Sins of Sisterhood

16. Birthday Queen

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~ 16 ~

Rule #16: Forgiveness is for the weak; hold grudges forever.

"I see you tryna get to me
I see you beggin' on your knees
... I don't give a fuck. "

Dua LIPA - 'IDGAF'

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You know what's worse than nursing a two-day hangover?

Watching your sister play happy families at a birthday party two days after trying to stab you. Okay, maybe "trying to stab" is dramatic – she just brought a knife to our heart-to-heart.

But potato, potato, right?

Anyway, I am currently slouched against the cream walls of our fancy-ass foyer, watching Mom's face do its usual gymnastics routine.

Today's special: trying not to scowl because wrinkles are apparently the eighth deadly sin. The source of her almost-scowl? Her precious granddaughter is about to make her birthday entrance dressed as, and I quote, "a mini devil."

Through my pounding headache, courtesy of last night's attempt to forget the whole kitchen knife incident, I have to admit – watching Mom's perfectly Botoxed face attempt to process Renee's Maleficent-inspired costume choice is almost worth the hangover from hell.

It's the same look she wore when Raven announced she was pregnant: that special cocktail of horror, disappointment, and rapid mental calculations on how to spin this to the country club crowd.

Technically, this whole situation is my fault. a week ago, when Mom mentioned she'd be planning another pink princess extravaganza, Renee FaceTimed me in tears.

"I don't want to be another stupid princess," she'd whispered. "Everyone expects me to be sweet and perfect and... and boring. Please help me. Mom won't."

Christ, I'd thought, she's turning into me.

So we'd made a plan. Operation Villain Origin Story, we called it. Mom would get her sophisticated party but Renee would get to be who she wanted to be. The compromise: she had to learn proper villain etiquette.

Which is why Ms. Thompson – yes, the same woman who spent six months trying to teach me proper table manners, and failing spectacularly– is now upstairs helping my niece perfect her "villainous walk." I can hear them up there, counting steps. One, two, three, swish. The same rhythm she used to drill into me for debutante ball, now repurposed for evil.

Talk about career growth.

"The diaphragm is key to proper villain projection," Ms. Thompson's voice floats down, still carrying that crisp British accent that Mom probably pays extra for. "Just as it is for opera, which your grandmother so thoughtfully sponsored at the conservatory last spring."

There's a heavy emphasis on "thoughtfully" that makes me wonder if Ms. Thompson remembers how Mom only sponsored that opera because the Prescotts had already claimed the ballet.

I take another sip of water (vodka, but neither Mom nor Jade need to know that) savoring the burn as the chandelier above fragments the scene: Mom's pearls, Dad's silver cufflinks, Jade's overpriced watch. The same chandelier I accidentally swung from at my own eighth birthday party, sending crystal shards and Mom's dreams of perfect sophistication crashing to the marble floor.