AGE FOURTEEN
My mum said I could do better.
I could be more sophisticated, more elegant, and just…more.
I pushed Kimberly away because if I hadn’t, Mum would’ve hurt her in some way. Mum’s too direct and doesn’t think twice before saying truths — no matter how ugly they are. She doesn’t care about who she crushes on her way to success. She doesn’t stop to think about the consequences for other people. She simply doesn’t feel like the rest of us do.
Or if she ever did, that part of her died after the divorce. Or, rather, three years ago. It’s like she killed a part of herself in that tub.
Since then, I don’t want to test her in any way. If she says I’m to change friends, I change friends. If she says I shouldn’t wear a certain thing, I don’t. If she says I shouldn’t listen to rock music, I don’t. At least, not in public. Everyone knows me as a piano girl, and I’ll remain that way.
It’s not that I don’t like playing the piano, because I do. However, I prefer listening to other types of music with thought-provoking lyrics.
Mum calls it the devil’s music.
Before I know it, my life has become an image. I act a certain way, speak a certain way, and even walk a certain way. I have to sway my hips gently, but I can’t walk too slow like a slut or too fast like a nerd.
I’m a lady. Just like Mum.
Papa sat me down and told me I didn’t have to follow her instructions or be threatened by her. But Papa didn’t see what I saw. Papa wasn’t there.
I love him more than the world itself, but he’s not me. He wasn’t split up between two alpha parents with god-like personalities. He wasn’t forced to see one of them hit rock bottom.
As soon as I told him I wanted this, he didn’t bring up the subject again. Papa might be a feared politician with strict rules and steel-like opinions, but he respects my wishes above anything else. And for that alone, I’m grateful to him.
I haven’t been able to say it as much lately. Part of being a lady is not showing your emotions. If you do have to show them, they shouldn’t be your real ones. Those need to be always hidden where no one could find them.
I know people at school call me a bitch, the queen B, but I don’t mind.
Being a bitch means I’m doing a perfect job of hiding my emotions and I don’t have to live that nightmare again.
It means I get to keep all my pieces together.
So I’ve played the bitch role so well until no one can see through it. I’ve picked fights just to come out as the winner. I’ve played games merely to prove that I can.
Even Kim, who used to be my closest friend, believes the transformation and now calls me a bitch herself. Sometimes, I want to send her a text and tell her I’m sorry, but at the last minute, I change my mind. There’s something a lot bigger than friendship at stake and I would never gamble that.
Mum says it’s lonely at the top and I’m starting to understand what that means.
Her friends have started to drift away the more she climbs the party’s ladder, establishing herself as the most beautiful female politician who can actually rival men. A while ago, a reporter asked her if she used her beauty to get what she wants, and she said the famous line, “I came here to talk about a very serious, very urgent problem, and that is public housing. Can I share my thoughts, or do I have to sit and dodge comments about my face before I’m able to do so?”
That gained her a lot of popularity on social media and with women’s associations.
“Thank you, Derek.” I peek at Papa’s driver through the window after he drops me off from school at Helen’s house. “Don’t forget to drink the tea I gave you earlier. I made it myself.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He grins, showing straight, white teeth. He’s in his late twenties and helps Papa a lot with his work. “Have fun, Miss Queens.”
“It’s Silver.” I wave at him as the car disappears around the corner. Papa said he’d pick me up later, even when I told him I could walk home.
The housekeeper, Isabel, lets me in with a huge smile on her face. She’s the only help Helen allows and she only comes twice a week. Isabel motions that Helen is in the kitchen.
I place a finger to my lips and tiptoe there, abandoning my backpack on the sofa.
Spending time with Helen is one of the highlights of my week. Papa has become busier with the party since he became a secretary of state. I participate in his meetings, but he barely has time for me — or for himself. It kills me to see him so alone and getting older by the day.
However, I’ve been spending most of my time with Mum and it’s hardly fun.
When I’m with Helen, we talk and bake — or more like, she bakes. I continue to suck at it. Yet Helen has never given up on me and keeps teaching me.
We meditate together and she still does my hair and tells me I’m the perfect daughter she never had. Maybe hearing those words my own mother rarely says to me is what keeps me coming back here.
It’s certainly not because of her arsehole son.
I hate Cole Nash.
I despise him from the bottom of my heart.
He’s levelled up from pulling my hair and taunting me to playing games. He loves those a lot — games, I mean. The belief that he has control over someone.
And he’s becoming popular, too — he and that other wanker, Aiden. I don’t know what girls see in them. They’re both yuck.
Xander and Ronan make sense. At least they’re charming.
Oh, wait. Everyone thinks Cole is charming as well. He smiles at them and offers to help with their homework, like he’s the prince from their favourite fairy tales.
Idiots.
They don’t know that everything is a game to Cole. If he compliments someone or acts nice to them, it’s usually because of a dare he has with Aiden on who gets whose favour.
While Aiden does it the brooding way, Cole charms himself into it. It’s about who wins, but it’s also about the process.
Cole thrives on games and he’s been playing them for years. He likes to think everyone is a piece on his chessboard and that he can control their fate.
Aiden likes playing the king who comes out a winner, but Cole strives to be the player who controls not only the king but also every piece on the board.
We mostly avoid each other. The more I see his true self, the more he sees mine. I hate that.
We can go days not speaking to each other, not even when Helen or Papa is around. Then he’ll come out of nowhere and provoke me — or challenge me. It can be as simple as a biology test, or a piano competition, or even who holds their breath underwater the longest.
I rise up to every one of them.
I’m Sebastian Queens and Cynthia Davis’s daughter and I’m as tenacious as my parents. No one gets past me.
No one.
He usually wins and laughs at me, though. I swear he only keeps being the first in class just to piss me off and call me Miss Number Two. Sometimes, even Aiden will push me off the second place simply to prove he can.
Both of them are major wankers.
They have football practice right now, which means I can spend time with his mother in peace.
Couldn’t she have a different son? Ronan or Xander would do. Hell, even Levi, Aiden’s cousin, would be fine.
It had to be the one I hate the most.
The one who makes me feel fake whenever he looks in my direction at school.
Helen stands in front of the refrigerator with her back facing me. She’s wearing chic trousers and a pressed shirt. Her light chestnut hair is tied in a neat bun that shows off her soft cheekbones and enhances the size of her hazel eyes.
Helen is a bestselling crime thriller novelist, so she doesn’t usually dress up at home. She only does that when she has to meet her agent or something.
I sneak up behind her and hide her vision with my hands. “Guess who?”
She hums. “A beautiful girl with baby blue eyes and the shiniest blonde hair who’s wearing pink?”
I laugh, removing my hand. “Uniform, Helen. Colours aren’t allowed, but hey, my watch is pink.”
She turns around and hugs me. She smells of strawberries and spring. If I had to pick a part that I love about Helen the most, it would be, without a doubt, the way she hugs. It’s like she engulfs you and saturates you with her warmth.
Papa rarely hugs me ever since Mum told him he’s the reason I’ll stay a little girl. Mum seldom does it, so Helen is basically my only source.
She pulls away. “Are you ready for baking?”
“Weren’t you on a deadline?”
“I finished early. So we get to bake all the cakes.”
“All?”
She nods.
“Can we make a Snickers cake?”
“You and that chocolate.” She smothers a soft laugh. “Yes, we can make that.”
“Yes! You’re the best.” I kiss her cheek and she laughs again.
Helen and I get to work, and as always, I’m her sous-chef. She has a way of mixing ingredients that makes her fit to be a chef if she ever considers changing careers.
“You look beautiful, Helen,” I tell her as we mix up eggs with butter.
Her warm smile makes an appearance. “I do?”
“Of course you do. If you go out there, you’ll come back with ten men.”
“Silver! Where have you heard things like that, honey?”
“The girls at school.”
“Wow. Kids these days are unpredictable.”
“I mean it, Helen. You’re still young and beautiful. Oh, and rich. Mum says that’s what matters the most.”
Helen’s eyes cast downwards. “Not in all cases, honey.”
Ever since her husband’s death six years ago, Helen has dedicated her life to her wanker son and her work. She became a bestselling novelist and built a name for herself, but I can sense how lonely she is.
Like Papa.
Oh. Like Papa.
A wicked idea comes to mind. I can tell Papa to come pick me up early and then pretend to be asleep so he can spend some time with Helen.
I gave up trying to patch things between him and Mum some time ago. All they do is fight, so maybe it’s better for both their sakes to see other people.
I get into action before I can even think about it. I text Papa, and when he doesn’t reply, I text Derek so that he passes on the message.
By the time Helen and I are finished with baking, I pretend I’m sleepy. Helen tells me to use any room down the hall to take a nap until my Snickers cake is ready.
I’m definitely taking that home with me. I don’t have to tell Mum about it.
The moment I lie on the bed and place my head on the soft pillow, I somehow fall asleep.
I dream of Helen and Papa’s wedding. I’m smiling, happy even, and I’m wearing a princess dress like the one from that Cinderella remake, but pink.
Then I see who’s standing beside me at their wedding.
Cole.
Cole becomes my brother.
He’s laughing so loud that I wake up with a start.
Damn it. Why didn’t I think of that before I came up with the plan?
I was too focused on Papa’s and Helen’s loneliness that I forgot the small but horrible detail of Cole becoming my brother.
No. Nope.
I’ll have to find other people for Helen and Papa. I’ll never live under the same roof as that crude, stupid —
“Bad dream?”
I gasp and almost jump off the mattress. Cole is sitting beside me, leaning against the headboard and reading from a book called Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. His hair is damp and falls on his forehead. He’s wearing cotton trousers and a simple white T-shirt, which means he just got out of the shower.
I can’t help inhaling the scent of his shower gel. It’s like cinnamon and spice and I’ve become so used to it in a weird way lately.
I wipe my mouth in case there’s drool or something. “W-what are you doing here?”
“This is my room,” he says without looking up from his book.
He does that a lot, reading. Like a nerd, making all the girls watch him and say he’s so swoony. So attractive. So hot. He’s not.
“It’s not your room.” I do a swift glance to make sure. Of course it isn’t. Considering I make it my mission to avoid his room, I would’ve known if it were.
“I made you look.”
“You’re such a wanker.” I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him.
We remain like that for a second too long. He’s reading while I continue to glare, trying to figure out what the hell girls find attractive about him.
Yes, he has beautiful eyes that seem mysterious like the top of trees no one can reach. His hair is soft and a bit long, so that’s cool, too, I guess. His face is generally pleasing to look at, yes.
But his personality is rotten.
Why does he keep attracting everyone so much?
“You went to a charity event with Aiden?” he asks quietly, still staring at his book.
“I did. We were with Papa and Uncle Jonathan.”
“And what did you do?”
“We had fun.”
“Define fun, Butterfly.”
“We talked to some of Papa and Uncle Jonathan’s friends, and they said we’re smart kids who’ll be perfect heirs to our fathers.” I grin at that memory, I love when people compare me to Papa. “Then we ate and we played chess and we danced and —”
“You danced?” he cuts me off, finally lifting his head from his book to glimpse at me.
I nod.
“How?”
“What do you mean, how? We danced a bit of a waltz.”
“Waltz,” he repeats, glaring at me as if he wants to punch me. If I didn’t know Cole doesn’t punch or hit anyone — not even jokingly — I would’ve run from the room.
The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable. I hate long periods of silence, it makes me squirmy. Mum’s voice echoes in my head over and over again.
A lady never feels awkward.
“Then Aiden and I went outside,” I continue. “We snuck and ate more dessert behind the staff’s back and —”
“Shut up.”
“You’re the one who asked what fun we had.”
“And now I’m telling you to shut up.” He slams his book closed and although the sound isn’t loud, I flinch in place.
I should probably go. Not only to escape this atmosphere, but also to find Papa before my plan comes into play.
“Show me your titties,” Cole says out of freaking nowhere.
My eyes widen so hard and I swallow as if that will somehow erase what I’ve heard.
His face remains neutral, even though his lips twitch as if to smile — or smirk.
“N-no!” I cross my hands over my chest.
“I could’ve seen them when you were asleep.”
If my jaw could hit the floor, it would about now. I pull the sheet to my chest, my voice small and wrong. “D-did you? See them, I mean.”
“No. It’s more fun if you do it.”
“Well, I’m not doing it.” I narrow my eyes into slits.
“You will eventually, so you might as well start now.”
“Nice try. No.”
He shrugs as if it’s the most normal occurrence in the world. Ever since I started growing breasts, Ronan and Xander won’t stop asking things about them, like can they touch them? No. Do I stare at them all day? No. Can they get a picture to compare to the other pictures they have? No — and I didn’t even ask what other pictures they have.
Cole has never once paid attention to them. It’s the first time he’s mentioned them. But Cole has a way of watching things that never alludes to what he’s actually thinking or feeling.
“Do you want a dare?” he asks.
I jut my chin. “What are the stakes?”
I’ve learnt to always ask about the stakes before we start, because Cole plays unfair. I’m really beginning to think he loses just because he forfeits.
And that’s a low blow to my pride.
“If you win, I do something for you. No questions asked. And vice versa.”
“I’m not showing you my breasts, Cole.”
“You mean tits?”
My face heats. Why does he have to be so crude? “Well, I’m not showing them.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Promise.”
“What’s the dare?”
He throws the book in my lap. “Pick a page, then tell me to read any line.”
“That’s ridiculous. You can’t have possibly memorised the whole book.”
“Then you’ll win.”
I nibble on my bottom lip, contemplating this. Cole has an excellent memory but it doesn’t go as far as memorising a book. Besides, he’s just started reading this one. I know, because he was reading something called Nausea yesterday.
Only Cole would read weird books like that when all the other boys are hiding porn. Ronan and Xander sure are.
If he’s stupid enough to make this bet, so be it. I open the book, hiding it away from him. “You’re going to be my slave for a week, Cole.”
“Is that what you wish?”
“I’m going to make you regret everything you’ve done to me.” I pause at a page and the line at the top catches my attention. “Page one eighty-eight, paragraph two.”
A smug smile lifts my lips, my mind already full with different ways I’ll torment Cole.
“‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Both of us have a lot of feelings we need to get out in the open. So if you want to take those feelings and smash somebody with them, smash me. Then we can understand each other better.’” He doesn’t even miss a beat.
My eyes must double in size as I stare between him and the book. It’s the same line, word for word.
No. No.
I point a finger at him. “You cheated!”
“You were hiding the book like your life depended on it, Butterfly. You think I could cheat?”
“Then you knew I was going to pick it.”
“How would I know which page you’d choose, let alone which line?”
“I…I demand a redo.”
“No. You lost and now you pay up. Unless you’re a quitter.”
“I’m not,” I groan, throwing the stupid book away — though I’ll probably read it later. I like that line. “What do you want?”
“I’m going to kiss you and you’re going to let me.”
Before I can form a thought, he palms my cheeks and brushes his lips against mine.
They part open of their own accord and Cole takes control of my lips. He kisses me slowly at first, tasting me and making my entire body shiver. I don’t know what to do, so I remain still.
I’ve thought about kissing before — more specifically since that day he tricked me into kissing his cheek but turned his head at the last second.
His lips are firmer than back then, and when he slips his tongue against mine, he tastes of his favourite lime gum. My toes curl and my limbs shake with whatever force he’s injecting into me.
Why does kissing him feel so good?
It’s not supposed to, right? I hate him.
And yet, the more he glides his tongue against mine, the more I want it to last, the harder I need it to.
When he pulls away, I briefly close my eyes to steady my breathing. Wow. Is it supposed to feel as if I’m floating out of my body right now?
“You’re not bad compared to the others,” he says.
The others.
Plural?
My eyes snap open and I shove him away with a force I didn’t know I possessed. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
I storm out of the room with tears in my eyes.
I hate Cole Nash.
I despise him.
