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HAPPY BIRTHDAY - LULA

“ Freedom,” I whisper, as the sliding doors open in front of me.

The stifling hot air of an unusual hot late spring day in New York City hits me with unprecedented force and near eighty percent humidity and I immediately miss the air conditioning of the building I just left.

I clutch the envelope with my belongings with trembling hands. Freedom is what I’ve been dreaming about for years and now that I have it, it’s terrifying.

I turn back to look at the receptionist of the rehab center that has been my home for the past six months.

She smiles, offering a little wave, making me miss the safety of the imposing building where I have been confined for “court mandated rehabilitation and correction.”

If I did something crazy right now, like run back inside and smash the vase of flowers on the reception desk and use one of the shards as a weapon, threatening to slash the throat of the sweet older lady sitting at the reception desk, would they extend my stay?

I’m not ashamed that I give the idea serious consideration, gripping the envelope with white-knuckle force.

I wouldn’t really hurt her—I think her name is Marla?—but the rest of the world doesn’t know that.

Fake it until you make it.

Right?

I turn back to look at the steady flow of the Manhattan traffic; I envy all the people who have a purpose and most of all a safe place to stay.

The thought doesn’t last long as I’m distracted when my phone begins vibrating in my hand the second I switch it on.

I don’t even look at the dozens of text messages and voicemails. I’m pretty sure that most of them are people from school asking me to hook them up. The other ones… I prefer not to think about it.

God, I’m shaking.

I need to calm down and seriously book an Uber but where do I go from here?

Home isn’t an option and I’m not sure what kind of welcome I’ll find at Mason’s.

On second thought, Mason should be happy to see me. After all, he’s the reason I was here to begin with.

If I hadn’t taken the fall for him and told the cops that the pot—well over the three ounces a person can legally carry in New York—and the hundreds of prescription pills were mine, I doubt he would have gotten away with six months in juvie.

If you can even call this place juvie.

The judge agreed to send me to a privately owned facility that looks more like a five star resort rather than a correctional and rehab center.

It was almost easy to forget that we weren’t allowed to leave this place.

The single occupancy rooms are what you’d find in the best hotels in the city, with the only exception that the electronic locks open strictly during therapy and recreational hours.

The therapy wasn’t even half bad if it wasn’t all bullshit.

“This is a safe space, feel free to share with the group-”

Ha. The therapists, the staff and the other “inmates” have no idea how good they have it here.

Maybe because they all have somewhere they want to be when they get released. Whether it’s because they’re missing their home or because they can’t wait to get back to using whatever substance landed them in here, they all want to go home.

Me? I have nowhere to go.

There’s no way I’m going back to Tiffany’s house, so hopefully Mason will take me in until I can sort out a job and a place to stay. The good news is that today is my eighteenth birthday and I don’t have to go back to—maybe I should switch my phone off.

All these notifications are making it hard to think and they’re making me paranoid about the possibility of a tracking device in my phone.

I feel Marla’s eyes on me and realize that I need to get out of here before they seriously offer to call “home.”

My fingers close around the edges of the envelope with my old clothes in it and I debate if I should go into the bathroom and change.

The girl in yoga pants and a tank top, with no makeup and this dewy, glowing skin I see in the reflection of the sliding glass door isn’t the real me. It used to be a long time ago, but not anymore.

I miss my torn jeans and my fishnets, my dark makeup and my piercings.

Fuck, that’ll have to wait though. With the corner of my eye I spot Marla lifting the phone; I can’t hear what she’s saying but I’m paranoid it’s about me.

Time to beat it before they call Tiffany.

“Let’s call an Uber and get out of here,” I say to myself, ignoring the knot of anxiety that’s expanding in my stomach like a lead balloon.

I smile at Marla and wave—I shit you not—turning around and facing the busy New York street in front of me.

I’m disoriented. My head is spinning as I look at the concrete jungle that assaults me with its toxic fumes and the noises of traffic and busy people bustling around everywhere I look.

The Uber app can’t complete the transaction unless I enter a new credit card.

I have no cash but hopefully Mason can spot me the ride, since he does owe me.

I barely have the chance to call the help number on the app when a black luxury sedan stops on the curb right in front of me.

My fight or flight instinct kicks into high gear and I know I should run.

Instead I stand on the pavement, frozen like a deer in front of headlights.

“Talulah, get inside! We don’t have all day.” Tiffany barks from the black leather backseat of the car.

Finally the connection between my limbs and my brain starts working again and I’m about to start running, but I freeze again when the two front doors open and two of our bodyguards step out.

I know I have no chance to make it two yards before they get me, so I do the next best thing and crane my neck to confirm that Tiffany is alone in the car.

“You look good,” she says, lowering her huge sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and assessing me like you would a potential show horse at an auction. “Rehab did the job, at least on the outside. Hopefully they worked on your attitude too.”

Her words shouldn’t even hurt me at this point, but they always do. “You look great too. You must have had some work done while I was away, Mom .” I say, struggling not to smile.

“It’s Tiffany to you.” She snaps. “I thought we’d agreed that having a young woman call me mom ages me instantly. Especially now that you’re eighteen. God knows I spend enough money trying to look like your older sister.”

If that’s the case, then your husband should ask for a refund because you definitely look like you’re forty. Five.

I bite my tongue.

My situation is shitty enough without antagonizing her. I’m suddenly glad that I didn’t change into my street clothes. Maybe if I can convince her that rehab worked, I can get on her good side and keep her out of my life.

I change tactics. “Thank you for picking me up, I’m sure you’re busy enough without having to deal with me. I can give the driver my new address, and?—”

She laughs.

I swear to God you can take Tiffany-Lynn Smith Turner Johnston—quite a mouthful, I know—out of the trailer park, but… we all know how that saying goes.

“Nice try, Lula. Did you really think that your father and I -”

“Howard isn’t my father!” I snap.

The weirdest thing happens to her face, she narrows her eyes but the skin around it and her forehead remain as smooth as a baby’s butt; it must be the Botox or whatever she had done. “I’m well aware of it, Lula. Your behavior almost cost me my marriage. You have no idea what I had to do to keep Howard from filing for divorce.”

My mother has a way of pushing my buttons. “I can only imagine,” I bite out. “Maybe a divorce isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you.”

I knew it was the wrong thing to say even before the words left my mouth. “Talulah-Lynn Turner!” Tiffany snaps. “How dare you disrespect me and your stepfather? After all we’ve done for you.”

Yeah, I’m definitely beyond biting my tongue. “The only good thing you’ve done for me, mother , was sending me to boarding school. At least there I was safe from the disgusting monster you married. And his son.”

As predicted, she doesn’t react kindly to my words. “Not again with that story about Howard and Evan trying to touch you inappropriately!”

She doesn’t believe me.

Tiffany chose to believe the father of the man who snuck into my bed one night when I was fifteen and climbed on top of me, over her own daughter. “The only reason why Evan didn’t rape me is that I screamed at the top of my lungs and kicked him so hard that he couldn’t walk normally for a week.” I say with a perverse sense of satisfaction. “I came to you for help and instead of packing our bags and leaving, you sent me to boarding school.” To her it was a punishment.

She looks at me with disgust in her brown eyes; or at least, I think it’s disgust, it’s hard to tell since her face barely moves. “What a travesty to be sent to one of the country’s top prep schools. Your stepfather could have been way less generous after your ridiculous accusations. He could have called the cops; but he sent you to a school where you got the chance to be in the same classrooms as our country’s future ruling class. Senators, presidents, CEOs of every Fortune 500 company in the US went to Highbury Prep. And what did you do instead of worrying about repaying his kindness—and my hard work—with good grades and exemplary behavior? You couple up with the son of a notorious criminal family and begin dealing drugs to the entire school.”

I don’t say anything because technically she’s right.

I did all that.

At first I thought that I was safe away at boarding school. I mean, I was. I hadn’t taken into account the school holidays when I soon realized that even locking my bedroom door wasn’t enough to keep Evan away. The only way to be safe was to get protection and Mason was more than happy to provide that in exchange for my help with selling his merch. I still think of the video of Mason paying Evan a visit at Harvard to have a “chat” with him about how he should treat his stepsister.

The creep almost peed himself and stayed away from me for the best part of a year, until he got into my stash and the drugs made him forget to keep his disgusting hands off of me. But Mason took care of that too.

What’s selling a few pills to my classmates in exchange for that kind of protection?

I can’t even look at my mother, in her designer dress that should make her look classy but does exactly the opposite; that kind of tailoring is supposed to be worn with a looser fitting but she obviously had her personal shopper buy it two sizes too small. Someone should also tell her that if you want to look classy, people should wonder what designer you’re wearing, not see it without the shadow of a doubt displayed all over your dress in a dizzying inducing pattern.

Don’t even start me off on the chunky gold jewelry that probably weighs more than my mother ever did—she loves to brag about the fact that even nine months pregnant she weighed ninety pounds—and on the heavy handed makeup that makes her look more like a reject from a low class beauty pageant than the wife of an aspiring senator.

“Tiff, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on Howard and Evan,” I concede because right now all I need from her is a ride to Mason’s house with a brief stopover at our apartment to pack some of my stuff.

Her mouth does something strange. I guess she’s trying to move it, maybe twist it in disapproval but whatever chemical is freezing her face is also making the movement impossible. “Howard is running for that senate seat and there are talks about eventually running for governor. After the scandal you caused, I had to work extra hard to keep him from seeing me as a liability and divorcing me. Lula, now that you’re clean, things will have to change.”

Ok, then we do agree on something. “I don’t care what you and your husband do. You can play happy family all you want with Evan by your side. I’m eighteen now, so I don’t have to live under your roof. Just take me to the apartment and I’ll pack my bags and?—”

This time her lips manage to stretch into a smile. “Your bags are already packed, sweetie.”

The term of endearment at the end is the equivalent of a slap on the face. Mommy Dearest has never used a kind word toward me the way it’s intended. My senses are on high alert.

Fuck, it’s almost summer and that can only mean Howard rented some place on Marta’s Vineyard or the Hamptons or some equally pretentious place where the rich and famous go to spend the summer months. I’m not going with them even if it was it the last thing I do. “I have a new place lined up,” I lied. “And an internship the rehab center has helped me land through their reintegration program and?—”

“Nice try, darling.”

The car enters the parking garage of our building and before I can even think about my options, I’m manhandled inside the elevator and into our penthouse apartment.

The only small blessing in this situation is that it looks like we’re the only ones home.

Tiffany follows me all the way into my bedroom where—true to her word—my bags are packed. An entire set of designer suitcases to be precise.

“Thank you for getting everything packed, I’m going to be out of your hair as soon as I get my makeup bag.”

That sinister smile makes its appearance again. I swear to God, I’d rather age gracefully than look like the wax work of myself two decades ago. “Can I ask you where do you think you’re going, child?”

The words I’m eighteen are on the tip of my tongue, but again, there’s no point trying to get through to my mother. “Like I said, I?—”

“You might want to know that your boyfriend Mason has been arrested while you were away. You weren’t the only impressionable young girl he was using to sell his drugs. So if you were thinking about running back to him, I’d think again. Not that you’d be allowed to anyway.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

“That can’t be true, I?—”

She tuts, toying with me. “I’m guessing you’ve got your phone back, use that device for good rather than for evil for once in your life and look at the news. The feds found enough cocaine in his yacht to supply all the rock bands on the planet for the next ten years. I’m pretty sure you won’t see your boyfriend for a long time. But like I said, it isn’t like you’d have that option anyway. You’re coming with me, Lula.”

Fuck, no.

“I’m eighteen, you can’t make me—” I know, I sound like a petulant child even to my own ears, but I can’t be forced to live under the same roof as Evan and Howard.

My stepfather might not have tried to put his hands or other parts of his body on me yet, but he’s always given me the heebie-jeebies. I’m sure Evan is a typical case of the apple not falling away from the tree.

Mom laughs, throwing her head back as if me being eighteen was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “You being eighteen doesn’t make a difference, sweetheart.”

I wish she called me bitch or something like that. Every time she says darling or sweetheart, it sounds like she’s insulting me anyway.

“What do you mean? I’m an adult, you can’t force me.”

Her expression returns serious and the hardness in her gaze tells me that whatever she’s going to say next is going to be just the opposite of what I want to hear.

This time, Tiffany doesn’t disappoint. “How do you think you got sent to a five star resort after you were found with enough drugs to land anyone else in prison for a decade?”

No, no, no.

I argue against all logic. “I was seventeen with no priors, I?—”

She crosses her skinny arms over her fake boobs. “Is that what Mason told you to convince you to say that all the drugs in his hotel room were yours? Did he say that they’d let you off with a little slap on the wrist? I guess it makes sense that you believed him, since you were sent to that nice rehab rather than actual juvie. Newsflash, Lula. The judge wanted to try you as an adult and give you real jail time. And if your stepfather hadn’t pulled all sorts of strings to have your case handled quickly, you would have awaited trial in a correctional facility. Instead Howard made a deal with the judge in exchange for support once he’s elected. You got off easy with a nice stay at what is practically a spa for six months, but that was only the first part of the plea deal. You’re on probation for a year and you’ve been released under Howard’s custody.”

Her words hit me worse than a punch in the gut. I’d rather take my chances with actual prison than live in the same house with Evan and Howard. “I’m not going to the Hamptons with you or wherever you’re going for the summer, Mom.”

She doesn’t even scold me for calling her Mom. “On that we’re in total agreement. Eyes are going to be on us during the campaign and the last thing we need is to have you there as a reminder of our family’s dirty laundry. Howard managed to keep your entire ordeal a secret. The records are all sealed since you were a minor at the time and if anything ever came out, he’d spin it as extending his zero tolerance policy on drugs to his own immediate family. However he isn’t an idiot and he knows he can’t expect you not to be a problem during the campaign, so he’s sending you away.”

I feel better for the first time since I left rehab this morning. As long as I don’t have to live in Evan’s vicinity, he can send me to Antarctica for all I care.

“He spoke to the judge and he managed to hand your supervision to your father. You’re going to Star Cove for a year to live with Tom and his whore. Step out of line, make any problems for our campaign and I promise, you’ll regret it. James is coming to take your bags to the car and I’m flying you to California myself, to make sure you don’t run from the airport. Once you’re at your dad’s house, you’re no longer my problem.”

The news causes a surge of conflicting emotions and I lean against the edge of my bed to keep steady as my knees wobble.

I haven’t seen or spoken to my dad in three years, since the day he and Arianna, Mom’s college best friend, announced that they were in love and tore our two families apart.

I spent every summer since I was born up to my fifteenth birthday at her huge house in Star Cove. Her two sons, Jules and Stefan were my best friends until Mom took me away with her and got custody of me. Now they’re my stepbrothers.

I used to be in love with both of them but I haven’t spoken to them in three years and all I feel for them now is resentment because they totally forgot about me. Stefan kept in touch for the first six months but then he disappeared when I needed him most. I guess that saying is true. Out of sight, out of mind.