Lolita's Perception

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘

Thursday: May 22nd |1947|
Lucy Green's thirteenth birthday is this weekend, and she's having a great big slumber-party tomorrow night. Every girl from the entire seventh grade was invited. Lucy handed out invitations before class this morning; they had pretty pink floral print, and fancy gold lettering. Her father had them custom made. According to Lucy, her father can have just about anything custom made. I'm pretty sure he owns one of those ultra crummy but ultra popular frozen food companies—they're rich in slimy spinach and rock-hard casseroles. Yuck.

When I say rich, I mean rich-rich. The Greens have just about the nicest house in Ramsdale. I haven't gone out of my way to measure it or anything, but I think the place might even be bigger than the mall. On top of that, Mr. and Mrs. Green spend cash like there's no tomorrow: they have an indoor pool, outdoor pool, jacuzzi, fancy-shmancy tennis court, private golf course, and just about every other rich person thing you could possibly think of.

Now, there's just one problem: Mother. She's the worst when it comes to stuff like that. She'll go completely berserk if you ask the wrong question at the wrong time—aka, when she hasn't had a cigarette in the past ten minutes. So, when she came in from the garden with a harsh, ashy scent lingering nearby, I ran right up to her, nearly slipping on the recently waxed floors.

"Can I please, please, please go to Lucy Green's slumber party this weekend!?" I wondered, peering up at her with a nervous sort of excitement.

"It depends..." she began, her eyes began darting all around the room. Not once stopping to land on me. "Will there be any boys there, hmm?" as she spoke, her purposely pointed fingernails began tactically tap-tap-tapping against the tiled counter. The way she emphasized the word "boys" was just plain confusing. Almost as if they were something too dirty to even be talked about.

I began to stare off at the napco cookie jar that sat on the edge of the counter, wishing it would tip over and break into a million pieces if it meant stalling this conversation for just five seconds. But it never did. So...hesitantly, I replied, "Only Lucy's older brother. Her father will be there, too—oh, but he doesn't really count as a boy, does he?"

Suddenly, Mother's face went dead serious. She pulled a cigarette from her pocketbook without a single word, holding it between her painted lips as she slowly began to light the awful smelling little stick. After just a couple seconds, her expression had softened—to the point where she looked a little sad. Miserable, even. Soon she glanced up, and once again her expression was stone cold.

After seconds, maybe even minutes of deafening silence, she matter-of-factly stated: "Well then, you simply will not be attending. Do I make myself clear?"

"But Mother—"

"I don't want to hear it, Dolores. Now, get upstairs and wash off that lipstick. I've told you a million times not to....."

She kept on talking, but by then I'd completely tuned out that awful old squawk of a voice. To escape the lecture, I pressed my hands over my ears, and dashed right upstairs—but I didn't take off my lipstick. Instead, I stole a swipe (or two) of Mother's ultra-expensive mascara, before shutting myself away in my room to listen to the Peggy Lee vinyl MaryRose had lent to me earlier in the afternoon.

At first, I was surprised. None of the songs were jazzy—something I'd grown used to while listening to Peggy. The melodies were light, and airy. Satin and roses, strawberries and champagne: the kind of music that makes you feel like you're in a rose dusted dream. Listening to it transports you right in the middle an endless meadow bathed in sunlight and surrounded by thousands of candy colored tulips.