Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

18 | Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side

|photo by Brandon Atchison from Unsplash|

Aunt Emily pushes the button to call the elevator. "This weekend is as much for you as it is for me," she says, turning toward me with a frigid smile. "We begin your transformation next week—starting with dialect coaching. If Bobby can teach Gwyneth Paltrow to speak with a twang, then surely he can teach you to speak without one."

The elevator comes. I boil in silence for the entire twenty-five-floor decent. So it's impossible for me to manage a smile for the elegant woman waiting beside the limousine.

"It's lovely to finally meet you," Jesminda says, and there's no doubt about her accent. Definitely British. She offers her hand. When I take it, she leans closer. "For the record, I was against springing this trip on you at the last minute."

My aunt hears this—as she was meant to—and lifts her chin. "You choose your battles," she says. "I'll choose mine."

Jesminda's thin, arched eyebrows shift in contemplation. It's a subtle, very controlled response. Whereas my expression no doubt reveals every facet of my shock and repulsion. I once overheard a phone conversation where my mom said, "When you're raising a child, you have to choose your battles." Is my aunt harboring some demented fantasy that she's raising me?

"Speaking of battles," Jesminda says. "There is a nine-year-old around here somewhere who is dying to meet you. Antara? Thea is here."

A little girl tumbles out of the limousine, sidles up to me and captures my hand. Her shiny black hair is gathered into a lopsided ponytail. "Hello, Thea. Would you please sit beside me in the limo?" she asks.

Her sweet, formal tone contradicts her disheveled appearance and I can't help but smile for her.

"Of course," I say, at the same time my aunt says, "No, my littlest darling. Thea is riding with your brother."

The little darling fires a sour look at my aunt that makes me like her even more.

"Where is Chase?" Jesminda asks, turning to study the traffic.

Antara points. "He's there!"  

And there he is—in the driver's seat of what looks to me like an unmarked race car—illegally parked on the opposite side of the street, smiling the model-comp-card smile and waving me over.

My aunt's eyebrows climb her forehead, challenging me to defy her. I turn back to Chase. He gives me an easy, arguably charming chin lift and I visualize the equation: cute boy plus sporty car equals a fast escape from my bitchy aunt.

I squeeze Antara's hand before I let go. "See you in a couple of hours, right?" I ask. She nods at me and sticks her tongue out at Chase. Antara and I are going to be great friends.

It's not easy to cross Fifth Avenue, but I get it done like a native Upper East Sider. I open the passenger door and drop myself into the contoured seat—next to the Tin Man. In a car that sits so low, it feels like I'm sitting right on the road.

While Chase jockeys for a position in the traffic, I run my fingers through my hair, divide it into three sections and start a braid. "Should I put the top up?" he asks. So thoughtful.

"No. And don't drive slow on my account." Because now that I've accepted the fact that I'm being forced to leave, it feels like my head will explode if I don't get off this freaking island.

I get a genuine smile for my bad-girl attitude, and I have to ask, "Is this your million dollar race car?"

"It's my father's Lamborghini."