The Summer We Regret

Chapter 1-Hi, I'm Livia

Poise, Posture, Smile.

I have only one goal for this summer.

Poise, Posture, Smile.

A goal that may be minuscule for some, but to me, it is huge.

Poise, Posture, Smile.

I want wheels. Four of them to be exact.

Anything there is to do, I have done it all.

Four-time student council president?

Check.

Head cheerleader?

Check.

Skiing in Zermatt, sailing in Mexico, brunching in Santorini?

Check.

Valedictorian?

Not officially, but it's as good as got.

I've lived a blessed life, both equal parts hard work and luck. Yet, there is one blind spot in my life and on my college applications.

Mom said that she has always loved makeup ever since she was young. So, when she founded her own cosmetic company twenty years ago, it only seemed fitting. The beautiful woman works in beauty. She had many doubters who didn't believe in a black woman being the face of a beauty brand; it wasn't "relatable" enough. Nobody could have anticipated that Aldaine Cosmetics would have skyrocketed and transformed into the powerhouse that is today. Because of that, money was never something that I had to worry about. When it came to that stuff, I always just had Mom, the CEO of the top cosmetics brand worldwide; mogul; trailblazer.

But, that all ends today. I refuse to spend my senior year waiting for my friends to pick me up in the morning and for our driver to drop me off in the afternoon. I am tired of it. After Mom blew up on me over my C+ on my geography quiz (the first quiz of the year that ended up having no effect, but that is beside the point), I had turned down Mom's offer for a car before I turned sixteen in a fit of teenage annoyance (a decision I regret deeply considering the offer wasn't put back on the table following my apology). I figure, I got myself into this mess two years ago, and now I will get myself out of it. Get my job, get my money, get my car. The summer job search commenced the day after school let out, and my luck has been absent thus far. My nerves are running wild as I am onto my eighth interview in six days.

Poise, posture, smile.

For as long as I can remember, these three letters have been the guard rails of my life. Poise; stay eloquent, well-spoken, and polite. Posture; sit up tall, hands to my sides. Never slouch, never cross my arms. And if all else fails, a killer smile won't.

"Livia, get your lazy ass downstairs!"

I roll my eyes at my nineteen-year-old brother, William, and his unnecessary screaming. Even if the university of his choice was in another state, and he didn't live at home, I would still be able to hear that yell of his.

"I'm getting ready," I shout back at him.

I turn to look at my three-sided mirror. Dark wash jeans, a bright orange top, and nude sandals.

Does this say, "perfect for the job," or does it say, "lazy and too carefree?" Should I change the top? What to? I've already changed a million times, and I should get going soon. The top has got to go. What about my salmon-colored blouse, the one that comes right past my shoulders and cinches at the waist? It's professional. Classy. And my white jeans that flare at the bottom.

I change into a blouse and a pair of white jeans. The shoes can stay.

"There. That's better." I smile at my reflection. My dark curls are detangled and slinging loosely by my shoulders. My skin has been behaving, and there isn't a noticeable breakout on my face. I glimpse at my eyes to make sure no mascara gets onto my eyelid. Not a single hair is out of place. Not a single eyelash is clumped with another.