1 Birdie My mother always says there are only three things you need to be successful in life: charisma , which she claims I''ve inherited from her in spades; money , which she also takes credit for, even though she married into it; and an interesting point of view , which--surprising exactly no one--she also feels I should thank her for. I guess technically "extremely online child of former mom blogger turned lifestyle influencer" is an interesting point of view. Or it would be, if I was allowed to say how I really feel about it all (which is not good) and wasn''t expected to instead toe the party line on both her streams and my own. I''m supposed to be grateful for it all, definitely not at all bothered that the whole world watched me potty training. And especially not bothered by the T-shirts my mom made when, while out at a restaurant during the potty-training process, I stuck my head under the divider to ask an unsuspecting stranger in the stall next to me, "Are you pooping?" (My therapist has reassured me that was a developmentally appropriate question, but I would still prefer there not be merch commemorating it.) It''s ironic that that is what I''m most known for, despite the fact that my mom''s mantra for me has always been: "You need to look as expensive as you are." (Read: No, you cannot go outside and play like a regular kid. You are pristine.
You are elegance. You are perfect .) Looking expensive and perfect is kind of my mom''s thing, after all. Her lifestyle branding would probably make that other ultra-rich, ultra-blond actress turned lifestyle influencer weep--that is, if they didn''t occasionally collaborate--despite making most "regular" moms laugh at her. Sometimes the hate mail outpaces the followers. It doesn''t matter to my mom either way, as long as they keep watching. After all, content is god in the Gordon house, and my mother is the high priestess. Right now, I''ve been asked--read: ordered--by my mom''s team to do a "behind-the-scenes" run-up to my dad''s annual investor party.
My mother calls it a gala, but it''s not--it''s just a stuffy, boring party for my dad''s investors and my mom''s friends. I tried to fight her on it--laughable, really, because my streams get the most views as of late. While she''s been trying to give me a good edit (as good as she can anyway), it''s been obvious things have been going a little bit off the rails. I''m pretty sure my uptick in viewership is because both her fans and mine are waiting for me to fuck up in some kind of real, uneditable way. My most recent shenanigans? Screwing up my college apps on purpose and missing two days of filming while I live streamed sneaking off to Cabo with my best friend, Ada, for a weekend. (We tried to say Ada just wanted to connect to her Mexican roots, but neither of our families bought it.) And then, of course, there was also last month when I shattered a window trying to sneak in drunk from a party. (It looked open! It wasn''t my fault!) While we''re not important enough for any of the actual tabloids to care about us, we have a habit of going semi-viral often enough to keep the other bloggers talking.
Whether they''re portraying me as another spoiled rich white girl who doesn''t know how good she has it, or as a worse, somehow more embarrassing Kardashian knockoff, or--my least favorite--a tragic example of what happens to the kids who grew up being mined for content by their parents, social media has opinions about us . Opinions we can capitalize on. Thus, the phone camera Ada is currently pointing at my face. She insisted that the temporary phone holder I stuck to the dashboard of my boyfriend''s very expensive car--which I have never driven before--was not capturing my best angles. Ada''s not a content creator or anything--she actually thinks it''s all ridiculous. We''re polar opposites, but our inheritances keep us running in the same circles, at least for now, and I''d be lost without her. While my post-high school plans are more nebulous and influencer-y--I want to launch a line of luxury purses when I gain access to my trust on my eighteenth birthday this summer--she''s heading off to an Ivy for biomedical engineering this fall. Despite that, I''ve still managed to mold her into the ideal Instagram husband--though we''re 100 percent platonic.
(She''s painfully straight.) I wasn''t originally planning to film this drive, but after three texts from my mother politely (read: obnoxiously) reminding me that I promised to, I relented. Despite the fact that I''m driving Mitchell Riley''s McLaren up a dangerously winding mountain road to get to the ridiculous luxury villa that my dad always hosts this gathering at. Mitchell had begged me to grab it for him since he was running behind, and like any good girlfriend, I agreed. I chose to ignore his reasoning--that he didn''t want to be "stuck at the party" any longer than he had to be, after getting caught up at the pre-gala golf match with our dads. They''re all getting ready there together at the villa, and I''m really trying not to dwell on the fact that he seems to be planning to ditch me as soon as possible. Never mind that I''ve only driven stick once (in a parking lot with my dad at a development he was building before it opened). How hard could it really be? And double never mind that I should still be mad at Mitchell because of some flirty comments he made on Shayna Macintyre''s Insta post this morning.
(He said I misinterpreted, but I don''t know how you misinterpret the phrase hottie with a body or the five fire emojis he added afterward.) It''s not like there''s really anything to do about it anyway. Getting with Mitchell Riley took a lot of planning and scheming by both of our mothers in the first place, and mine has reminded me several times this year not to mess it up. I think my parents just like Mitchell''s ties to old money--his wealth goes back generations further than mine. (My grandfather had the good sense to invest in tech early and often, changing the trajectory of our family line forever.) And Mitchell''s parents like the fact that my parents seem new and hip and can help modernize their family look once we eventually get married. And okay, yeah, I get it. I''m way too young to be thinking about getting married--but also, I''m kind of not.
That''s just always been the expectation. I was born a prop, raised as a prop, and now my future is as scripted as the sitcom my mom''s team tried to pitch based on our story. (It never even made it to pilot.) Ada shifts in the passenger seat beside me--wincing at the grinding sounds the car is making, because, okay, maybe this is a little harder than expected?--as she live streams my attempt to get up the mountain without totally ruining the clutch. I don''t know why Dad has to always host the Gordon Development Gala all the way up here. It''s convenient for exactly nobody, especially not me, right now. No, that''s a lie. I know why.
Dad is proud of this place, beyond proud actually. He calls this villa--all six thousand square feet of it--his "capstone rental," having flipped it himself at the start of his real estate empire when he was only twenty-one. It boasts six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and an indoor pool that he personally designed. The gears grind once more as I struggle to shift into whatever gear I hope and pray is going to get me up this final hill. Ada giggles beside me, quickly turning the camera to herself. "Hope Mitchell''s not watching!" she teases as my phone screen fills with hearts and laughter emojis. Someone sends a virtual crown. She bats the garish gold thing away the second it''s projected onto her head and then flips the phone camera back on me.
"Hopefully not," I say, sweating through my vintage Dior gown. "How''s it going over there, Birdie?" she asks innocently enough. I flash her a smile and then glare at the road. "I think we all heard how it''s going," I say as the car bucks us forward. "Remind your viewers again why you''re torturing this car tonight?" "Mitchell was running behind," I say, trying to sound more amused about it than annoyed. "You know how it is with him." I roll my eyes. We''re the cutest couple, after all, can''t let them see the cracks.
(Even if, like, twenty people have already screenshotted and reposted his "hottie with a body" comment and tagged me in it.) "Why did he even need his car?" Ada asks, quirking an eyebrow behind the camera. What is she doing? "Boys and their toys." I grin, even though Ada knows the truth. It''s fine, it''s fine. My mom makes sure to perfectly edit Mitchell so that he comes off like a prince instead of a frog. No one but me--and Ada--knows just how much of an absolute toad my Prince Charming really is. "And why are we encouraging this?" Ada asks, abandoning all hints of subtlety.
To say that Ada is not completely sold on Mitchell would be like calling the California wildfires "mildly inconvenient." Which is to say, she cannot stand the man and believes he will have a devastating yet preventable impact on my life. Like I said, she''s not like us. Her parents are both groundbreaking surgeons, from a long line of groundbreaking surgeons. They each have at least one hospital named after them, and so many medical procedures I''ve lost count. So while my mom is making her living off sponsored posts and a weekly stipend from my dad, Ada''s family.