the end of my bed lay a white, mid-thigh A-line dress. The sleeves were long, made of lace, and form-fitting. On the floor beneath the dress were pointed-toe white satin heels.
I set my bag and textbook down on my art desk and dashed into my connected bathroom, designed in a similar Parisian chic fashion. I went over to the claw-foot tub-shower combo to get the water started. When I got the shower at the right temp, Iquickly stripped out of my school uniform, stepped into the tub, and pulled the white linen curtain closed.
I washed the day away and got ready in what felt like record time. Prue came to find me as I was fastening a string of pearls around my neck.
She gave me a tight smile. “She says it’s time to leave.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked as I scooped up a small white handbag.
“You’re having dinner at the Carmichaels’.” She eyed my textbook on my art desk. “Did you read your letter?”
The Carmichaels?
As in Brandon Carmichael, the baseball captain at Kendry?
“Not yet.” I wanted to ask her if she knew why we were having dinner with the Carmichaels, but assumed she probably wouldn’t know.
Prue nodded, looking troubled for a moment. She wouldn’t meet my eyes when she said, “Make sure that you do when you get home. Alone.”
She left before I could respond.
I glanced over at my textbook, curiosity making me itch to see what was causing Prue to act so strangely. The fear of upsetting Mother by making her wait quickly smothered that itch and had me moving out of the room.
Grabbing the handrail, I carefully made my way downstairs. I could feel Clay’s gaze on me, heavy and unsettling. I kept my eyes on Mother, who had changed her clothes while I was getting ready. She was wearing a form-fitting beige cocktail dress that was knee-length and had cap sleeves. She had also put her golden blonde hair up into a French twist. Her attention was glued to her phone until I reached the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t expect her eyes to light up or seem happy when she saw me, and they didn’t. She looked me up and down for flaws. Nothing more.
“You should have used a pink lipstick.” Her eyes dropped to my waist. “Do your best not to indulge tonight. You could loseat leastfive more pounds.”
I kept my hands at my sides despite the urge to cover my stomach. According to my doctor, I was already underweight and needed to gain rather than lose. I didn’t know who to believe. Appearances and reputation were very important to Mother. We had to be perfect to the outside world. I had to be perfect.
I just nodded.
Seeming satisfied with that, she returned her attention to her phone. Clay opened the front door for us to leave. Mother walked out first. Again, I could feel Clay’s eyes on me. I kept my focus on the ground as we walked down the stone steps in front of our house to the round red brick driveway, where Mother’s white Bentley Flying Spur was waiting.
I refused to acknowledge Clay’s existence as much as I could as we climbed into the car and for the entire drive to the Carmichaels’.
The Carmichaels’house was impressively large, but as Mother pointed out as we pulled into their long driveway that circled a beautiful fountain, it wasn’t as big as our house. Not many houses in Summerhaven were. We were Kendrys. That was what Mother would always say, as if that explained why we had what we had and were revered the way we were. Our family—my late father’s family—had been one of the first settlers in Summerhaven and helped make the city what it was today. It was why my school, the bridge, and other buildings throughout the city bore the Kendry name. Most days, I didn’t know if beinga Kendry was a good thing, but my last name garnered a lot of respect, especially on the northern side of the bridge. Without a doubt, Mother loved the Kendry name and the status it gave her more than she had ever loved my father. Sadly, I was pretty sure my father had known that, too, before he was killed. I wondered if Clay knew she would never marry him. Sure, she enjoyed him, but she would never forfeit the Kendry connection for him.
The large double front doors to the Carmichaels’ house opened as we climbed the few stone steps leading up to them. Sharon and Bill Carmichael stepped out as if they had been waiting by the window, eager for us to arrive. They greeted us, mainly Mother and Clay because they were walking in front of me, with smiles and an enthusiastic welcome. The whole situation reeked of bullshit. I’d been around enough fakeness in my life to know how to spot it.
Sharon Carmichael was a beautiful middle-aged woman who looked like she aspired to be a Stepford wife. Her dress was pale yellow with a white belt, and she completed the outfit with pearl jewelry and white leather pumps. Her long hair was the color of caramel, the same shade as her son’s, and was curled to perfection in a half-up half-down style that was similar to mine.
Bill Carmichael looked to be at least ten years older than his wife. He had salt-and-pepper hair that was short and slicked back. He wore a light blue suit, sans tie, and a white dress shirt underneath with the top two buttons undone.
Even though the Carmichaels were very welcoming, their smiles didn’t reach their eyes, and their words seemed rehearsed. Mother and Clay greeted them back in the same fashion, but their bullshit acting was better. Mother was overly thankful for the invite. The eager, determined look in her eyes while she spoke made me uncomfortable.
As soon as they finished with their greetings, both Sharon’s and Bill’s eyes shifted to me. Mother and Clay stepped to the side as if presenting me or giving the Carmichaels a better view.
Sharon’s eyes took all of me in quickly while her husband’s gaze was slower, as if taking stock. The fake smile Sharon had been holding seemed to turn genuine, but not in a kind way. She looked pleased with what she saw. “You must be Charlotte.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carmichael.” I glanced toward Bill and found him still looking me over. “And you, Mr. Carmichael.”
“You’re polite. That’s good,” Bill said, not in a complimentary way.
Sharon’s smile dropped slightly at her husband’s comment, but she quickly realized and corrected herself. “And as beautiful as your pictures.”
“Pictures?” The word fell past my lips before I could stop it.Is she talking about my pictures on my socials?
