.
. . . are not the snarkmeisters who got crushed. Honestly, really, as much as we all love to hate them, these so-called “fashion experts” and/or “fashion bloggers” and/or “fashion critics” are really human beings with no real talent themselves (except wit, which, we can argue, is a talent which can be used for good or for harm).
Somehow these slimeballs manage to fill airtime in a way that draws viewers. People like Mother, who have only glamor (actually “glamour”—they’re dusted with fairy magic that makes them shine even more than the rest of us), can’t see the actual magic that fuels this stuff.
A crack between worlds opened when fashion became important (and much as I love it, I’m not giving you that history), and then the crack widened with each incursion of critics. The International Best Dressed List? Started in 1940, not coincidentally as the world marched to war.
The rise of television, the march of fashion magazines, the plummeting self-esteem of young girls—all a plot that came from the deepest, darkest magics.
Women hold the most innate power, as you all know (or maybe you don’t) which is why forces always emerge to hold us down. As each victory occurs, another battle springs up elsewhere.
How do I know all this stuff? Because I inherited almost everything from my father. And no, you have no idea who my father is. In fact, in our house, he’s called He Who Shall Remain Nameless, mostly because the press has not yet figured out that he exists. He was a one-night stand between the first Mellon marriage and the second Mellon marriage (Caro and Rafe Mellon divorced, then realized they couldn’t live without each other—until they did).
Sadly, I look just like my father—short, squat, big ears, pointy chin. The press, the fashion bloggers, hell everyone on social media mentions this all the time—how sad it is that the daughter of the most beautiful woman in the world (okay, now they call her “one of” the most beautiful women in the world, but still) is an ugly duckling who never turned into a swan.
And no one, not even my mother, thinks that odd.
But I know why I’m here. Because He Who Shall Remain Nameless gifted me with magic—the one that makes things happen. (You don’t think it was an accident that a guy as ugly as him slept with the most beautiful woman in the world, do you?)
Part of that magic I inherited is the ability to see other magic. Imagine my fear one night as I watched the clips of Events coverage and saw black shapes glowing behind the snarkmeisters. This was early 1990s, when the awards shows were still in their fashion infancy. In fact, most of the attendees chose their own clothes and the phrase “Red Carpet Fashion” didn’t even exist.
The arrivals got shown in a clip montage as the Big Event started—and that’s when I saw those shapes, hovering.
I was at home, where every good ten-year-old should be, eating popcorn with my nanny. Events nights were scary nights in the house, because they devastated Mother.
She always had the best I’m so pleased you won instead of me face, but when the cameras shut off, she didn’t go to the after-parties. She came home and sobbed. By the next day—at least back then—she was all right, ready to return to whatever soundstage they had pried her out of to attend the Event, but the night of the ceremony, my mother was a hurt little girl who couldn’t understand why no one liked her, really, really liked her.
The snarkmeisters had little power then. Usually they wrote for newspapers or fashion magazines, weeks after the Event, and their words had little impact. They didn’t even hold microphones in those ancient days. Yet the black shadows stood behind them, sparkling with orange glimmers of evil intent.
And I couldn’t help myself. I screamed.
Popcorn everywhere, a panicked nanny, a terrified child. Lots and lots of tears, which had to be quelled before Mother came home to indulge in hers.
I wasn’t crying because I was sad, but because I was frightened.
That night marked the first time I voluntarily called He Who Shall Remain Nameless.
He chuckled, a raspy unpleasant sound that always reminds me of fingernails on a blackboard, and said, “Kid, the world’s rich right now. So the darkness comes to feed. It’ll get worse before it gets better. You can do two things. You can let it consume those delicate flowers like your mother, or you can figure