tape then marked it in pencil. “How tall is seventy-two inches?” she asked her best friend, Lex Easton, who sat on her pink canopy bed.
Lex put down the latest Manhattanite Times issue she was reading and replied, “About six feet.”
“Holy shiiit! Mommy and Daddy are both under five-ten. What other measurements did I give you?”
Her friend grabbed the Hello Kitty notepad off the pillow and read, “Thirty-six C, twenty-five, thirty-five.”
A few weeks shy of starting the seventh grade, Tabitha had blossomed over the summer into a woman.
“Remember when my mom took us to Milan to see her friend’s spring show?” Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, a rock-n-roll legend, received invitations year after year to the best parties, extravaganzas, and fashion shows in the world.
“Valentine?” She puffed on a cigarette, exhaling from her mouth.
“Valentino,” Lex corrected. “Anyways, there’s a resemblance between Elle Macpherson, the model who wore the red dress, and you.” She held Vogue’s fall issue up, Macpherson gracing the cover. The season’s periodicals were spread out on Tabitha’s bed. At twelve, Lex was already a slave to fashion, especially couture.
“Red is my favorite color. It goes with my look.” Tabitha laughed. She happened to be the only redhead in her class, let alone the only girl rich enough to furnish a complete wardrobe from Yves Saint Laurent. “Why do you read those crummy gossip rags? You know our folks told us not to pay the press any attention.” Since her parents announced their trial separation a few weeks before, she’d stopped looking at the tabloids.
“They also told us not to smoke.” Lex’s face sobered as she shoved a Swedish fish in her mouth. She chewed the candy, swallowed, and announced, “There’s an article in here titled, ‘ High Society Marriages Headed for Ruin ’.”
“I bet my parents are featured.” Tabitha didn’t have to ask. She took the page from Lex’s sticky hands and glanced at the exposé. It shed light on America’s most prominent family—hers. Considered fierce academics, the Brillfords remained regular art patrons and noble philanthropists. With five generations celebrated in their community, they were the town’s toast and invited to all social events, but not in recent weeks. No, they’d become outcasts. “This is why my parents have been fighting all summer.”
She’d heard her parents’ hoarse voices ringing through their eight-thousand-square-foot residence pretty much night and day.
“When my parents argue, Dad sleeps in the guest room. Yours?”
“Daddy moved his stuff into the east wing.” Tabitha frowned. Countess Irma, Taddy’s mother, had remained in the west quarters.
Lex shifted on the bed. “I saw it mentions why your mom spent time in the hospital. Didn’t you wonder?”
“Yes, but Daddy wouldn’t tell me.” Tabitha focused on the article, reading closely and hanging on every word. “Says here, after one knock-down, drag-out fight, my mom flew headfirst over a spiral staircase with a pair of shears in her hands. That’s when the NYPD arrived.” Tabitha recalled the incident where Irma had lost her little finger after a botched effort to cut her husband’s penis off.
“Why didn’t your dad press charges?”
“Daddy knows better.” Jesus. I can’t believe this is in the paper about my parents .
“Keep reading,” Lex bossed.
“Says the fight started after Daddy filled her lingerie chest with South American killer insects, whoa!”
“Killer bugs?”
”Do they exist?” she asked Lex, hoping this wasn’t true. However, she remembered her mother being in the hospital, so it made perfect sense.
Her friend rolled her eyes. “If you’d come to biology class, you’d learn from Mr. Kauffman there are many insect species known to harm animals—and humans. They live in South America. So, what brought on the bug attack?”
“Mom tried to run his ass over with her
Lex put down the latest Manhattanite Times issue she was reading and replied, “About six feet.”
“Holy shiiit! Mommy and Daddy are both under five-ten. What other measurements did I give you?”
Her friend grabbed the Hello Kitty notepad off the pillow and read, “Thirty-six C, twenty-five, thirty-five.”
A few weeks shy of starting the seventh grade, Tabitha had blossomed over the summer into a woman.
“Remember when my mom took us to Milan to see her friend’s spring show?” Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, a rock-n-roll legend, received invitations year after year to the best parties, extravaganzas, and fashion shows in the world.
“Valentine?” She puffed on a cigarette, exhaling from her mouth.
“Valentino,” Lex corrected. “Anyways, there’s a resemblance between Elle Macpherson, the model who wore the red dress, and you.” She held Vogue’s fall issue up, Macpherson gracing the cover. The season’s periodicals were spread out on Tabitha’s bed. At twelve, Lex was already a slave to fashion, especially couture.
“Red is my favorite color. It goes with my look.” Tabitha laughed. She happened to be the only redhead in her class, let alone the only girl rich enough to furnish a complete wardrobe from Yves Saint Laurent. “Why do you read those crummy gossip rags? You know our folks told us not to pay the press any attention.” Since her parents announced their trial separation a few weeks before, she’d stopped looking at the tabloids.
“They also told us not to smoke.” Lex’s face sobered as she shoved a Swedish fish in her mouth. She chewed the candy, swallowed, and announced, “There’s an article in here titled, ‘ High Society Marriages Headed for Ruin ’.”
“I bet my parents are featured.” Tabitha didn’t have to ask. She took the page from Lex’s sticky hands and glanced at the exposé. It shed light on America’s most prominent family—hers. Considered fierce academics, the Brillfords remained regular art patrons and noble philanthropists. With five generations celebrated in their community, they were the town’s toast and invited to all social events, but not in recent weeks. No, they’d become outcasts. “This is why my parents have been fighting all summer.”
She’d heard her parents’ hoarse voices ringing through their eight-thousand-square-foot residence pretty much night and day.
“When my parents argue, Dad sleeps in the guest room. Yours?”
“Daddy moved his stuff into the east wing.” Tabitha frowned. Countess Irma, Taddy’s mother, had remained in the west quarters.
Lex shifted on the bed. “I saw it mentions why your mom spent time in the hospital. Didn’t you wonder?”
“Yes, but Daddy wouldn’t tell me.” Tabitha focused on the article, reading closely and hanging on every word. “Says here, after one knock-down, drag-out fight, my mom flew headfirst over a spiral staircase with a pair of shears in her hands. That’s when the NYPD arrived.” Tabitha recalled the incident where Irma had lost her little finger after a botched effort to cut her husband’s penis off.
“Why didn’t your dad press charges?”
“Daddy knows better.” Jesus. I can’t believe this is in the paper about my parents .
“Keep reading,” Lex bossed.
“Says the fight started after Daddy filled her lingerie chest with South American killer insects, whoa!”
“Killer bugs?”
”Do they exist?” she asked Lex, hoping this wasn’t true. However, she remembered her mother being in the hospital, so it made perfect sense.
Her friend rolled her eyes. “If you’d come to biology class, you’d learn from Mr. Kauffman there are many insect species known to harm animals—and humans. They live in South America. So, what brought on the bug attack?”
“Mom tried to run his ass over with her
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