4| D-list famous

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There are two distinct versions of my mother: the version my little brother, Cody, is accustomed to and the one reserved for me. My best friend, Daisy, claims I'm paranoid, but only because my mother's indiscretions are too subtle to the naked eye – it's why I write them down.

It's at breakfast when it's most apparent. My mother – ever the early bird – will roll out of bed in her satin pajamas, dark hair twisted in an elegant top-knot, and head to the kitchen for her cup of black coffee and hourly dose of Instagram.

Alexa Masterson is what passes for D-list famous in Sherman Oaks. At twenty-three and armed with her sales and media degree, she borrowed a loan and started up her own nutrition company, which, to her credit, became hugely successful. The result is that most of her time involves taking pictures in our newly renovated kitchen. It's large and airy, with marble surfaces and a long glass breakfast table that looks out onto the infinity pool – the picture-perfect snap.

All of this happens before 7 am when I drag myself – notebook in hand – out of bed. My bedroom, much like this notebook, is another extension of me. The walls are covered in old magazine covers I've collected over the years, from the Rolling Stones' Led Zeppelin issue to Britney Spears' 1999 FHM cover.

It all started when I stumbled upon an old magazine hidden in the attic, and ever since then, I've collected them like Pokemon. Cody thinks it's weird, and maybe it is, but looking at these magazines is like watching society evolve in front of my eyes. The covers, the headlines, and the content each reflect the values of the time, a reminder of how far we've come. Yet, in some ways, not far enough.

After showering and dressing, I head downstairs and through the open-plan living room until I pop out into the kitchen. Most of the renovations took place when Mom's business kicked off, which means everything was handpicked to look as Instagram-worthy as possible, from the elaborate paintings adorning the walls to the expensive Italian white sofas. As grateful as I am to live somewhere like this, I can't help but think of Dad in his tiny apartment eating pizza out of the box.

With my mom as the breadwinner, it meant my dad could work as a tortured artist without worrying about a steady income, but now he's having to live off the money he'd made from commissioning his artwork – money, I'm sure, is running out.

Cody is already in his seat and eating his Eggs Benedict. I ruffle his hair in the way he hates and kiss him on the cheek. He scrunches his nose, attempting to duck away, but I'm too quick for him. Despite being eight, he acts like a teenager trying to be cool, even though he secretly likes it. "Morning, Chipmonk," I say to him.

Mom turns around from where she's standing at the stove and smiles. A fresh fruit salad with a side of brown toast is plopped in front of me. I eye the brown bread full of seeds and what looks like bird food. As a self-certified health expert, Mom thinks eating white bread is akin to eating a plate full of sugar. Maybe she's right, but I can't bring myself to care.

"Morning, Cassie," she says, "did you sleep okay?"

"Like a baby on Ambien." I'm lying, though. All night, I tossed and turned as I replayed last night's fight in my head. Nico defeating Hayden felt like the end of an era, and for the first time in my life, I am nervous about heading to the gym.

"What's Ambien?" Cody asks.

"Nothing, sweetie," Mom says, but she's lying too.

She hands over some coffee as I get out my notebook and study her expression. The differences in these versions of her are never anything tangible, they lie in the flashes of disappointment in her eyes or the sighs she reserves just for me.

My pen taps wildly on the pages of my notebook as I wait to be proven right – my dose of validation. I wolf down my fruit while Mom sits across from me with her freshly squeezed mango juice, scrolling through her Instagram. I'd had an account once too, but her constant comments and tagging me in things made me quickly delete it; I've sworn off social media since.

With a mouthful of egg, Cody looks over at my unkempt scrawl and wriggles his nose. "What are you always writing in there? Is it your diary?"

"More like a memoir."

"A memoir," Mom repeats.

"Yep, I'm going to be a world-famous author."

"I thought you wanted to be a musician," she says.

"I like music," I remind her, "I can't actually play any instruments."

"I thought you wanted to be a boxer," Cody adds, and he proceeds to do his best impression of Tyson Fury.

Mom laughs and ruffles his head. "She doesn't want to be a boxer. That gym–" she says gym with a hint of distaste, "is just to help your sister with her anger issues."

My mother won't say as much, but I know she prefers my brother. Cody is cute and uncomplicated; Cody behaves how she'd pictured he would in her head. But I'm the opposite of the dream daughter she'd hoped for, and she makes it clear every day.

The moment comes when I reach for a spoon, and Mom catches a glimpse of today's attire: a pair of black ripped jeans and a plain black tee with trainers. "Oh, Cassie," she says with that hopeless sigh, "would it kill you to expand your color range?"

"It might."

She frowns and rubs her forehead with her palm. If it weren't for the botox, her eyebrows would furrow in disappointment. Not that she needs the extra help – my parents had me when they were just eighteen, so my mother is relatively young. It means we often get mistaken for sisters, a fact she loves to obsess over.

"Where are all those new clothes I bought you last week?" she asks.

"Probably at the Salvation Army."

Her mouth falls open. "I spent a lot of money on those clothes."

A familiar heat starts to swirl in my stomach; I slowly count to three. "I know, and I appreciate it, but you bought them three sizes too small." I  have it on record from Doctor Lukoli that I am the perfect weight for my five-foot-six frame, but this has never satisfied my mother. I am not exactly in her image, so something must be wrong with me. "I told you they were too small, and you refused to return them."

Her face is a picture of innocence. Sometimes I wonder if she's really this oblivious or just a good actress. And truth be told, I don't know which is worse. "If you'd told me that, I would have returned them and got my money back instead of wasting it," she says.

"It's not a waste," I say, upbeat. "They went to people in need."

A silence settles over us as I flick to a page in my notebook from last week. My nail-bitten finger scans her list of discrepancies until it finds our exchange about the clothes. Of course, I don't show her this. What would be the point? But I won't back down, either. I stare at her hard as she mirrors my expression, neither of us moving.

Cody scrunches his nose again and scrambles to finish his breakfast. The slight lull in the atmosphere is akin to the quiet before a storm, and he knows it. He senses a full-blown war is on the cards, and he's ready to get the hell out of dodge.

"Look," Mom says, backing down, "I'm not mad about the clothes, okay? That woman from Food Daily is coming over on Saturday; remember I told you about her? She wants to take some photos of us, and I wanted us all to look our best."

The real reason she's on edge this week. Her life is about to be showcased, and she doesn't want her less-than-perfect daughter to embarrass her. "What does that have to do with my outfit of choice today?"

Another sigh. My mother has perfected the art of showing her disappointment without uttering a single word. "Oh, Cassie," she says, pushing my hair back, "I just think you do yourself such a disservice. If you were a little more approachable, boys would be lining down the block."

I write this in my notebook and say, "I don't want boys lining down the block."

"Fine," she says, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the table, "girls would be lining down the block then."

"I don't want girls lining down the block either."

She looks away to focus on Cody instead. With an affectionate rub of his head, she says to me, "What time are you home today? I thought we could all go for milkshakes after school."

"I can't," I say, "I have detention."

"Detention again? Cassandra." My name rolls off her tongue in distaste. What a sad state of affairs when a person comes to resent the sound of their name. "What for this time?" 

"Daisy was upset before class yesterday," I say. "I was late to English."

"Daisy is always upset." It's true, but she would be, too, if people constantly picked on her. "Is this phase of yours ever going to end, Cassandra?"

One.

Two.

Three.

"This isn't a phase," I say calmly. "You just don't like me." And that's what this really boils down to: Alexa Masterson, CEO of Foodblends, my own mother, does not like me.

She opens her mouth like she's about to argue, but seeing Cody's crestfallen face gives her pause. With a somewhat strained smile, she kisses his cheek and forces a smile at me. "You both should get going. Have a good day at school, Chickies."

Standing up, I stuff my notebook into my bag before turning to Cody. "Come on, chipmunk," I say. "Let's go." I take his hand as we head out to my car, where I slip into the driver's seat. For a moment, as my hands clench the cool leather wheel, I don't move. Don't breathe. Then I turn on the engine, force a smile at Cody, and reverse out of the drive.

A/N

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