The Trapped

- B L A I R E -

11.04.16 // 5:48 p.m.

I STARE AT MY reflection in the mirror for at least ten minutes, as if looking at myself for a long time would somehow make my outfit change. I sigh, again, as I tug on the flimsy material of my dress for the thousandth time today.

It is a nice dress, for a six-year-old maybe or someone who has no desire to look good in public. I got it from my grandma for Christmas two years ago and I couldn't believe my mom is really making me wear it to the country club tonight.

It is tight around my waist and itchy whenever I rub my legs against the black linen. It has a red rose pattern, something my grandma loved so much that I am surprised she didn't keep the dress for herself.

My hair is frizzy and tangled from the sticky, humid air that was outside earlier today when I was at the pool. I run a hand through my thick curls, messing them up even more before I leave the comfort of my room to go face the beast, otherwise known as my mother.

I saunter down the large spiral staircase in my house, my hand trailing along with the softwood of the handrail, admiring the precision and hard work put in to build this place for my family.

My heels click loudly against the marble floor, the only sound echoing throughout the silent house. When I enter the great room, my mom is sitting on the couch with her usual perfect posture and crossed legs. It is always the right leg over the left leg. God forbid if you ever did it vice versa.

Such a sin.

I roll my eyes at myself before joining my mom on the couch. Her thin brown hair is placed on her head in a perfect bun, not one hair out of place. Her thick eyebrows look as if they are glued to her forehead due to the shiny eyebrow gel she got from our European exchange student.

She sips hot tea from her favorite Royal Antoinette teacup collection. Her slender fingers wrap delicately around the handle, one pinkie perfectly raised as she blows on her steaming drink.

Her bright green eyes flicked up to mine when I stand in front of her. She gives me one of her warm smiles, the corner of her perfect thin lips curving up.

"Blaire, honey, you look beautiful. Straighten up though," she tells me and I automatically raise my shoulders and tilt my head up. "Are you ready for tonight?" She asks.

"Yes ma'am, I am very excited," I respond politely, plastering a smile on my lips. She sets her tea down on the Benetti's Italian Sicily Coffee table, the cup making a small clinking sound as it makes contact with the table.

She stands up and brushes the invisible crumbs off of her Satin and Sleeveless black cocktail dress. She gives me a tight smile as she smoothes down my hair with clear disapproval etched onto her face.

When she is done, she makes her way over to the door, walking gracefully with perfect precision.

I follow after her, not quite matching her perfect step, but I try nonetheless. Our Chauffeur, Luke, gives us a small bow and opens the front door for us, welcoming in the chilly fall weather.

Autumn is strange here in this part of Beverly Hills. The trees remained green from summer until the middle of October and then there was a riot of colors after that.

The air is cooler in the evening with only a tincture of earthiness - just a hint that brought to the mind that it is time to bring out the sweaters and hot chocolate.

A single golden leaf pirouettes down - from one of our many trees - spinning lightly through the air as it shakes slightly, landing on my shoulder. I flick it off with my nails and take a glance at my mom, hoping she didn't see that unlawful act.

Mom walks along our perfectly molded cobblestone driveway. Her four-inch stilettos clicking loudly against the rocky pathway to our car garage. I stumble a little bit and she turns sharply, glaring at me and I give her a shy, apologetic smile.

"If the people saw you walking like that at the country club, they will never nominate you for anything. You have to remember, Blaire, everyone is going to be watching you. You have to be presentable," she scolds harshly as we come to a stop at the parking garage that opens as soon as we step on the curb, the sensor recognizing our bodies.

Luke waits patiently as Mom decides which car she wants to take to the Country Club. Luke is a young man, around the age twenty-five and has worked for my family for at least three years. His blonde hair blows gently from the breeze and he taps his foot impatiently, checking his watch every now and then.

If we are late tonight, Mom would blame it on him, even though she is the one taking centurions to choose a car.

"Here we are!" Mom says as she finds the perfect match. She chooses the Ferrari Aperta, the most expensive car we own, but I know Mom wants to show off tonight like she always does.

She hands Luke the keys who nods at her and swoops around to the car, opening the back door for me. I slide in effortlessly, placing my purse on the seat. Mom takes her place in the front seat and Luke takes his place in the driver seat.

He cruises into the open street and begins his journey to the Country Club. Mom stares out onto the road, looking at all the houses and deciding what she needs to do to make ours look a little bit better, even though it already is.

This is the part of Beverly Hills everyone thinks of, with its giant mansions and stuck up rich people. Sprouting palm trees wave at the by-goers as the sun starts to set. The pink skies look like cotton candy with a blue swirling.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Mom questions Luke, who looks like he wants to yell at her.

"Yes ma'am, we go this way every time," He responds nonchalantly, pushing his black sunglasses further up his face to hide the annoyed look in his eyes. Mom settles back in her seat and begins her judging on houses again.

Ten minutes later, we are pulling into the Hawthorn's Family Country Club and Golfing. Cars have already filled the parking lot and people in expensive dresses and tuxedos walk elegantly to the door, happy smiles painted on their faces as they take in the feeling that they are about to attend the biggest social event of the year.

Our reserved park is located near the entrance, the word Hawthorn spray-painted in white on the empty space. Luke eases into the park and gets out to open the door for us.

When I get out, I can already feel the stares directed towards us. Why wouldn't they stare though? Generations of the Hawthorns have put the Hawthorn family name on such a high pedestal that everyone thinks we are Gods sent straight from heaven.

People move out of the way as Mom and I walk towards the entrance. Whispers and awes are surely heard, but it doesn't surprise me, it is like this every single year.

The big event is held in Conference Room twenty, the largest room here. People mingle in the lobby, each sharing a drink and the fancy hors d'oeuvres being passed around by the waiters.

One of the servers, who went by the name Jon, rushes over to Mom and me as soon as we enter. He wears the formal black tux and pants, the dress code for all servers, and proudly wears his gold name tag with the words Hawthorn's Family County Club carved in.

"Mrs. Hawthorn. Ms. Hawthorn," he greets, bowing before us and taking my Mom's hand, placing a light kiss on it. I bite my lip to keep from gagging.

He holds out the platter of fancy Mouna bread to us and I take one happily, having not eaten since breakfast I was internally grateful for the appetizer.

I bite into the bread and flavor burst into my mouth from the rich, creamy filling on the inside. I moan in delight, earning a glare from Mom for the second time tonight.

"Thank you, Jon," Mom says and he bows once again before turning on his heel and leaving. "Come on now, we must get our seats," Mom whispers in my ear, placing a hand on my elbow and leading me to the Conference Room.

Room twenty is surely decked out for tonight's event. The walls, which were pink last week for my cousin's sixteenth birthday party, are now a creme color, with dark brown stripes that are evenly spaced out.

Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, shining brightly due to the fact it is the only light source here. Hundreds of roundtables are scattered around the space, each with a white cloth draped over it and a vase of dark yellow flowers planted directly in the middle.

Where people got flowers around this time of year is beyond me but, leave it to my Mom to get the best of the best. A few violinists, a pianist, and a cellist sit on the stage, playing an old elegant tune, something nice for ballroom dancing.

Around six-thirty, people start filling the room, evacuating the lobby, and gladly taking their seats.

"I didn't see you come in," a voice says from beside me. Sutter Canton, my boyfriend of two years now, has taken his assigned seat next to me and has an arm wrapped loosely around the back of my chair. His hair is floppy, but in that bed-head sexy kind of way, and he wears my favorite blue button-up shirt I got him for his birthday.

"I kind of had to snake through the crowd unnoticed. You know how famous I am," I joke and Sutter chuckles lightly under his breath, being careful to not be too loud. His mother is much like mine, strict and uptight with very little patience for people.

Mrs. Canton sits across from me, her eyes twinkling as she greets my mom with a fake smile because she really doesn't like her very much. Her hair is black, almost as dark as midnight, and she has it straight down. It shines brightly with hair gel, probably expensive hair gel.

Mr. Canton, who sits next to her, but not by choice, looks like he would rather be anywhere else but here. The smug look of disgust on his face is enough to tell anyone he doesn't belong here.

Mr. and Mrs. Canton divorced years ago, but they still pretend to be married because 1) they must keep their family name on top of the social hierarchy and 2) for the sake of Sutter who they felt needed to grow up with two parents instead of one.

Mr. Rodgers, party manager and Co-CEO of our Country Club, also a longtime family friend of ours, takes a place at the podium on the stage. He wears a fitted gray suit and black tie, his manager name tag glaring in my eyes from the bright lights.