Burnouts

Invite-Only

Scene 1: The Helmsley Hotel

Heather Blakely

"Are you coming with me to pick up your mother from the airport?" My father asks.

"No, I'd rather not be stuck in the back of a car for an hour and a half."

"Well, is there a reason you're in the house? You haven't spent a Friday night in since you were fourteen," My dad straightens his tie in the mirror on the wall.

"I haven't decided whether or not I want to do anything tonight." In other words, do I want to deal with Audrey or Trevor?

"Well, Mrs. Kendal called to wish us a happy anniversary and since I assumed it was your doing, I had to say 'thank you'...now I can't invite her to our anniversary party in three months. Why have you done this?"

"Ugh," I groan, "Jace wanted to hang out this weekend, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings so I lied...I'll fix it, don't worry."

"I know you will," He smiles at me, "you're a Blakely."

You're a Blakely.

Why do names carry so much weight? When you hear names like "Crawford" or even "Trump" you immediately associate them with fame and wealth. But when you're in New York, "Blakely" means power. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a last name that only means something to you. What would it be like to be someone who is no one to everyone else?

I'm wrong for complaining. I'm grateful, I really am, but everything is so predictable this way. I guarantee there's another girl like me with a friend group like mine who will end up just like her parents too— and it always leads back to the name. You can't divert from the path...

I wanted to stay home tonight, but a series of events are leading me to a classic Bailey party to find Jace.

I head up the stairs and down the long hall until I reach my bedroom. On my dresser lies diamonds, pearls, and other, beautiful inexplicably expensive jewels that have accumulated over birthdays and holidays. Unfortunately for them, I'm not in the mood to accessorize. I sigh and look over at the vanity my mother insisted be built for me when I turned eleven years old. "You're in junior high, now, darling. It's time to prepare for the world of makeup." I guess I'm not in the mood for that either. All I really need tonight is a dress.

I open the doors to my closet and walk in. Everything's in season, my mother would never allow me to be caught dead in something that isn't "current." However, each time she scours through my closet to throw away perfectly good clothes, she unknowingly makes a very sizable donation to charity. The people who work for her are fond of me, and thanks to them, homeless people are now seen in last season's designer.

I grab a casual dress out of my closet and lay it on my bed before returning to pick out a pair of heels to match it. I settle on the pair of black Louboutin's stilettos that I got from Christian himself on my trip to France last spring.

I debated on getting dressed right then and there but I'd rather take a long hot shower first. Plus, it's only seven and Trevor likes to keep people waiting until at least nine-thirty. He attracts lines the way exclusive nightclubs do. You'd think he was the owner of Studio 54, though he might as well be— everything is just as scandalous.

But...I think it gets boring after a while. I stopped going to his parties sometime last year. The same people showed up each time to do the exact same thing we did the weekend before. At that point, you have to question what you're getting out of it. His guest list never changes, but at least that will come in handy tonight.