TITLE: Beverly Hills Adjacent
GENRE: YA Contemporary
Dad said I have to apologize, so here goes: I’m sorry about your Louboutins. That’s a lie and we both know it. If you ever made anything besides reservations, you’d have found your shoe behind all those fancy olive oils you bought last year. How many olive oils did you think we needed? YOU ONLY EAT FAT-FREE DRESSING. Anyway, it’s not my fault they spilled. This is Los Angeles. We have earthquakes.
I’m sorry Fariba threw it away, but I thought you’d find it first. You’ve poked through everything else, including my room after I told you to stay out, but did you listen? NO. If you ever go through my stuff again, I will hide more than your Louboutins. Do we understand each other? I’ll be in my room if anyone wants to come yell at me or RIFLE THROUGH MY BELONGINGS LIKE A STILETTO-HEELED SPY.
Westley Fagan, oppressed person.
I stab a fork through the letter, pinning it to the watermelon on the counter next to the gold ceramic piggy-bank Dad bought me when we were still a family. My step-mother believes in the reduced-calorie powers of watermelon. She’ll find it. I grab Macbeth and a box of Cheese Squares and hide in my closet.
I actually like Macbeth. I love the witches, love the death, love the theater superstitions my dad told me about when he was between cases, back when I was still at Hamilton High, where people talked to me, and I had a thirty/seventy chance of getting invited to parties. I don’t need to open the book, but I do anyway, skimming lines, devouring pages. We started reading it two weeks ago at Beverly Hills High. We are still in Act I.
A door slams. The sinister clicking of stilettos vibrates through the floorboards.