Datasets:

skeskinen

/

books3_lowgrade_paragraphs

like 0

Sarah was right. Mulberry was a weakling. Sarah was always right. I'd done this for her. She had to love me now. I flashed to our police interview. Sarah telling the detective details about me. Her hair was shining even under the fluorescent lighting. (Maybe I _should_ get a wig.) Sarah had to love me. BFF meant loyalty. She would have to learn that. I'd have to teach her. Help her.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Too bad about Mulberry's shoes. They were cute, in a conceptual way. And now, no one could ever wear them without thinking _killer shoes_. Maybe I did the world a favor?

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Mulberry's funeral was held a few days later. It had the same solemn air as before a major fashion show. Hushed chatter, lots of pinched faces. Mulberry hadn't received this much ink for anything while she lived—unless the mother-daughter spreads from when she was a toddler counted.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Everyone dressed in their best event attire. Fashion event, not normal event. I even wore Alexander McQueen, this season. (Sarah laughed at me. "You don't have to be so damned goth!") The entire event went off without a hitch, except for the police presence. They stood out in the crowd, their suits rumpled, the pant legs too long. (Why don't men use tailors anymore? Even a cheap suit looks chic when fixed up.) The lone exception was Detective Hopper.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I felt his eyes on me throughout the service. _Shit. Anya. He knows_. I was bracing myself to be led away in cuffs, a scene in front of the entire industry. (Seriously, everyone showed up to Mulberry's funeral. She really would have thanked me.) When Detective Hopper made his way over to me, I started to hold my wrists out. He shot me a puzzled look.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Oh, just my bracelets—they're bothering me," I said in rush. He nodded. My face felt hot. "Do you have any leads?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"We're still investigating. Nothing I can comment on right now. But we may need to speak with you again." I nodded. He wanted to speak to me. Was that good or bad? He smiled, and I left, quickly.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

The "Twenty-Six Best Funeral Looks" article came out the next day. Celia was included, posing in that ghastly ruffled Alexander King dress. The unholy trinity—Sarah, Jack Archer, and Lisa Blitz—were all given proper placement. Sarah had worn a sedate and boring Tory Burch dress in the hopes of looking appropriately sad after her social media snafu. Everyone had the decency to look somber in the photos, but they still did their best street-style poses: ankles crossed, head angled downward, chin titled, hand on hip.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Dr. M wasn't thrilled with the developments at work. No surprise there; dead bodies weirded him out. And the whole police thing rattled him. He worried so much about me.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Anya, are you anxious?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Our relationship was the best I'd ever had. Dr. M was in his midfifties and wore round glasses. His hair had turned grayer over the last five years. (We'd been together for at least thirteen, since my teen years.) Things had gotten rocky between us some years back. He was mad at me for not progressing quickly enough, but you can't rush good mental health. He threatened to cut me off, fob me onto some new shrink in training or something. I felt like killing him when he said that, but we worked it out. Now he said he'd never leave me again.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Um, maybe. But mostly because someone was murdered near me. But otherwise, I'm okay." I smiled to show him I was fine.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"But the police?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"O-M-G!" I said it just like Sarah: oh-em-gee. "You should see the detective. He's so pretty. He and Sarah would make excellent babies together."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

He shot me another worried look. "Do you think perhaps you're putting Sarah on too high a pedestal? That she may not be as perfect as you think she is?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Uh, no. You'll see when you meet her. I mean, she and I have so much in common. We could be sisters."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

He cleared his throat. "Maybe you need some distance from Sarah."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I glared at him. "No. The more Sarah likes me, the higher my profile will be. Dr. M, that's how Fashionlandia works." We had had this argument before. He felt I was putting too much effort into getting Sarah to love me. I think he was just jealous I had someone else in my life.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Doesn't that mean you're using her?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"What? No. No! We're _helping_ each other. I help her manage her workload. And in turn, she'll help me climb the ladder."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Are you still writing her stories for her? You said you'd stop." He was disappointed in me.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I shrugged. "She _needs_ me. Anyways, you did always say I should aim high." He did. He said it to me constantly. _Anya, do better. Stop lashing out at people_. I was merely doing what he told me to. I was aspiring; I had goals. And Sarah Taft was the key to achieving them all.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"But you're putting conditions on your friendship," he pressed. "If she doesn't help you, then what?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I rolled my eyes. "Just being friends with her elevates me. Don't you see?" He had to get it. I had come in as a nobody. As some girl who liked what she saw in magazines. I was lower than nothing. And now I had the chance of being the BFF of Fashionlandia's top star. Short of chilling with the Hadids, this was the pinnacle.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"I'm just concerned. Shouldn't you focus on your work and being happy?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I sighed. "This is my _work_. What's the point of doing a good job if no one notices?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"I notice."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"You don't count. You're paid to like me. Or not hate me."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"What happens if Sarah doesn't want to be friends? You two are competing against each other. What if it drives a wedge between you?" Dr. M was such a worrywart. I'd simply have to win the promotion. Invites and accolades would pour in. Sarah would embrace me as her equal. And if that didn't happen, if somehow I lost, I'd have to fix it. Fix her. But that wouldn't happen. This was my destiny.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

He shot me a pointed look.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"I know what you're going to say. It's Meredith all over again." Why did he have to always bring her up? Meredith was gone. Dead. I would never have to see her again, but Dr. M was obsessed with her. With my relationship to her. She was just some psycho I was friends with when I was a kid. We grew apart; that happens to all besties eventually. And then she died. It was her own fault.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"It's not the same!" I insisted. "Meredith was totally different."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

He sat back.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Whatever, you weren't even around then."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

The same. Hmph. Meredith's name began with an _m_. Like Mulberry. And Mariana, the old me. Anya was the new me. The fashionable me. Safe from Google searches and prying people. I grew out of _m_ names. Except for Dr. M. I was way into _s_ names and words now. _S_ for superb. Stunning. Sartorial. Sarah. I even had an _s_ in my last name. It truly was kismet. With an _s_.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Have you lost any weight? Are you even trying?" Celia was facedown on the ground in her office, hovering a foot above the carpet. "It's been, what, a week? You should be down ten pounds by now."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"That's not even healthy."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Fuck healthy. You need to be thin. Look at you."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

She swiveled her head up from her plank, which she'd now been holding for two minutes. Her furrowed brow was an alarming shade of red.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"You're never going to be a real fashion editor if you don't look like one. And editors at _La Vie_ are not chubby. This is not the way to win a promotion, Anya."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"I thought the promotion was traffic related."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Do not argue with me. Until you can hold a plank for five minutes and fit into a size two, this experiment is a failure. Do you understand?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Good. Now get down here and plank."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"You heard me, plank!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

The buzzing drill in my head was back. Was I dying?

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"But I'm not warmed up." I had to get out of here.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Excuses, excuses! You will never get anywhere with that attitude. On your knees. Now!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I wasn't going to win this battle. I kicked my heels off (Manolos, obviously) and sank down to my knees. Was the promotion really worth it? I imagined reporting to Sarah every day, having to do menial tasks for her. Pouring her drinks while she chilled with Marc Jacobs or taking her shoes to be reheeled. It would be a nightmare. I'd never catch up to her.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Okay, now get in position and . . . go!" Celia commanded.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I hoisted myself into a plank, or as planky as I could go in skintight jeans. I cursed under my breath. Celia hadn't budged from hers even once.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Keep going! You can do it!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I was going to kill this bitch.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Everyone starts somewhere. Keep it up!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I was going to make her suffer.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Just ten more seconds!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I was going to rip her heart out and eat it on top of a giant plate of pasta.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"And done! Great job! Now go have your protein shake—you earned it, finally."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Thanks, Celia. That was fantastic." I flashed as many teeth as possible, the buzzing in my ears growing louder. Bronwen, her new Mulberry, smiled as I walked by.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I hustled back to my desk and stood, popping barbiturates to dull my headache. Dr. M said my headache pills were fucking with my memory and I shouldn't take them anymore. But they worked better than the pathetic over-the-counter shit.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"It's your own fault, you know," Sarah said, shoving avocado slices into her mouth.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"What? I can't hear you over the noise." I motioned to my ears.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"It's your own fault!" she shouted.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"You just need some willpower. Size two is the maximum you should be. She wanted you at a zero. But I told her it wasn't possible. I mean, you have such big-girl bones." She said the last part pityingly.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I wanted to punch her. I wanted to rip her blown-out-to-perfection blonde hair until she was bloody and bald. I wanted her to say I was stunning and gorgeous, her ideal vision of a best friend. _Be cool, Anya. Let it all wash over you. Nothing bothers you_. I looked at her and laughed loudly . . . for ten seconds. She furrowed her brow. I wanted to stab my head with scissors until the pain ended and the world went quiet.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"But you look good, Anya. I mean . . ."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Smile and the world smiles with you.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

She shifted focus to her phone. A group chat with the unholy trinity, no doubt. Jack and Lisa, always around. Sarah snickered as she typed. Was she talking about me? Were they all laughing? I needed to see the texts. Thank God I'd installed parental monitoring software on her phone. I sat down at my desk and pretended to work while I pulled up the app.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Sarah: _Wait what are we doing later? I wanna go outttttt._ (Kissy face emoji)

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Jack: _There's that party tonight._

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Lisa: _But it's in Brooklyn._ (Sad face)

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Sarah: _Ew! Gross. OMG, you guyyyyys, Celia made the whale do planks. Planks! Can you die?_ (Crying laughing emoji)

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Lisa: _OMG, you should have filmed it. Record that shit so we can all laugh._

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I was not a whale. I was barely a size six. Fine, a six to eight. I wanted to scream, to pick up my computer and smash it on my desk. But that wasn't an adult reaction. I was supposed to breathe when I felt like burning everything down. Because Dr. M said breathing would make that impulse go away. (Spoiler alert: it didn't.) He had this big thing about walking and breathing. That somehow, with each step you took and every breath you exhaled, your troubles would melt away. He used to make me go on superlong walks with him. So annoying.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

But the trinity was mocking me. I would never be accepted by them. And with them around, by Sarah. They made her act so petty. Couldn't she see I was above that? Above them?

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

_Remember, Anya, you're a winner_. Dr. M said mantras were helpful in getting my mind on track. Eyes on the prize, all that bullshit. I took a sip of my protein shake—thirteen grams of protein, zero carbs, eight calories, and absolutely no flavor.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Oh, aren't those amaze? I love them!" Sarah gushed, leaning over the partition. "I drink them all the time."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I tried to smile without gagging.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"If you drink two of those a day and water, you'll lose all the weight. Trust me," Sarah said wisely.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Oh, you're so smart, Sarah!" Cassie, our intern, chimed in. She had been hired to help us out while she got school credit and was always hovering around. She probably heard and saw a lot. Had she seen me in the cupboard with Mulberry? No, couldn't have. She'd have told someone by now. She was getting close to Celia's new assistant, Bronwen. They were bonding over their administrative duties. Bronwen was blonde and wore flowers in her hair. Cassie was brunette and followed Sarah around like a puppy. She had painted her nails just like Sarah's: pink and silver. I hated Cassie. I hated Jack. I hated Lisa. I needed some motivational poster that told me to turn my hate into love, my frown upside down. Maybe a kitten hanging by its paws. Or Cassie hanging by her neck.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Sarah was wearing the new Prada mules (in blue), and they looked stunning on her. I needed to buy a pair, ASAP.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I spent the weekend working on mantras, breathing, and learning to control my thoughts. Okay, fine, I watched _Law & Order_ and had Chinese food delivered. But on Monday, I was ready for the week. I sat at my desk, breathing deeply. A Diptyque candle in the John Galliano scent burned next to my computer. Dr. M felt it was important to center myself first thing. Because before you knew it, one wrong thing led to another, and your day was ruined.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Besides vegging, I'd updated my mood boards over the weekend. One for me and a new one for Sarah. Finding photos of her was ridiculously easy. When you're rich and famous, or society famous, everyone writes about you. Weird blogs and fancy magazines were obsessed with the Tafts. Where they holidayed, summered, shopped. (There was, I learned, a distinct difference between holidaying and summering. The latter was done in the Hamptons only.) There were profiles upon profiles of Sarah. Of her life at fancy boarding schools. Of her wardrobe. I'd read them all so much that I had memorized the details. Younger Anya loved to see every photo of Sarah. I held them up to my chest and wished again and again that we could trade places. That I'd wake up in her body, in her family home, with her parents. With her wardrobe.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Sarah and I are a lot alike actually. We're both only children. Our parents were absent. Hers were off yachting while she was stuck with the nanny. Mine died in a horrible car accident, leaving me with an ugly scar on my arm and my inheritance (in a trust. Jerks). We were both abandoned, sent away to school. Sure, Sarah's was more upscale and elite, but Dr. M said I had as good an education as was possible, all things considered. You know, those schools for kids like me are never that great.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

You've probably never been to one of those schools—for damaged and difficult kids. For wayward girls. Call them whatever you want, but they're basically prisons for tots. I spent nine years in one before leaving at eighteen. Nine long years of following rules and being medicated. _Yes, ma'am. No, sir. I sure am sorry for everything_. All because the police believed I had done something to Meredith. I hadn't acted traumatized enough for their liking. I had a dead bestie and dead parents. I was walking trauma! The police are the worst.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I wasn't alone-alone back then. This isn't a fucking pity party. Don't go all Mulberry on me. I had roommates. New girls throughout the year, each year. I never learned their names. What was the point? They were in and out. I was there to stay.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

But I had my magazines. Photo spreads that promised me a better life, a life like Sarah's. Sarah had been photographed from the day she was born. Sarah with her folks, Sarah as a toddler. Sarah walking down the runway as a teen at socialite fashion show. That's the age I first saw her. We were both fifteen. Her perfect face stared out at me. She would smile then. Now she poses. The magazines that featured her promised me that life. So long as I bought the clothes and wore the right makeup. I, too, could be on a sunny beach surrounded by hot models. The people shown weren't stuck in a school full of freaks, in a bedroom barely large enough for two twin beds, with the windows covered in bars. The magazine people were happy, gorgeous. No shitty friends or clueless parents. No drugs, no doctors.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I used to rip up each issue and cover my walls with the pages using scotch tape and chewing gum. Happy families like the Tafts could be mine, the magazines promised. I could be pretty and rich and loved by everyone. But even better than that, I could be envied. And I wanted that more than anything else. I wanted someone to make mood boards of _me_.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

Sarah was destined to be my friend, even back then. And you just can't argue with destiny. I applied at _La Vie_ two years ago just to be near her. And look at me now! We were almost BFFs. _So_ close.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"There you are!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

I looked up to see Greg Davies standing over my desk, his wrinkled Adidas tracksuit looking out of place in the chic office. He was our publisher and Celia's boss (and therefore my boss).

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Did you see this?" He waved a paper in front of me. Greg used to be a model, or so he said. Catalog, at best. He was only five foot nine, and as much as he tried to hide his accent, his Staten Island roots betrayed him. His black hair was always slicked back, and I could see chest hair poking out from under his track jacket. The only jewelry he wore was a diamond pinky ring and a gold Rolex.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"No, what is that?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"It's a comment! Engagement!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Let me see." I took the sheet, which turned out to be a printout of one of my stories—"Ten Date-Night Dresses Straight from the Runway." Designers had given recommendations on what to wear on a first date. It had done quite well. But at the bottom, Greg had circled—in red sharpie—a nasty comment from a troll. The comment said, simply, _U r stoopid_.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Look at this one!"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

He shoved another paper in my face. It was my "Ten Ways to Survive a Social Faux Pas" piece, and my regular internet troll, fasi0n-419, was giving it his or her all: _This story iz a faux pas. WTF?_ and _This iz so stoopid._ If sighing burned any calories, I was so ahead of the game today.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"These comments kind of suck." I grimaced.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"They do. So let's tweak our content for the readers. They're who we do this for. They drive traffic. Make them happy _or else_."

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Or else what?"

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar

"Or else I'll find a writer who can make them happy. That goes for you too, Sarah." He moved toward her desk. Sarah stood to stare at him. "I want _more_ comments. Happy comments. For both of you. Understand?" He pointed at us both with one hand, using his thumb and pinky. We nodded before he walked away.

#FashionVictim - Amina Akhtar