When Veronica first decided to take me in, she decided to sign me up for therapy sessions at the Marianne Center, a remote rehabilitation centre located in Topanga Canyon.

The therapist I got assigned doubled as a herbalist and a spiritualist-numerologist named Angel Fire, which at first I thought was pretty wacky but I figured that she'd probably fit right in a town where the Hollywood-born royals were named ridiculous things like Blue, Coco, and Apple. Angel's method of helping me heal from the tragic deaths of my family was strange but life-changing.

Before I came across Angel, I was a shell of a human being. Six months after my family's death, various relatives had shuffled me around, unsure of what would make me ease back into normal life. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I'd just be bedridden, hiding under covers and staring glassily at the ceiling above me.

It was until Angel welcomed me into one of her first therapy sessions, that she asked for permission from Veronica to take me to a cabin deep in the Californian forests and she performed an Ayahuasca ritual on me. She then passed me a twelve-pencil packet of Stabilo's colour pencils and a wad of paper. She watched over me as I descended into spiritual enlightenment and began to hurriedly sketch across the pad.

I was sketching a ballerina. Her ribbon slim figure twisted in the air as the tulle skirt beneath her spun through the air, pink strings knotted into her hair, the spotlight beaming upon her as her graceful feet skims across the stage. After the Ayahuasca brew wore off and I looked at the sketch more closely, I realized, with a jolt as I observed the curve of her nose, that she sort of resembled Carmen Calloway.

"The source of all your pain," Angel attributed, "Now you know your source, you can map through all your grief and lead yourself out of it."

Angel was right. It was like she switched a tap in my brain, where all the numbness and the sadness disappeared. Instead, it was filled with a cold, hard feeling, a type of anger that fuelled me so powerfully through the next few years and only continued to burn brighter with time's passing.

I had to begin to understand how the sources of my pain had essentially avoided punishment while I suffered. It was unfair how she managed to cruise through life so effortlessly, even with the number of skeletons piling up in her closet, collecting dust and decay upon her. How nice it must be to be her, watching the world worship her as I, a girl who was as dead as the victims she relished upon, crumbled into nothingness.

I thought about her brother, how he relentlessly bullied Atticus into irrelevance, making him feel so small that his body became too big for his paltry heart. I thought about their smirks and smiles on the witness podium when the judge declared them not guilty and gave them no sentence for the manslaughter of my parents. I thought about how nice it would be if they finally got what was coming to them if I orchestrated the perfect revenge to take them down and feed them their own just-desserts.

I knew revenge was not exactly the right or the healthiest way to move on but I had no choice. I did everything to move on, to forget, and to accept how things were to be but I couldn't. The loss of my family, everybody I loved, just couldn't be forgiven and it took me a spiritual drug trip with an insane spiritual therapist named Angel Fire to realize it I could never move on until they had a taste of what it felt to be destroyed to no return.

You always heard of that familiar experience 'Two wrongs don't make a right.' But two wrongs can never make a right because two wrongs can never equal each other. For the truly wronged real satisfaction can only be found in one of two places: absolute forgiveness or mortal vindication.

And mortal vindication is what I am willing to live with.

-

"I'm so glad the weekend is finally here," moans Luciana as a gaggle of girls follows her out of the school towards the parking lot where her driver is waiting for her. I shoulder my Louis Vuitton duffle bag of clothes for the sleepover as we walk through the hallways of busy students clamoring to get home. Despite that fact, people still divide neatly for us to pass through.

"Luce, what's the plan for the sleepover?" Carmen asks as she marches through the hallway. Her caramel hair flies behind her like a slick brown sheen of a silk cape. She's not particularly tall but her striking figure moves effortlessly in her school uniform through the sea of students like peasants awaiting their Queen. She's on her phone, fanatically typing, her attention faraway but she still manages to capture every eye in the room and be the most dominating centerpiece without much help. Though it's Luciana's event, Carmen still leads the group by walking front and center, where everyone orbits around her.

Of course, this is what it's like to be with the Elite, to have close contacts with boys like Phineas Yeong and Hanif Rahim, to have the world part for you and the people who love you, to get away with things normal people can't, to be untouchable. Shiny hair and shiny skin and shiny smiles all lying on their smooth surfaces, covering for what they really are. Monsters.

However, perfection and popularity is a double-edged sword that is destined to impale upon its own wielders. It means you're vulnerable to any mistakes- as the only way to go from the very top is down. Sure, they sit on the thrones of Kensington Prep and grace the headlines of the Manhattan Upper-Class social scenes but their thrones are made of bones and blood of their victims, people they trod upon to get where they are. Their thrones are meant to be stolen.

This is why the hierarchy of Kensington Prep, as unjust and unfair, is also beautifully wicked. They might be untouchable but being on everybody's radar means when the blow is delivered and their downfalls are being performed, everybody will be there to watch.

"Hey, Melissa?" Parker calls upon one of the other girls trailing behind her, like tails to her comet.

Melissa, blonde, short and curvy, famous for her noticeably and genuinely massive chest (despite rumors circling that she has gotten them done at sixteen), hurries over to Parker like a lap dog on her heels. "Yes?"

"Is my resolution for THIMUN finished?"

The smile droops slightly from Melissa's face. "Well, almost. I'm just trying to-"

"That's not good enough," Parker snaps, "I need it by Tuesday."

Melissa nods firmly, "Y-yes, I promise."

My breath hitches derisively at the exchange though I try not to pay them much heed. Melissa is part of the two twin Conroy sisters of a grade below us. Alongside her sister Bailey, they're blonde, gorgeous, and rumored for doing the dirty work for the inner circle. For example, if Parker couldn't finish her French assignment by the date it was due, either one would sleep with the smartest person in that class in exchange for them finishing the assignment for Parker. What the twins get in return is, of course, popularity. Like I said, dirty work.

The other girls who are invited to Luciana's sleepover are the twins, me and another sophomore, who introduces herself as Nadine.

Nadine Yeong is a sophomore and Phineas's sister but I'm pretty sure she's the future Carmen Calloway. Being half Singaporean and half Australian, Nadine is extremely picturesque and photogenic with a watercolour quality to her. Blessed with her mother's tall nose and sculpted cheekbones but her father's Asian accents of white rice skin, painted red lips and slanted cat eyes, Nadine is the most sought-after sixteen-year-old in her grade. Having a brother in the inner circle of the Elite helps too.

"Well, I was thinking we could go to Sasha's for manicures, Roki for toro- vegan toro," she justifies the minute Carmen looks up from her iPhone to ask if they had any vegan options, "then we'll go to Belique for pres and hit up Mahiki. They have a Ladies Night special tonight."

"Sounds good," Carmen compliments and Luciana glows.

"I cannot wait for Belique," Parker enthuses aggressively, "Honestly, their mojitos are to die for and after the week I just have, I'm gonna fucking die tonight."

The girls titter in laughter at Parker's statement as they burst into the cold outside air of Manhattan. Luciana's driver has her elongated black limo parked by the front entrance and opens the door for us to clamber in. I slide in right next to Melissa- no, Bailey, who grins when our knees bump together as I slide in.

"You ready?" she asks me. Bailey is the twin with the mole on her chin while Melissa has a middle parting to distinguish herself from her sister.

I copy a smirk of my own to match those of the Elite. I'm popular, vindictive, and have more money than I need. "As ready as I'll ever be."

-

The Santiagos live in the Midtown neighborhood of Manhattan in a sprawling 75-floor building called One57 in the dead center of the Manhattan skyline, owning the penthouse which overlooks the entirety of Central Park, rising about a thousand feet above the world. It's a building complete with an indoor pool, a private gym, a restaurant, a lounge area, a personal library catered to its residents, a spa, and even a pet washroom. After the driver pulls out of the sidewalk, we stride into the glossy glass and metallic lobby, feeling like I'm in an extremely fancy hotel rather than an apartment building.

Before we could even take the private lift up to Luciana's penthouse, Luciana is bombarded by a camera crew who begin fixing up Luciana's school uniform and adjusting her hair without any of her consent.

"What's going on?"

"Luciana's mom is on the Real Housewives of New York," Nadine Yeong answers me upon hearing my questions, "So they probably want to film her coming home."

Just right as she finishes, a weedy man adorning in a suit and a tie, with a Bluetooth attached to his ear, appears from the lobby, the loud clicks of his shoes ring across the marbled floor, demanding our observations to be swiveled upon him. "Luciana, your friends are here!" exclaims the man, "What a surprise!"

Luciana is unimpressed, arching her trimmed eyebrows into her smooth forehead, as she regards him coldly, "Didn't my mother inform you I was having a Girls' Night?"

The man barks out a forced laugh, "Oh right, I forgot! Mic them up and get them to sign a contract, will you?"

A woman from the camera crew immediately flocks towards me, invading my personal space with a massive block of paper, a pen, a small microphone to attach to my bra and a contour kit to highlight the areas that needed to be emphasized.

"What's the contract for?" I reluctantly hover the pen over the blanks she directed me to sign over.

"It's to make sure you agree to let us put your face into the show." The woman elaborates, tapping irately onto the empty space. Annoyed at her egging on, I cave in, scribbling my name onto contract.

"Open up please," she points to the white buttoned-up and I glance around the lobby, which has a doorman waiting out by the entrance and a few of the residents milling about- a few personal maids carrying small, expensive purebred dogs up into the lifts, young rich stay-at-home moms with gorgeous complexions and yoga bodies going out for strolls, gossiping amongst each other as they push around their baby strollers out towards the city streets and businessmen exchanging small talk by the lounge area where a small coffee bar awaits to serve them.

"Here?"

"Just a quick pop of a few buttons," she rolls her eyes at my discomfort. I pluck open my shirt, exposing a white lace bra. She hands me the microphone. As I buttoned back up my shirt, she retouch the makeup I put on this morning: reapplying my foundation to hide my blemishes, eyeliner, and lipstick to make sure I don't look dead on camera.

"Great," the man exclaims once his crew retreats from us, "Now I'm going to film you girls walking into the lobby. Go out and come back in again."

Luciana groans, throwing a glare at the man then turned towards us, contorting her features apologetically. "I'm so sorry guys."

"It's cool," beams Bailey, "I mean, it's awesome how we get to be on TV."

Luciana's Penthouse in itself is also a feature to gawk at, not only because of its vast size floating above a 75-floor building but because Luciana's mother, who Luciana claims designed the whole place from top to bottom, has truly done it justice. The walls are a sweet shade of creamy beige, its aesthetics resembling tropical holidays with bamboo shoots in Balinese floor vases, dark oak wood paneling, white outdoor beach lounges, abstract paintings with women rice farmers posing naked at the paddy fields, spinning silver fans, and low cedar-beam ceilings.

"Hey girls!"

A goddess of perfectly sprayed-on tan, strappy gold heels, and flowy beach dresses materialize from the kitchen, sipping on a magenta cocktail with a cherry and an umbrella propped on the rim. Before her is a tray of colorful cocktails, all decorated with slices of pineapple or strawberries or blueberries with their own individual umbrellas.

"Mom," Luciana greets amiably and I almost perform a double-take. That's her mom?

"Lucy darling, who's your new friend?" Her mom suddenly trains her eyes on me. She must've recognize everybody except for me. I still have trouble trying to progress the fact that the woman in front of me, a supermodel of toned arms, clear glowing skin, and thick volumes of dark hair, who barely looks past the age of thirty is Luciana's mother, the same woman who had pushed Luciana and her sister out of her body.

"This is Amory," Carmen answers for me. She shoots me a decadent, sweet look that I almost barf at.

"Yeah," I stick out my hand, and Luciana's mother shakes mine. "Nice to meet you, Miss Santiago."

"Don't be silly, Amory, call me Gabriella," she laughs, dismissively waving my attempt to be formal. I notice a small microphone clinging to the neckline of her dress, picking up her voice. She picks up a cold, fruity cocktail in curved glass and holds it out to me, "Drink?"

"Is it..alcoholic?" My eyebrows knit together.

"Of course, darling! How else would a party get started?"

"Lay off, Mom," Luciana giggles at my confusion as she swirls her straw around her cocktail before capturing the straw with a pink, long tongue, "Amory is new. She doesn't understand. By the way, we're going out tonight."

"Hmm, how much do you need?"

"I don't know, whatever."

Gabriella Santiago nods understandably and grabs a Gucci wallet sitting by the corner of the counter, then fishing out a thick heavy wad of a hundred dollar bills. "Have fun, sweetheart," she plops the bills onto the counter, "I'm going to go get ready for dinner with your father. He'll be taking me to Santorini for tonight."

"Ooh, that sounds romantic," Luciana coos. I realize a twitch in her mouth as her muscles seem strained from all the extra smiling she's doing. Putting a show for the camera? I wonder as the camera zooms in on their interactions. "Are you guys staying overnight?"

"For a whole week actually," Gabriella says loftily, clutching her wallet to her heart, "It'll be so nice to have the time away. Will you and your sister be okay?"

"Of course, we have Lola to take care of us," Luciana shrugs, almost halfway through her cocktail. "You and Dad need time away anyways."

"I'm so glad you're so supportive," Gabriella sighs contently and Carmen coughs; as if she's allergic to the amount of fakeness pervading the air. Ironic, coming from her.

"Of course, mom," Luciana chirps, in almost a retort manner to outbid her in who could sound the most delighted.

"AND CUT!" The man yells from the background. "This is so great! Now we can fly onwards to Santorini and film your vacation! All packed, Gabriella?"

"Of course," Gabriella answers. The overjoyed expression on her face is fading now that the cameras aren't rolling. "Luciana, don't do anything stupid tonight. I haven't recovered from that Often scandal and I refuse to have a page dedicated to the New Yorker, talking about how bad a mother I am."

Luciana sneers as she stares her mother down. "Well, maybe they're just telling the truth."

"Don't be dramatic," her mother rolls her eyes, climbing the teak and iron wrought stairs that lead to the bedrooms. "Now, I'm going to freshen up and get ready for my flight. Don't stress me out."

On that final note, Luciana's mother slams the bedroom door shut without any room for further discussion. "Bitch," Luciana accuses under her breath. Mommy issues, I scribble down mentally.

The camera crew disperse from the apartment, finally leaving us alone. "Are you okay?" Carmen asks quietly.

"I'm fine, just too sober for this bullshit," Luciana chokes out harshly. She chucks back the remainder of her cocktail- ice and fruit included, wincing as the brain freeze strikes her. "Now, let's get ready. I'm getting smashed tonight."

And suddenly, just like that, the sour mood has been restored in happy spirits.

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