Page 61 of Wanting What’s Wrong

One

MIna

F inding the exact color of Malachite green in a hidden seam zipper was like riding that perfect wave.

That was a miracle in the little fabric store here in Harbor Shores. When I stepped out into the summer sunshine, with the sound of the seagulls overhead and the scent of the lake breeze in the air, all was right with the world.

Then I skipped right into Cindy Hilton and her entourage.

Buzz. Killed. My perfect mood evaporates like a drop of water on a scorching pan.

Why the zipper matters, I’m not sure, since there’s no way I can get to New York for the design competition next week. But apparently I’m functioning under the delusion there’s some magic solution that will drop out of thin air and make my dreams come true.

Since I was five, I’ve been making clothes.

It started with a simple, tied together terrycloth robe made from an old washcloth for my teddy bear Theo.

By the time I was seven, I was whipping together some high-end runway level creations for my Barbies.

The creative obsession rooted deep and I’ve been lost in fantasies of New York Fashion Week ever since.

My personal style is a far cry from my design aesthetic. I’m more preppy Tomboy with a splash of Minnie Mouse, but it’s how I’m comfortable and every girl deserves a little comfort wherever she can find it.

Creating beautiful clothes has been my dream since those first ratty robes, so when I heard about this contest for up and coming, 18-21 year olds, put on by Marie Claire magazine I couldn’t help myself.

With the help of my best friend at Chatsbury, Rosaria Sweeting, whose father is a general or something in the Bahamian military making her practically royalty .

She helped me put together a mini collection, gave me the courage for the video entry showing my clothes and my personality, but I never, ever thought I’d earn a spot.

Except, I did .

Now, I have no way to get to the contest and no way my mom or Allen would let me go anyway. They have me on a fast track to being a corporate attorney. I’m going to pre-law at University of Michigan, Go Blue, my stepfather’s alma mater, in the fall.

They silently tolerate my stacks of fabric and my little ‘hobby’ sewing room back at our house in Oakland Heights.

My parents are fine , don’t get me wrong.

I love them and they love me. Allen is hardheaded; he’s tried to toughen me up over the years but my creamy, marshmallow center, in more ways than one, has remained squishy despite his best efforts.

As an ex-NFL quarterback himself, I understand that mindset just goes with the territory.

The only thing about the law that suits me, is that I’m an obsessive rule follower.

The idea of breaking a rule or, God forbid, getting arrested, sends me into palpitations.

I’ve never turned in an assignment late.

The lowest grade I’ve ever gotten on a report card is an A minus, in health sciences for heck-sake.

Which, I still believe to this day is because the teacher, Mr. Gottfried, had a vendetta against our family because Allen’s team kicked the pants off his home state team in some Super Bowl a zillion years ago.

Who.

Cares.

I got good grades, yes, but I’m not the smartest egg in the carton. It’s more that the idea of disappointing anyone and not doing my best, best, best is feels unforgivable. So I worked my fingers raw and studied harder than humanly possible to be sure my report cards were im pecc able.

“Wilhelmina?” Cindy chirps, always using the whole of my name like she’s my grandmother.

“I heard your family sold their place. Didn’t think we’d see you this summer.

Or Jackson . How is Jackson, by the way?

I saw him interviewed on Sport Center yesterday.

Is he around?” Her blazing white smile makes me wish I’d opted for my Hello Kitty sunglasses as she scans the area for my stepbrother.

Everyone loves Jackson. Sure, I get it. He is the all-American guy with the edge of a sexy bad boy in a combo so potent, so good looking, if you manage to tear your eyes away, he’s somehow still there. Taunting you from behind your lids like you’ve looked at the sun a second too long.

He’s also a bit of an ass, like his father, to everyone that is not family, which, somehow, makes him more attractive.

“No, he’s not here,” I manage, watching her enthusiasm deflate and hating myself for just existing in her presence—then hating myself more for hating myself. Ugg, it’s such a vicious cycle.

I grip the top of the paper bag in my left hand while tugging on the lace trim of my blouse and shifting my weight from one foot to the next like a six-year-old .

I summon my courage, I need to stop being so cowering . That’s what Jackson always says. He says I am as good as anyone else and I don’t need to live small.

But, what he doesn’t quite understand is, inside, I feel small. He’s the only one that makes that feel okay.

Just thinking about him, my cheeks turn warm and that funny, gripping tension blooms in my belly.

A wash of dark self-loathing covers me. The mad crush I have on my own stepbrother is enough to send me straight to the gates of hell. Talk about rule breaking.

He’s my brother, for heck-sake. We’ve basically grown up together but the last few years these feelings have taken on a persona all their own and I can’t seem to stomp them out like I used to.

I clear my throat, consciously straightening my spine and answer Cindy, “My dad just bought another house. On the south side of the lake.” I glance down the street where Dutton, my driver, is watching me closely as he leans against the black Lincoln with a dent in the fender and a missing hubcap.

He’s my only friend outside of Rosaria from school.

He’s been my driver for four years now. I would have asked him to drive me to New York, but he’s leaving later today for his brother’s wedding.

As for me, I don’t drive. The idea of all the rules and the possibility of ever being pulled over are more than my OCD can process.

I knew Allen sold our old summer house and bought a new place, but what I didn’t know was none of our stuff had been moved in from the old house yet.

It’s in storage for some dumb reason and the new place came ‘furnished’ if you can call it that.

So, it’s like living in an AirBnb. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s smaller than our other summer place and just… impersonal.

Cindy nibbles her lower lip, scanning her crew who all grin knowingly at each other. “South side.” She sniffs. “Nice. Quaint .”

In Harbor Shores, where the rich and bored spend their summers, quaint is another word for low-end.

I hear Jackson’s voice…

Don’t take shit from anyone, Mina. You need to realize you are strong and amazing. Don’t doubt yourself so much, lil’ mint…

I wish he was around all the time. And not just to protect me, like he’s done my whole life if I’m being honest. But, the NFL draft is coming up and it’s just another reminder that his life is taking him to do great things, far away.

More so than college, even. The empty hole inside of me is growing as big as his fame and success.

He flew in for my graduation, took an all-night flight after some charity bowl game thing. We’ve seen less and less of each other since he left for training and college and I went away to Chatsbury Prep in Connecticut while he played quarterback for USC.

California . So. So. Far. Away.

Tucker, one of the summer kids I’ve vaguely known for years, chuckles as he taps on his screen. “Hey, everyone, listen to this. Millionaire heiress Lena Caruso has been found alive and well after a search involving three agencies and a life-changing reward offered by her shipping magnate father.”

“Lena’s been found?” Cindy sounds mildly interested and I recall the Caruso’s owning one of the largest houses in Harbor Shores.

“Yeah, but it’s who she was found with ,” Tucker says, still grinning. “Some lumberjack from fucking West Virginia . I bet her dad was furious. I bet her knocked her rich ass the fuck up so he could get on the Caruso money train.”

Tucker makes a motion like he’s pulling the train whistle in the air as Cindy frowns on a shrug showing a hint of humanity. “At least they were willing to do something daring for love. ”

“Oh come on . He’s poor. It’s not love, it’s finance . ”

“I think it’s romantic,” Cindy snaps on a glare at Tucker. “I hope they tell her dad to fuck off and go live in their log cabin. Anyway,” she turns my way, “if Jackson isn’t here, we should go. Don’t want to keep Wilhelmina from her…what is in the bag? A sack lunch?”

The brown paper crinkles as I clutch the rolled over top, easing it behind my back.

“I gotta go.” It’s the best I can manage as far as not taking shit right now, but getting away is a form of taking control, right?

“Let’s go.” Reagan Murrow, Cindy’s right-hand woman nods down the street where I see a flashy silver Bentley convertible. “You’re leaving for your road trip to New York in three days, I want to have some fun before you disappear on me for a month. Top-down time!”

Did she just say New York? Road trip?

Summon courage. Hear Jackson’s voice. Speak up!

“You’re going to New York?” I choke out, attempting to sound casual. “ Driving to New York?”

I grip the paper bag as though it’s full of diamonds. The final zipper is inside. With a few days to finish some seams and hand work, I could be ready…

Reagan rolls her eyes, inspecting her manicure as Cindy nods, snapping her perfect Angelina Jolie lips together.

“Yes. Taking my grad present on an inaugural adventure. Just me, the open road and 650 horsepower. My dad guilt buys me anything since mom ran off to France with her girlfriend. What did your dad buy you for graduation?” She purses her lips, the silence making me squirm as she waits, but she wouldn’t really be interested even if I had an answer.

Her dad is Harson Hilton, a Fortune 500 mogul and a complete push-over for his daughter.

“Have to meet him for some,” She flutters her hand toward the picture-perfect blue sky, “ business thing. He likes the happy daughter by my side image. All American perfect family.” I don’t miss the little crack in her facade as she finishes. “Anyway, yes, New York here I come.”

I pin my eyes on the car, then back on Cindy.

This is that thing dropping from the sky, Mina. You gotta grab it when it swings by…

“You guys want to come over tonight?” I blurt out before my brain stomps on the brakes.

Five sets of eyes flash my way. Various expressions of surprise and humor decorating their freakishly perfect Abercrombie faces.

“Party at Mina’s?” Tucker, who’s always poking at his phone, pipes up. “I’m down. Nothing like breaking in a new house to start the summer. Maybe a mid-night swim Mina?” He chuckles, elbowing Jeremy, who is another of the summer group of kids who laughs and my face flames.

They know I hate the water. Three summers ago, Tucker’s family invited my family out on their fifty-foot yacht and I had an utter panic attack breakdown when my parents tried to pull me out of the car at the Marina.

The summer kids have never been overly cruel or bullying to me, but I know I somehow don’t make the cut to be in the inner circle. That never bothered me. I’m sort of my own circle. I still have conversations with Theo, my first teddy bear, and a backup crew of couture-dressed Barbies.

But maybe, maybe , this time I can play it cool enough and brave enough to ask if I can hitch a ride to the Big Apple and secretly make my dream of being a fashion designer come true.

“Party at Mina’s,” Cindy repeats with that lip biting thing again which makes me uneasy. But this is new territory for me so knowing what the secret cool-girl-code is for ‘lip biting’ isn’t expected. “Let’s say, 10 o’clock? You aren’t in bed by then are you?”

Snorts and low chuckles filter from the group as I stiffen and Dutton takes a few steps my way as if to say, ‘You okay?’. I wave him off, then grit my teeth and light this candle. I’m eighteen now. An adult. Time to take the reins of my life.

“I’ll be there.” I re-mark with an attempt at the lip-biting, stepping backward and into a little kid with pink ice cream dripping down his face as his mother shoots me a dirty look. “Sorry.” I mutter, then end on a stumble toward Dutton with my stomach feeling as though it’s full of rocks.