Everyone knows me as a piano girl, and I’ll remain that way.
It’s not that I don’t like playing the piano, because I do. However, I prefer listening to other types of music with thought-provoking lyrics.
Mum calls it the devil’s music.
Before I know it, my life has become an image. I act a certain way, speak a certain way, and even walk a certain way. I have to sway my hips gently, but I can’t walk too slow like a slut or too fast like a nerd.
I’m a lady. Just like Mum.
Papa sat me down and told me I didn’t have to follow her instructions or be threatened by her. But Papa didn’t see what I saw. Papa wasn’t there.
I love him more than the world itself, but he’s not me. He wasn’t split up between two alpha parents with god-like personalities. He wasn’t forced to see one of them hit rock bottom.
As soon as I told him I wanted this, he didn’t bring up the subject again. Papa might be a feared politician with strict rules and steel-like opinions, but he respects my wishes above anything else. And for that alone, I’m grateful to him.
I haven’t been able to say it as much lately. Part of being a lady is not showing your emotions. If you do have to show them, they shouldn’t be your real ones. Those need to be always hidden where no one could find them.
I know people at school call me a bitch, the queen B, but I don’t mind.
Being a bitch means I’m doing a perfect job of hiding my emotions and I don’t have to live that nightmare again.
It means I get to keep all my pieces together.
So I’ve played the bitch role so well until no one can see through it. I’ve picked fights just to come out as the winner. I’ve played games merely to prove that I can.
Even Kim, who used to be my closest friend, believes the transformation and now calls me a bitch herself. Sometimes, I want to send her a text and tell her I’m sorry, but at the last minute, I change my mind. There’s something a lot bigger than friendship at stake and I would never gamble that.
Mum says it’s lonely at the top and I’m starting to understand what that means.
Her friends have started to drift away the more she climbs the party’s ladder, establishing herself as the most beautiful female politician who can actually rival men. A while ago, a reporter asked her if she used her beauty to get what she wants, and she said the famous line, “I came here to talk about a very serious, very urgent problem, and that is public housing. Can I share my thoughts, or do I have to sit and dodge comments about my face before I’m able to do so?”
That gained her a lot of popularity on social media and with women’s associations.
“Thank you, Derek.” I peek at Papa’s driver through the window after he drops me off from school at Helen’s house. “Don’t forget to drink the tea I gave you earlier. I made it myself.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He grins, showing straight, white teeth. He’s in his late twenties and helps Papa a lot with his work. “Have fun, Miss Queens.”
“It’s Silver.” I wave at him as the car disappears around the corner. Papa said he’d pick me up later, even when I told him I could walk home.
The housekeeper, Isabel, lets me in with a huge smile on her face. She’s the only help Helen allows and she only comes twice a week. Isabel motions that Helen is in the kitchen.
I place a finger to my lips and tiptoe there, abandoning my backpack on the sofa.
Spending time with Helen is one of the highlights of my week. Papa has become busier with the party since he became a secretary of state. I participate in his meetings, but he barely has time for me — or for himself. It kills me to see him so alone and getting older by the day.
However, I’ve been spending most of my time with Mum and it’s hardly fun.
When I’m with Helen, we talk and bake — or more like, she bakes. I continue to suck at it. Yet Helen has never given up on me and keeps teaching me.
We meditate together and she still does my hair and tells me I’m the perfect daughter she never had. Maybe hearing those words my own mother rarely says