Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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As I coat my eyes with the liquid charcoal from the MAC mascara, my mother's voice flashes back in my mind.
"Not too much," she would've advised, "You don't want it to be too flakey."
My fourteen-year-old self would've rolled her eyes and ignored my mother's advice, as most fourteen-year-olds do. If my mother was here, she'd be ecstatic at the idea of me finally expressing an interest in makeup and clothes and taking care of my appearances instead of reading 'musty old chemistry' books and 'tinkering with amateur lab equipment'. My mother and I never had the best relationship- she's always wishing I was like other normal girly girls, interested in tea parties and Barbie Dolls. Back then, we constantly fought about signing up for science clubs instead of beauty pageants and buying things from the boys' department instead of the girls. I once despised her so much that I drew a Sharpie line across the threshold of my room and forbade her from ever entering past the line. She actually obeyed. She'd deliver my laundry by plopping the basket outside the door. She'd ask me to do the dishes by yelling through the closed door. I'd never properly talk to her unless I really had to and if I did, it'd be short, irate sentences from my annoyed, angst-ridden fourteen self.
Guilt well up in my chest. God, I just wish I could tell her I didn't mean it. But now she's dead. All because of Orson Calloway and his stupid mistakes.
My eyes suddenly water and I choke, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks. My hands begin to quiver, shaking like I'm going through a drug withdrawal. Hadley rushes over immediately to put her hands around me, leaving her lipstick unattended on the vanity table as she clutches me tight in her arms. She murmurs 'it's okay', getting used to my random breakdowns, and I begin rubbing my eyes furiously, trying to stop myself from breaking down even more. You weak motherfucker, I scream inside my head. It's been two years since they died. I need to be stronger than this. Atticus needs me to be stronger than this. They need me to be stronger than this.
I swallow down the hot salty water rolling down my skin, swearing when my eyes flicker over to my reflection. Black runny eyeliner and mascara stain my cheeks, ruining my contour, foundation, and highlight. "Fuck," I swore, voice swelling with the thickness of crying. "My makeup is all ruined- I need to fucking start all over again."
"I'll do it for you," Hadley quietly offers, ever so sweetly, "Just relax, okay?"
"No, it's fine. I can just-"
"I'll do it for you." There's not much arguing with the certainty in her tone. Hadley is constantly mothering over me, especially after the ordeals she's heard I've been through. It's sweet that she cares but after a while, it gets annoying. I want to protest that I'm not fragile and I could do things myself, especially something as simple as putting on makeup but I shut up, letting her wipe the smudged liner off with the makeover remover and begin to apply.
Right after I've served the spiked water to Luciana Santiago, Hadley and I manage to slip out of the restaurant undetected, expertly disappearing like we've never been there and wiping all traces of our existence from that restaurant by Hadley hacking into the restaurant's security system and deleting videos where the cameras captured us. Now we're changing into clothes and molding our faces to be more appropriate for our next task. When Hadley finishes fixing my makeup, she returns to her own and I leave my chair to check on my phone, which is charging by Hadley's bedside, and switch onto Instagram. Through a fake account, I tap past to see if any of the Elites have updated their stories.
