Royals

Chapter 1

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"Do you see my shoes anywhere? I swear I just had them..." Lillia grumbles, somewhat frustrated.

"On my bed," I reply without so much as averting my eyes from the body-length mirror before me. My makeup was nearly finished; my mascara just needed a last minute touch up.

"Thanks," Lillia mutters, slipping her silver, sparkly heels on. "Ready to go?"

I nod routinely. The cotillion tonight won't be unordinary; it's our Tuesday evening tradition. Every week, we dress up in extravagant gowns, wear over-priced heels, and overdo our hair and makeup to look as if we are about to attend a wedding.

When my mother first introduced the custom, the first thought that floated into my head was, what in the world is a cotillion?

I learned that a cotillion, by definition, is a formal ball for debutantes. A debutante—which I, of course, had to research next—is an upper-class young woman making her first appearance in a fashionable society, according to Google, at least. The definition, however, dates back to the eighteenth century, and as time has progressed, the structure of a cotillion has obviously changed alongside it.

For my particular case, the cotillion is more like a very formal ball in a fancy hall. For the full effect, replace the modern, stereotypical DJ with a classical jazz band. Subtract any inappropriate attire or decorations, and, in their place, substitute ones of a lavish nature. Imagine dozens of round tables draped with white linen and festooned with delicate, cerise-colored rose centerpieces and champagne-colored utensils.

Everything—including the plates and silverware—is dazzled with a splash of either gold or champagne. The floor is composed of golden, triangular tiles, and the ceiling is formed by a stainless steel mirror and an oversized, golden chandelier. Even draped along the walls are swoops of champagne tinted linens.

Now, inside the anything-but-basic-room, picture hundreds of businessmen and businesswomen desperately hoping to partner with someone of a similar goal. And then, seated at the tables, note all of the teenagers who were dragged along.

Most of the parents invite—or rather, force—their children along solely for the familial look. They want the other entrepreneurs to recognize the fact that they value their family members as equally as their work.

For some peculiar reason, they seem to be under the impression that others wouldn't want to partner with them if their family wasn't present.

And, honestly, to assume that was remarkably inaccurate. I mean, when pursuing a possible partner, businessmen weren't surveying the area, making sure that the other party's family was present. To put it simply, all of the said businessmen and women are ridiculous.

And my mother is the most ridiculous of them all.

Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of cotillions, but they've gotten boring after attending one each week. It's not even like they varied: each week they were exactly the same.

In fact, I recommended to my mother that they changed up the theme each week. For example, one week they could have a 1920s theme—everyone could go The Great Gatsby style, wearing gold dresses and dark wigs. Or perhaps they could have a 1950s theme. Trust me; I would kill to be able to wear a cute, antique poodle skirt with a pair of outdated saddle shoes and frilly socks.