Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
The knocking stops, and I blow out a relieved breath. With any luck, Dan—God, I hate that name—will spend our allocated hour looking for me in all the nooks and crannies of our two-story Moscow penthouse before calling it quits for the day. He might complain to my father too, but whatever. I’d rather Papa yell at me than deal with Dan always looking at me that way.
I shudder as I recall that look. I see it on male faces all the time now that I’ve sprouted boobs. They’re not big or anything—some of the girls in my class are already a D-cup or above—but boys don’t seem to mind. Neither do grown men, especially when Mama makes me wear makeup. Speaking of which—
Another knock falls on my door, this one much more insistent. I recognize its cadence even through the music blaring in my earbuds. Reluctantly, I pause the game and turn down the volume on my iPod. “Yeah?”
“Alinochka, it’s me. Are you all dressed and ready?”
Ugh, I was hoping she’d forget about me. Pulling out my earbuds, I shut off the TV and jump up. “One sec, Mama!”
Ignoring that, she pushes open the door and steps into my room. Instantly, her eyes widen. “What are you wearing?”
Busted. I glance down at my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt with as much nonchalance as I can muster. “Clothes.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I’m asking.”
“Fine.” I heave an exasperated sigh. “Just give me a minute.”
“You have thirty seconds,” she calls as I run into my closet and throw on the first dress I can find that she’ll likely deem appropriate—a red evening gown that’s as sparkly as it is uncomfortable.
I don’t know why I have to wear this crap every time Papa has guests over, but Mama insists. Something about putting our best foot forward. Except in this dress, it’s more like my best boob forward. Seriously, have they grown bigger since last week? Grimacing, I try to shove the swells of flesh deeper into the corset-like bodice, but the built-in pushup bra does its job too well.
“What are you doing? Stop that. It’s supposed to look like that,” Mama says, entering the closet to swat my hands away. “Now put on some shoes, and we’ll do your hair and makeup.”
Shoot me now. I put on a pair of high-heeled platforms that match the dress and let her shepherd me to the mirror, where she begins brushing my long hair with all the speed and enthusiasm of someone determined to rip it out by the roots.
“Ouch!” I wince as the brush catches on a particularly brutal knot, but she ignores me again. I guess that’s what I get for leaving this until the last minute.
Finally, my hair is smooth and straight. I wish I could pull it into a ponytail, but Mama likes it hanging down my back in a jet-black curtain. I’m not a fan of the color and dream of the day when I’ll be allowed to add some highlights. Next year, hopefully.
Makeup is next. Glumly, I watch as my pale face is brightened with a blush, my lips are transformed into a shiny red pout, and the catlike tilt of my green eyes is emphasized with a skillful application of liner and mascara. The only imperfection left is in my smile, with the little gap between my front teeth that Mama says makes me look “distinctive.”
“There, much better,” she says with satisfaction when she’s done, and it’s all I can do not to grimace.
The girl looking back at me in the mirror isn’t a stranger so much as someone I don’t like. All glossy and fake and adult. With my above-average height and my dress clinging to my newly sprouted curves, I look at least seventeen this way, maybe even eighteen. If Dan sees me like this, he’ll choke on his drool. So will some of Papa’s guests, those old men with their smarmy compliments whom he likes to parade me in front of.
I hate it. I hate being this shiny, pretty object that Mama and Papa trot out like a prized pony. If I had my way, I’d live in my sweatpants and T-shirts, playing Mario and Zelda and listening to Kanye all day long. But that’s not the life of a Molotov. We’re the cream of the crop, or at least the oil scum floating in a pot of soup. High society, as Mama likes to call it—or top of the mafia hierarchy, as I think of it.
Vladimir Molotov, my father, is filthy rich. The kind of rich that only gets to be that way in Russia through less-than-savory means. Mama thinks I don’t know what kind of man he is—what kind of men he’s raised my older brothers to be—but I do. I’ve been overhearing her fights with Papa my whole life. Fights that have gotten worse in recent years, though I try not to think about that.