Playing Perfect

13. Fête

13. Fête

Party

Heather DeSilva had met Alice when she was fourteen years old. She didn't come from an amazing family—definitely not on the level of Alice's—but her father's law firm had recently taken off and she soon found herself invited to all sorts of soirées.

She'd always known of Alice. They sat beside each other in maths, and she'd been in the same grade as her since Heather moved to Sierra Grammar in Year Seven—but she didn't know of Heather's existence until she was in a pearl necklace and Chanel lipstick discussing the weather at a fancy dinner party.

That was how rich people worked.

And Heather was a natural.

She knew how to climb the social ladder—she knew the parties to attend, the people to speak to, how to pick out the richest person in the crowd. Something Alice took for granted.

Alice saw her social standing as a chore.

She hated making small talk. She hated plastering a smile on her face and discussing pointless events. She hated her dozens of extra curriculars, her language tutoring, her tennis coaching, her piano recitals, her etiquette classes—but she did it.

She perfected it.

But more than ever, Alice found it difficult to put on her Travers smile and walk down the steps to one of her parents' larger dinner parties of the year.

Sierra Grammar's Debutante was next week, so the Travers held a less exclusive than usual dinner party to socialise and prepare. This of course meant that Heather was probably sitting downstairs, chatting aimlessly with her parents.

Heather, who had acted kind to Alice for the four years they'd been friends. Heather, who had curled Alice's hair before their first high school dance to impress the boys from Saint Jude's. Heather, who had taught Alice how to properly Snapchat a cute boy and laughed hysterically when she failed to catch onto their innuendos.

Heather, who had plastered a rude message on Alice's locker to humiliate her in front of the school—who was probably also the one behind her cruel texts and lockers of trash.

Alice shuddered uncomfortably.

She hadn't cried when she found out. She felt strangely empty inside. Numb. Neither happy nor sad. She'd spent the night lying in bed replaying the years she'd known Heather over and over again, trying to figure out what she'd missed, how she could have possible caused Heather to hate her so badly.

She analysed every little detail until the silence became unbearable, and she fell asleep to an episode of The Office.

Now, Alice was sitting at her dressing table, staring at her reflection, knowing her parents would scold her for being late to the dinner party, but not moving, nonetheless.

She took her time. Readjusting the necklace that lay flat across her collarbones, tugging on the straps of her dress, picking up her comb and running it through her hair for the fifth time that night.

Until a knock came from the door.

"Mother—" She spun, then blinked in confusion. "Cauley?"

Finn Cauley shuffled into her room, clicking the door shut behind him. Today, he wore a black suit without a tie, a heavy peacoat on top, meaning he hadn't stopped by the coatroom—he'd come straight here.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I should ask you the same thing," he said. "You know, the party's started."