Excerpt: TBA

I imagine sometimes that Iris Latimore—although she is spoiled beyond belief when it comes to toys and playtime and clothing and social standing and travel and countless other things directly related to her father’s wealth—must sometimes think of Edith and I and imagine that we have a “perfect family life”. She has made that comment in passing here and there and Edith and I were both shocked to hear such a blatant falsehood, and being delivered with a sigh and longing in the eyes to boot, neither of us spoke up to negate that fact. Edith, I suppose out of a sense of inferiority, would have taken some measure of pride in the fact that her friend could envy anything to do with Edith Gracie Womphole, and me simply because having let out a sarcastic “HAH!” when Iris had made that comment, and feeling Edith’s piercing stare which promised painful retaliation if I didn’t just shut up promptly, I decided that educating Iris in what the real-world interpretation of what “perfect family life” actually entailed at the Womphole’s simply wasn’t worth it.