Chapter Three: Madeline's a Barbie
“Maybe I’m overreacting, but sometimes I feel like no one ever sees me. Everyone thinks my life is perfect, that everything is handed to me, and I win at everything I try. If they want my life, fine. I’d trade with them in a heartbeat. It’s like they forget I’m a person, too.”
--from the diary of Madeline Nelson, aged 17.
Madeline Nelson was the last person anyone would expect to have troubles. She was beautiful, popular, and rich; guys were clambering to be her next fling. But she wasn’t happy. She knew that she had no real friends. In the movies, everything looked so easy in high school. If you just did your best and were yourself, everything would turn out okay. That wasn’t true. High school was politics, and Madeline hadn’t even noticed when she’d become president.
She glanced in the bathroom mirror, fussing with her hair, on her way to a stall. She only had to take some medication, but it couldn’t get out that she was some sort of pill-popper.
As she swallowed the pills, she heard the bathroom door swing open, and two gossiping girls entered.
“God, have you seen Madeline lately?” one of the girls said, her voice irritatingly high-pitched. A part of Madeline wanted to announce her presence, but she decided to wait as the other girl spoke up.
“Ugh, I know,” she agreed. “First-class slut. Like, really. Did she think no one noticed her boob job?”
A look of confusion appeared on Madeline’s face as she glanced down at her chest. It was only a push-up bra… Why would she have a boob job? She was already flawless.
“Right? And, like, what is up with her hair? Has she never heard of a straightener?”
Madeline quirked an eyebrow. The best they could come up with was a cheap insult to her hair? Her hair, which was in perfectly sculpted waves every day? Really, this was just getting pathetic. Madeline straightened her clothes and flung open the door, sending a venomous smile to the two girls at the sinks.
“What a surprise to see you here!” she exclaimed mock-cheerfully. “I’m sorry; it’s just ever since my boob job, it’s so hard to see people around my tits!”
“I—uh—we’re… we’re gonna go now,” one of the girls stammered.
“Yeah, you do that, sweetheart,” Madeline said, one hand on her hip. The pair scampered off, metaphorical tails between their legs, and Madeline rolled her eyes as she turned to the mirror.
She frowned, poking one of her breasts. Did people really think she’d had surgery? She may have come from a wealthy family, but that didn’t mean she’d made a trip to the plastic surgeon. Still, a part of her was flattered. She was so plastic-perfect that people thought she wasn’t even real.
Oh, who was she kidding? She hated it. She hated being the Queen Bitch. It wasn’t like she’d asked to be handed the crown; it had just happened one day. Sighing softly, Madeline swiped on some lip gloss and headed out.
An hour later saw Madeline sitting across from Mr. Vaughn, pleading as well as Madeline Nelson ever pleaded, which wasn’t necessarily saying much.
“Please,” she said, “I can’t fail this class. I’ll do anything,” she hinted.
“Well, there is something that comes to mind,” Mr. Vaughn said, and Madeline looked up. She hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly; she’d thought he was one of the less corrupt teachers at the school. Oh well. It was better for her grade that he wasn’t. “Next Tuesday, come to my classroom after school.”
Madeline shot him a bright smile and stood. “Of course, Mr. Vaughn,” she said cheerfully, slinging her Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder.
Her heels clicked, the only noise in the empty halls, all the way to the parking lot. She easily slipped into her white convertible, checked her hair in the rear-view mirror, and jammed her key into the ignition. The top lowered, and she sped home.
“I’m home,” Madeline called, peering around the corner. “Daddy?”
“Mr. Nelson got called back to work,” their live-in maid, Anne, said kindly. She was a sweet woman; in her late fifties, the plump woman had been more present in Madeline’s life than anyone.
“We were supposed to have dinner tonight,” Madeline said, frowning.
“Oh, I know, dearie,” Anne told her. “I’m sure he’ll reschedule.”
Madeline threw her purse into the living room chair, barely resisting the urge to stomp like a petulant toddler. “This is the fourth time we’ve rescheduled!”
“Mr. Nelson’s only—”
“Only doing his job, only supporting us,” Madeline muttered, crossing her arms. “But he’s doing a shitty job of being a father.”
“Well,” Anne said, smoothing Madeline’s hair, “How about you and I go to dinner?”
Madeline shoved the woman’s hands away from her. “No thank you,” she said coldly, grabbing her purse and stomping up to her room. If her father wanted nothing to do with her, she’d get back at him. She pulled her phone from her purse and started texting that football player, Kaiden. He always was up for a hook-up.
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