Twisted Cinderella

Before Peyton could reply, she heard a shuffling noise in the background and the sound of the phone being dropped, followed by doors opening and slamming shut, the squeal of high-pitched, excited voices.

“Allyson and Tori just got here,” Capri announced when she came back on. “I told them you wouldn’t mind taking all of us to the pool, since you were taking me anyway. Oh, and I promised Tori’s mom you’d stay and make sure we don’t drown. So I’ll see you when you get home. Hurry up, all right? Everybody’s waiting. Bye.” She hung up.

Peyton snapped her phone shut and took another deep, steadying breath. She turned the key and started the engine. Her car (a VW bug in an elegant cream, with matching honey-toned, saddle leather interior) had been a birthday present last fall, back when money was flush. Or so she’d believed, she thought bitterly. Apparently the leaves on the St. Germaine money tree had been withering and dying long before her dad let on there was a problem.

Before she could pull out two guys screeched into the lot in an old BMW convertible, did a donut —wheels spinning and dust flying, for God’s sake— then wrenched the car to a stop before Julie and Tess. After some playful shouting back and forth the driver jumped out, threw Tess over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and tossed her into the front seat. Laughing, Julie jumped into the back next to his buddy and they peeled out.

What a cliché. If her friends were here, no doubt they’d find it as low-class and amusing as she did. But her friends weren’t here. And alone, Peyton couldn’t drum up the contempt she so badly wanted to feel. Instead she was swamped by a massive surge of self-pity.

Why do you want to work here?

The only question on the application she’d left blank. What answer could she possibly give? While my friends are sunning themselves on beaches in the Hamptons, dancing in clubs at night and playing tennis during the day, I really want to hang out in a crappy Vermont town ―in a haunted house, no less― serving organic cheeseburgers to fat tourists and their bratty kids.

She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. Yet here she was, the star of some twisted fairy tale. Cinderella. Only in her case, the story was being played out in reverse. The injustice of it all rolled over her like a wave, threatening to drown her.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about suffering the humiliation of running into somebody she knew. She was living in a Stratton Mountain ski lodge in June, for God’s sake. She’d been dumped by everyone. Her friends, Porter, everyone. The only calls she got these days were from her ten-year-old sister.

On the back of the menu Gloria had given each of them to ‘study’ was one of her little quotes: Do What You Love and You’ll Never Work a Day in Your Life. Peyton considered that. What did she love? Easy. She loved being rich. Not exactly a lot of jobs looking for that qualification.