[WATTYS 2016 WINNER!] [COSMOPOLITAN Featured!]
Trapped in her white trash hell, Layla Danner is failing at life.
Her friend Peyton? Everybody thinks he's perfect, a staggeringly rich, handsome, and well-mannered story book prince. But they don't kn...
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Looking at my mother's face was like looking into a magical mirror that aged me a decade and a half. Physically, we were near identical.
Years and years of binge drinking, drugs, and partying had taken their toll, but Brandy Curtis was still exquisitely beautiful. She was fair haired and blue eyed, but had an exotic quality to her features that was rare for people of her coloring. Her eyes were large, wide set and slightly feline, her nose snubbed just so at the tip to give her an air of perpetual innocence despite the fact that she was anything but.
Her favorite feature were her wide, generous lips that were "pillowy" to a degree where it bordered obscenity. She pursed them now, the beginnings of wrinkles appearing at the corners as she used a wet towel to rub her makeup off.
I hadn't seen her in a week, but that wasn't unusual for us. She liked to hit the bars after work and stayed until the early morning hours dancing on tables, toying with men, and throwing drinks at women who got in her way. Then she went home with whatever guy caught her fancy - and there never was a shortage of men who wanted her company.
"What happened to your face?" I asked her, staring at the angry red scab on her hairline.
She snorted. "Peggy Armstrong, that stupid cunt."
I grimaced at her language but didn't say anything. She'd only tell me to get off my high horse if I did.
"She broke a fucking bottle right over my face," she said, examining the wound with the small tabletop mirror in front of her. She delicately pressed on the injury with her pinky finger and winced.
"Oh," I said. I didn't bother asking what happened next. My mom was no shrinking violet. She gave as good as she got, and then some.
I guess my mom was the ultimate bad girl. She was strong and tough, and took no shit from anybody. Although she was undereducated - dropped out of 9th grade- she was smart and savvy where it mattered. She did and said only what she pleased with little regard to consequences, and she honestly didn't care a lick for what people thought of her. She truly would've been formidable had she applied herself to something other than partying.
Mom dropped her makeup case on the table and folded her long, lean body into a chair. "So, did you finally let that boy pop your precious little cherry?"
"Ugh. Please stop," I groaned, flopped back on the bed and placed a pillow over my face.
Peyton had scrambled to his feet when she'd come in. He'd made polite small talk, as if they hadn't seen each other at his house a matter of hours ago. Then he excused himself, bid us both good night and got the hell out of Dodge.
"I was sixteen when I had you," she said, studying her pores in the mirror.
God Daddy, what were you thinking? I opened my book and tried to focus.
