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CHAPTER ONE. how to be a heartbreaker.
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I LIKE TO PRIDE MYSELF in the belief that I know more than the average person.
It's easily proven. Though my senior year is now complete, I took four AP classes, I attended the most prestigious school the area can offer, and my 4.2 GPA was nothing but a window of opportunity into Ivy Leagues that'll open another door towards success and unveil a path to get me the fuck off this island for good. I'm way beyond the people here anyway, and that fact is recognizable. However, my escape is currently paused, seeing as family matters desperately called for me to take a semi-permanent gap year. The perks of being the eldest daughter; you're expected to achieve great things yet put them on hold when required.
I can't say it was a smooth journey to make others think of me as academically bright, but it was done nevertheless. At first glance, I'm viewed as what some would call a 'Barbie'; a perfect plastic exterior with the absence of a brain. It's as if the thought of someone being both beautiful and booksmart is alienated to them, though I'm quite content with being the one to prove them wrong. Making an impression has always been something I strived towards rather than away from, as courtesy of my father's teachings to keep our family name the center thought in people's minds.
He was the one to push me in the direction of knowledge, so you'd imagine he'd teach me the ins and outs of standard life as well. Reality was far from that.
One thing that I was never made aware of was the reason as to why my mother loathed me as much as she did.
I suppose its the typical story of motherly jealousy, where a maternal figure would see everything in her daughter she wished she had at her age and would become stuck in resentment. Like I've established, I'm not dumb. I've seen my mother's yearbook pictures and, if I was in her position, I'd feel envious too. Her younger self isn't even half the augmented trophy wife she's morphed herself into now, but it's not like the demon of her past self is particularly visible to the naive public. What they see is what they believe — that's the art of being a liar, after all.
