"Where's Shelley?" "In the kitchen." "Is her new caretaker here yet?" Perfect Chemistry â Simone Elkeles of 245 "Her name is Baghda, and no. "No, thanks," I say, looking around for my sister. "I bought your favorite muffin for the first day of school," Mom says, pulling out a bag from behind her back. No one can point a finger and criticize her outfit, that's for sure. She already looks like a million bucks in her Ralph Lauren Blue Label tennis dress. The smell of my mom's strong perfume stings my nostrils the closer I get. Thank goodness it's off." "Good morning to you, too, Mother," I say before walking down the stairs and giving her a peck on the cheek. "And that noise you call music was giving me a headache. "Hate the pants, love the belt," Mom says, pointing her index finger at each item. I think that's why my dad goes to work before she gets up in the morning, so he doesn't have to deal with, well, her. And when my mom is stressed, everyone living with her suffers. Not the kind easily controlled with little blue pills.
But you haven't lived in the Ellis house. I'm eighteen and shouldn't care what my mom thinks. My mom is standing at the bottom of our grand staircase, scanning my outfit. Finally getting it right, I toss the eyeliner tube on the counter, double and triple check myself in the mirror, turn off my stereo, and hurry down the hallway. "I'll be there in a sec," I call down, hoping I can get this eyeliner to go on straight and be done with it. My first instinct is to ignore her, but that never gets me anything but arguments, headaches, and more yelling. "Brit, come down," I faintly hear my mom yelling from the foyer. If I had any choice in the matter, I'd stay in my comfy bed and eat warm chocolate chip cookies all day. Now, my eyeliner decides it has a mind of its own. Then the button on my favorite shirt popped off. First, my curling iron sent up smoke signals and died. Starting senior year of high school and seeing my boyfriend after a summer apart shouldn't be so nerve-racking, but I've gotten off to a disastrous start.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror while music blares from my speakers, I wipe away the third crooked line I've drawn beneath my eye. The truth, if it were to come out, would destroy my entire picture-perfect image. And although it's a complete lie, I've worked my butt off to keep up the appearance that I have it all.
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