Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
“Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Please, don’t sugarcoat it.”
She puts on her happiest expression. “I’m not. He likes you.” She lays the dress out on my bed, arranging it with the care of creating a window display in an upmarket boutique. “Anyway, other people will notice. You’re about to be engaged to a partner of one of the biggest IT companies in the country. Never give them a reason to criticize you.”
“I don’t care what other people think of me.”
Straightening, she turns to face me with a sigh. “Maybe, but there are a lot of sharks out there. You have to look strong. Invincible. Don’t give anyone a weakness to exploit.”
What if I’m not invincible? What if I don’t want to pretend?
She offers me another soft smile. “You’re stronger than anyone I know. No one has fought harder than you for what others take for granted. You’ve got this, Violet. You’re my beautiful, strong little flower who blossomed against all odds. You grew into a stunning young woman, and you’re not going to attend your stepfather’s office party at the country club wearing a dull black dress.”
“I happen to like my black dress,” I say defensively.
“You know what?” She gets that look in her eyes she does when she’s about to change tactics. “You’re right. Forget about this old dress. You deserve a new one. Let’s go do some shopping.”
I hate shopping, but I always put on an act for her sake, pretending to be having fun when Gus sends her shopping for a new dress and she drags me along. It only happens for occasions when my mom will be in the public eye. Looking good isn’t about her. It’s about him and his image.
“Well?” she says, offering me her arm in a dramatic gesture.
Besides not enjoying trying on clothes for hours, I also don’t want to dip into my savings and spend a couple of thousand bucks on a dress I won’t wear more than once. That money is supposed to buy our freedom. I won’t give up hope. I have to believe I’ll still find a way.
Donning my happy mask, I pick up the dress. “Actually, I’ve always loved this dress. I think I’ll try it on after all.”
My mom claps her hands. “Great. I have a beautiful clutch bag and heels to go with it.”
She dashes from the room to fetch the accessories while I pull on the dress. There’s only one mirror in my room, which is on the inside of my closet door. It’s slightly askew. My mom stuck it on with double-sided tape, insisting that I needed a full-length mirror. She claimed it was so I wouldn’t walk out of the room with hair on my sweater or a stain on the back of my pants, but I was there when the counselor told her to encourage my self-image via the good old road of acceptance. My mother’s goal when she bought the mirror and stuck it on my closet door with a poor DIY job was to teach me to look at myself and believe I was pretty.
I study my reflection. The V-neck of the dress is cut low, showing ample cleavage. I won’t be able to wear a bra. The slit exposes my right leg. It will make the way my hip juts out to compensate for my shorter leg as I walk more obvious. And last but not the least, the purple color is an eye magnet. Everyone will stare, and not necessarily for good reasons. The dress is my worst fashion nightmare come true.
“Violet,” my mom gushes, walking through the door with a pair of silver strappy heels and a matching clutch bag in her hands. “Honey, you look amazing.” She stops behind me, regarding my image with pride. “This dress was made for you. You’re going to turn a lot of heads tonight.”
“They’re geeks, Mom. The only thing that will turn their heads is a funky new gadget.”
“Don’t forget some clients are also attending.” She drops the bag on the bed and hands me the shoes. “Try on the sandals. It’s a good thing we wear the same size.” Bustling to the door, she calls over her shoulder, “I have the perfect color nail polish too. I’ll give you a mani-pedi.”
I manage a watery, “Thanks,” in return.
I hate the way I look, but I don’t raise my objections for the same reason I always keep my mouth shut. The picture staring back at me is a mocking reminder of what I’m becoming—a liar and a thief. I hardly recognize myself. The walls are closing in on me from all sides, and the weight of my guilt is bogging me down.
Grabbing the closet door, I slam it close. My mom’s secret project didn’t succeed. I never liked to look at myself in the mirror. Now, I hate what I see.