The Personal Assistant

by Kimberly Belle

An age where they are all raging hormones and shitty attitudes and mortified by my very existence. They tell me this with slamming doors and rolling eyeballs, because otherwise they would have to actually talk to me, their mother, who is too loud, too silly and weird and embarrassing—mostly the last one. There’s nothing quite as savage as a preteen’s ridicule. It leaves a mark, one that lingers for a very long time.

I’ve been in this business long enough to have learned to ignore the haters. And I do. Mostly.

Ratio is important. When the comments outnumber the likes, it means there could be a problem.

That’s the thing about the country club set. The women here operate like a sorority, a tight clique looking for a common enemy.

“And people actually read that shit?” “Oh, yeah. Lots of people. Women, mostly, and they’re mean as snakes. So much for female solidarity, I guess.”

Her thumbs punch at her cell phone screen with a speed only teenage girls can manage. Texting one of her friends, I’m guessing, a play-by-play update.