181 Days of Madeline Jesty

Chapter 47: An Anachronism

"W-what do you mean?" I was finally able to speak after some seconds of befuddlement.

Her eyes and hands glued to mine, Mickey confessed, "I-I gave you the notion that I was one of you."

"One of us? Mickey, I'm so confused."

"You know how our school—" She paused; her thoughts seemingly disarrayed. "The school gives opportunities, err . . . s-scholarships, something like that . . . to the less . . . less f-fortunate, like . . . daughters of employees, of maintenance staff . . ."

"Go straight to the point."

"I'm working as a staff here . . . for months already," she finally blurted out. Her grip on my hand tightened. "I'm sorry if . . . if I ever gave you the impression that I live a wealthy lifestyle. I don't, my Majesty—Maddie. My . . . mother works as a maintenance staff in our school, and . . . she was offered an opportunity to let me study here after knowing my rank—"

"Hold it right there."

I faced and survived the crucible of having to live with physically and emotionally absent parents, to exist within the last decade with an unexplainable curse. This should be nothing to me now. But this moment, her confession, felt like an anachronism. My situation with Mickey was the only thing that seemed to go in the right direction, so why would the universe be so cruel to take this away and make me realize that no one, not even the people I cared about, was exempt from deceiving me?

But it's not that I was mad that she tried to cover her societal status, whatever she called it. It's the fact that she thought I would think lowly of her if she told me who she really was.

"Please . . . say something," she whispered then kissed the back of my hands. "I'm sorry . . . for lying."

"Which are lies, Mickey?"

"I-I don't know . . . none! All the things I told you about me were true. I just . . . I felt like I made you feel I was this . . . child of a high profile whereas I'm not."

"When did you make me feel that way? And why would you think I'd change the way I'd look at you if you told me this sooner?"

It suddenly hit her—that I didn't care where she came from and that I took offense in all the things she tried to imply.

"Shit, fuck. I'm . . . I'm sorry, Maddie. I—"

"I'm a VIP here, ain't I?" I removed my hand from her grip. "I'd love to see the menu for a drink. And a dessert. Yes, a dessert would be nice to calm my nerves."

Mickey was quite stunned with my reaction, but she proceeded to get the menu for me nonetheless. A slice of black forest cake and a glass of Recioto della Valpolicella arrived just minutes after she took my order. Since I was not accustomed to wines, thanks to a decade-long curse, I asked the wine she recommended instead.

We stayed quiet for half an hour, just observing the women flirting and dancing on the first level. She tried to break the uncomfortable pause by calling my name, but I decided to take the lead.

"I wonder if pretending to be this classy, sexy adult who got their shit together is a part of everyone's youth," I said, sultrily taking the glass of wine she just poured. "Drinking alcohol, having sex, going to clubs, smoking cigarettes, probably doing drugs . . ."

"Maddie—"

" . . . all seemed to be an adult thing, you know? That's what I used to think when I was a kid. Now I'm trying to explore them . . . one by one. Just to get the thrill of it. You know how you want something so bad that you save for it, but once you get it, you realize that its value is less than what you expected? Same as being an adult. I'm not even one yet, but I'd do anything to be a kid again."

Because I want my dad and mom back. I want to relive my younger years with them and grow and mature as a woman who is not afraid of attachment. But I guess I can never go back.

I gulped the glass of wine in one sitting. I wanted to puke, but I endured for the sake of my pride.

Just months ago, I wouldn't even dare check the wine list. But now here I was, tasting their finest wine.

"How 'bout you?" I asked, giving her my glass. "Which one would you rather be? A kid or an adult?"

"Maddie—"

"VIP, you said," I reiterated and pushed the glass in front of her. "I wanted to be treated how you named me."

Mickey sighed and poured herself a drink. "I didn't have a good childhood," she said. "I want to earn money as soon as possible."

"So, adult?"

She nodded as she took a sip from the glass then lay it on the table.

"Adults grind all the time that they often forget to live," I told her, remembering how Mom would leave the house before I wake up and arrive when I was already asleep.

"Maybe they don't have a choice."

"Then why live if we can't even choose how to live?"

"Only the privileged has the choice, Maddie. Us, the working class, the low-income . . . we can't choose how we live. We can only enjoy 'life' after we persevered getting to the starting point of the elite. But by the time we get to their starting point, they're already far ahead."

"Then you're saying that . . . my own mother . . . chose to live like a dead person to me."

The silence Mickey gave was enough.

I smirked. Then laughed. Then almost cried. I, once again, filled my glass with wine and drank it.

"Oh god. I might be drunk. And with just how many glasses of wine? Is this like . . . a normal size? What a weakling."

"Maddie, we can—"

"Oh, did I say that out loud?" I asked, thinking that my last statement had been a thought. I continued with my argument anyway, dismissing her warning. "But you know, yeah, I guess I'm this sheltered, naïve daughter of a high profile, yeah? You think I won't understand what you're going through. My issues are itsy-bitsy compared to—"

"My Majesty," Mickey interrupted. She now sat with her legs wide open, hands clasped, elbows on her knees. "Conflicts arise because society thinks there can only be one school of thought. But these ideas, opinions, your reality and mine can coexist." For the second time, she breathed deeply before leaning slightly forward. "I-I'm sorry. That was so fucked up of me to think you won't accept who I am."

Maybe it was the alcohol that made me stupidly crawl to her—from my seat; to the floor; then, finally, to her seat. My arms encircled her neck, my body positioned between her legs.

"Michelle Queen Basil, did you even think I cared about all that gibberish when we first met?" I asked, purposefully placing my lips near her neck. I couldn't even remember the last time I uttered her full name. "I was just too happy and stupid to think that my curse had been lifted. Your hourglass was so unique, like . . . the sand just defied the laws of gravity. I honestly thought you were the answer to my prayers."

"Wait, what—"

But I didn't let her speak . . . and placed my lips onto hers.

I smiled. She smelled like berries. Or maybe the aroma came from the wine.

"I don't care, Mickey. I don't care at all. You want me to be your queen, remember? Then do whatever it takes to stay beside me on this lonely throne—ah, how trad. Such a childish thing to say—"

This time, it was her turn to keep me from talking.

Mickey cupped my whole face as her tongue wrestled with mine. We both fell on the floor, me underneath her, forgetting that there were sober people one floor below us. 

Unlike the moment a while ago, this one felt right.