Most of our money came from Texas oil, inherited from my dad’s grandparents, who’d helped make this area the exclusive place it is today. They’d fought to keep us from being annexed by Dallas in the 1950s, protecting Highland Park from being swallowed up by the expanding city. Because of our history here, the Blakely name carried weight, epitomizing the conservative beliefs held by most in this suburb.

Mother’s family? I didn’t know jack about them. Had never met them. I wondered if she hated them and that’s why she refused to talk about her relatives.

Mona had left me grilled salmon and a salad in the fridge, so I sat down and ate alone. As usual, it was too quiet, and I turned the radio on in the kitchen to keep me company. After putting my dishes in the dishwasher and carefully cleaning the area where I’d eaten, I wandered around the house aimlessly, my boots echoing hollowly on the polished marble floors as I passed by an original Picasso.

I went in the family room, a huge room featuring a pool table and a wrap-around leather sectional. Two 65” flat screens with surround sound were mounted on either sides of the room. Unopened family games, like Monopoly and Clue, were aligned on the built-in shelves. A bar was in the corner, the wine and liquor just waiting for me to steal whatever was inside.

Had we ever sat in here, all of us together? Never. Mother had been busy at the station; Father had been busy “working” which was most likely code for fucking other women; and Finn, if he was home, he’d still be in bed, sleeping off the hangover from the night before.

I left the family room and crossed the hall into the formal dining room. A professionally decorated table dominated the space, but like a magnet, my eyes were automatically drawn to the mahogany china cabinet against the wall. I peered inside the ostentatious piece of furniture, staring at the sixteen Noritake place settings. I’d read somewhere that the making of fine china is a painstaking process, requiring all sorts of skilled artisans and several types of machinery to get the perfect piece.

I gazed at the beautiful place settings with their little pink rosebuds and shiny platinum trim. They were so lovely and delicate, yet like me, no one cared about them, no one had a use for them. All that time spent to make such precious pieces, and all it takes is one moment to destroy it forever. Just like all it had taken was one horrible thing to ruin me forever.

I opened the glass door and gingerly picked up one of the plates, holding the weight in my hands. I hated the cold perfection it represented and hated myself, too, for pretending to be perfect for so long. I turned the plate over and stared at the tiny chips I’d starting making on Mother’s china years ago. It wasn’t much, really. Just tiny little flecks of porcelain that were missing from the bottom here and there, small bits that no one ever paid attention to or looked at too hard. And like the missing chips in this china, pieces of my spirit were also gone, destroyed by people who claimed to love me.

I set the plate down on the table and picked up another one and turned it over, staring at the missing flecks on it as well, caressing the imperfections. I set it down. I kept pulling the china out, checking each piece to make sure they weren’t really perfect, that they were as flawed as I was. Maybe it was crazy that I’d scratched and clawed at Mother’s china for years. It hadn’t matter anyway. She’d never noticed.

I stood frozen, horrified when I came across a dessert plate I’d never picked at. How had I missed one? No, no, not possible, I thought, searching it thoroughly, turning it this way and that, my suddenly sweaty hands trying to find a bit of damage; just the littlest bit would soothe me. And when I didn’t, I slammed it down hard against the dining table, feeling instant relief at the destruction, at seeing the too-perfect plate smashed. And then something inside my soul fractured too, and I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t. Madness burned like a fire inside me, hot and bright, wanting to shatter everything. Unwelcome tears ran down my face, and it made me angry, this fucking emotional tailspin I’d brought on myself by coming into this room. I cursed and grabbed another piece and another and another, slamming each and every plate, cup, and saucer down against the table over and over until every single dish lay pulverized at my feet. Until I felt spent. Until nothing perfect would ever be in this house again.

After that, I went upstairs and dyed my hair a deep red.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I reached under my bed and pulled out a new bottle of Grey Goose that I’d taken from dad’s study. I’d been coming to the house on regular stealthy visits to take his liquor, sometimes grabbing the bourbon or scotch, but always coming back to the vodka. I wondered if I’d killed any brain cells so far with my drinking. Would it lower my IQ? I laughed. Did I care?

Tonight was special, and I intended to celebrate. I cranked up the music on my iPod and poured myself a shot, thinking about my evening.

One Christmas, Aunt Portia had gotten me several yards of vintage fabric she’d found at a second-hand store in downtown Dallas. It was gorgeous and decadent, probably used to make fancy tablecloths or custom curtains. Made from heavy, black silk, it had the unusual print of brightly colored red cherries on it. I’d had it in my closet for a while, not quite sure what I wanted to do with it.

You see, while I’d been at the Parisian fat camp, I was taught lots of things: how to speak in conversational French; how to be a well-spoken, mild-mannered hostess and hold a dinner party for twelve; how to appreciate art and classical music; and finally, how to sew and embroider. Unless you’re planning on being the First Lady, they're all completely bullshit, except for the sewing classes.

When I returned home, I became a wee bit obsessed with the inventiveness of sewing. Once I got my own machine for Christmas, it became a full-on sweat shop in my bedroom. Mila had called me the sewing Tasmanian devil, and I guess I had seemed frenzied, spinning Dad’s old shirts into dresses and stitching pretty fabric into tea cozies for Aunt Portia. Making something out of nothing made me feel like I was important, like I had value.

So, I took my special fabric and pulled out a pin-up style skirt pattern I’d designed while at fat camp. I cut into the material, pinned it together, and got to work sewing. After a couple of hours, my new pencil skirt was finished, and I put it on, satisfied with the snug fit. In my closet I found a red satin, button-up shirt, which I put on, tying the last few buttons high above my waist, making it into a midriff-baring top. To finish it off, I slipped my feet into a pair of red Manolo heels I’d worn to one of the school’s formals.