The Boy I Hate

One.

Beauty is pain.

At least, that's what my mother always told me as she tugged my hair into slick buns and feathered my bangs. After all, Margaret Fairs Abram wasn't known for being gentile. She pulled, prodded, and poked me into perfection. My tears were met with the familiar phrase time and time again, "beauty is pain, Mabel. How can you expect to leave a good impression without the pluck of a brow?"

These days the task of my beauty was left to me, which sounded freeing until I realized my looks still required a stamp of approval from the woman herself. I was privileged, and I knew that - to have my worst problem be the distaste for designer clothes in my closet. Poor little rich girl.

Perhaps that's why I bit my tongue. Better to live a silicone life on the east side of Sugar Port than to suffer real tragedy on the other side of the lake.

So on this day I slipped on a yellow sundress, yanked my hair into a curly bun, and powdered my face to hide any trace of a flaw. As a last touch I delicately colored my lips pink. It was the darkest color Mom would let me wear. When it came time to find shoes I considered the safe route of flats, but I could hear Margaret's voice echo in my mind - refusing heels at a high class event is to refuse to be a lady. Needless to say, I opted for dull pink pumps.

One last check in the mirror and as if on cue my mother's voice rang through the house intercom, "Mabel, the guests will arrive soon. Punctuality is a virtue!" Just another proverb she used to raise me. Punctuality is a virtue, beauty is pain, and we mustn't forget the early bird gets the worm.

Pressing my finger to the speak button, I was careful not to smudge my newly painted fingernails, "coming."

A trip out of my room and down the grand staircase led me to the back patio - where Dad could be seen testing the refreshments, and Mother was spotted scolding a poor caterer for her napkin placement. The urge to head in my dad's direction was overcoming, but I had to save the raven-haired lady from the wrath of Margaret Faris Abram.

Mid-rant I placed a hand on my mother's shoulder, "Mom, leave it to me. You know how important napkin placement is to me."

"You know, Mabel, it's truly wonderful to see you finally express interest in hostess duties." She attempted a loving gesture by squeezing my cheek lightly, "I've taught you well."

With a final pat on my blushed cheek, her heels clicked away. I scoffed, "sarcasm is seriously lost on her."

The blue-eyed woman giggled along with me, extenuating the laugh lines in the corners of her eyes. Those lines were the only sign of age I gathered from her appearance - had it not been for them I would have thought she was only a couple years older than me. "Thanks for freeing me. I'll be sure to perfect the triple pocket napkin fold and leave them in direction to the center piece."

"Not alone you won't," I charmed, "there's like fifty tables here. Let me help."

She seemed hesitant, glancing around worriedly, "I don't imagine your mother taking kindly to seeing you help the help."

I shrugged, "knowing her she's distracted by another minor inconvenience by now." Without another word I picked up the nearest napkin and began refolding. After all, if I wasn't folding napkins I'd surly be tasked with something much less appealing. My mother often liked to use our events as hostess training of sorts. 

She followed suit, "well you're very kind. Mabel, right?"

I figured the absence of correction would let her know she said the right name. "If by kind you mean not as bad as my mother." My fingers weaved through the expensive cloth, and I tried not to feel sorry for myself. What's so bad about hosting a fancy party?