I felt a muscle twitch in my jaw—a micro-spasm of suppressed rage—but I kept my face blank. “I know who General Sterling is, Dad.”
“I doubt it,” my father snapped. “You wouldn’t know real leadership if it bit you on the leg. Just stay in the back and keep that cheap dress out of the official photos.”
My mother, Sylvia, drifted over then. She was a woman who viewed cruelty as a necessary social skill, a way to prune the weak from her garden. She was holding a large glass of red wine, filled to the brim, and wearing a silver gown that cost more than the down payment on my first car. She didn’t smile at me. She just frowned at a loose thread on my shoulder.
“Fix your posture, Elena,” she said, her voice sharp. “You’re slouching. It makes you look defeated.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said.
“You’re not fine. You’re invisible,” she countered. “Oh, look. Your brother needs a refill. Move out of the way. You’re blocking the path to the bar.”
She made a shooing motion with her manicured hand, a dismissal she had perfected over decades. As she did, she took a step forward and stumbled on the edge of the plush carpet. It was a performance worthy of daytime television. The glass of red wine in her hand didn’t just spill; it launched.
A crimson wave crashed directly onto the front of my dress. The cold liquid soaked through the cheap synthetic fabric instantly, running down my stomach, pooling in the fabric at my waist, and dripping onto my shoes.
The chatter in the immediate area stopped. The jazz band seemed to falter for a beat. I stood there, gasping slightly from the cold shock of it, looking down at the ruin of my clothes.
My mother didn’t apologize. She put a hand to her mouth in a mock gasp that didn’t reach her cold, calculating eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she sighed, sounding annoyed rather than sorry. “Look what you made me do. You were standing right in my blind spot.”
