Sleep with one eye open, p.1
Sleep With One Eye Open, page 1
Sleep with One Eye Open
(formerly PMS Girls)
Lisa Alfano
Lisa Alfano
Copyright © 2023 by Lisa Alfano
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Lisa Alfano.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by GetCovers
Interior Design © 2023 by Lisa Alfano
ISBN: 978-1-962675-04-8
For my husband, Michael,
with love and thanks for your endless support.
My life is forever blessed because of your love.
For my sons, Christopher and Joseph,
you both inspire me to reach for the stars.
I am so blessed to be your Mom.
I love you guys to the moon and back times infinity!
Contents
1. Ari
2. Perpetual Mercy School For Young Women
3. Mags
4. The Letter
5. Waiting
6. Whirlwind
7. Unbreakable Broken Rules
8. Tier Pressure
9. BFF
10. The Throwdown
11. A Quick Trip
12. Horseplay
13. Give Me A Bell Sometime
14. The Summons
15. Ballroom Circus
16. Red Eye
17. Jet Lag
18. Whirlwind Returns
19. Clouded
20. Say Cheese
21. Migraine Attacks
22. Show and Tell
23. Flavor Change
24. The Infirmary
25. Escape From Infirmary Block
26. Sister Alice
27. Reunion
28. False Evidence Appearing Real
29. Parties and Gowns and Christmas, Oh My!
30. Scents of the Past
31. Early Riser
32. The Gift
33. Parade of Black
34. Barren
35. O Christmas Tree
36. Ghosts of Christmas Past
37. 'Twas the Day Before Christmas
38. The Great Escape
39. Road Trip
40. Show and Tell
41. Deception
42. Shock and Awe
43. Life or Death
44. Angels of White
45. Beeps, Blips, & Bleach
46. Obedient Daughter
47. Firsts
48. Crappy New Year
49. Shit Storm
50. Pardon Me
51. Blonde Lies
52. Beacon Hill
53. Invisible Wounds
54. Sister-Sister
55. Grace's Friend
56. Linen and Lavender
57. Daffodils and Doldrums
58. Unwanted Guest
59. Birthday Bash
60. Hidden Secrets
61. Bitch Slap
62. Cherry Blossoms
63. Confession
64. Photo Op
65. Time of Change
66. Goodbye, Ari
67. Hello, Katie
Epilogue
PMS Girls Saga Book 2
Acknowledgments
About Author ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Also By Lisa Alfano
Fractured Secrets
Thorne Chronicles Series
A New YA Fantasy Series
Chapter one
Ari
My entire life I’ve been told that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. The reality is that it’s more of a tarnished steel rod shoved up my ass. I hate the term “silver spoon.” It elicits false visions of a pampered life, a life of excess, frivolity, and freedom. Another lie generated by society. A wealthy and powerful family allows little freedom. The public watches every move I make. Not to mention the nannies, maids, assistants, teachers—and my father. Their sole purpose in life seems to be to act as my handlers. They ensure that I smile at the appropriate time, dress in the expected manner, and conduct my actions—and emotions—in a manner that befits my family’s elevated status.
Next time you see a photograph of me in the Washington Post, take an extra moment. I know what you see. To you and the world, I’m a young, confident woman dressed in the newest, but modest, high fashion with perfect coiffed hair and a gleaming smile. Look again. Did you notice the forced smile? Did you marvel at my stellar posture? Or the way I hold my shoulders back with the slight, uplifted tilt of a confident chin? That, my friend, is the tarnished steel rod shoved up my ass. It’s the rod of obligation that restricts my actions, my freedom; what restricts me from being me.
People look at me through the blurred lens of envy. They view my family’s money, power, and influence as blessings. I regard them as curses. I’m not stupid. I understand I’m privileged with the best homes, clothes, and education because of my family’s money. Yes, it buys things, but it can’t buy love or friends—not the real, honest, true types anyway.
I know what you’re thinking right now: What an ungrateful, whiny bitch. Let me assure you, I’m not. I’m thankful that I don’t wake up each morning with the weight of poverty on my shoulders. I never worry about food, clothing, and a roof over my head, but it’s not the material things that I’m referring to. I’m talking about the unseen—the matters of the heart, of family and unconditional love. It is of these things I speak... I crave.
To the world, my life is a flawless diamond. I’m going to open your eyes and let you into my world—into my life; or, at least a portion of it. I’m still young and much of my life and story has yet to be written...I hope. Do I have your attention? Good. I’m warning you my life isn’t the flawless diamond I allow the world to see. But for you, I’m going to place the diamond that is my life beneath a jeweler’s loop. You will discover my life’s nothing more than a scratched cubic zirconia. A fake—a faux, man-made creation—an empty illusion. My father, Senator Leland Worthington III, created my cubic zirconia, and with it, the façade of perfection.
I won’t bore you with my childhood; I was too young to comprehend the finer details. Like any child, I assumed that every other family lived the same way. I believed my life was normal and stable. I knew most families consisted of more than one child, but many in my school were only children like me. I didn’t realize that the majority of children in the world didn’t have nannies, maids, or drivers. They didn’t live away from home at posh boarding schools. All fathers weren’t successful politicians. All mothers didn’t spend their days at the country club, consumed with charities and luncheons. I knew no children whose moms baked cupcakes for bake sales or whose dads coached soccer teams. Hands-on parenting, to my young mind, meant my parents parading me out at an event or for photo ops at a dinner party. My nannies, not my mother, brushed my hair and read me bedtime stories. Our cook baked me cookies. I thought that interior designers decorated everyone’s Christmas trees.
Are you rolling your eyes at me right now and saying to yourself: Ari, stop whining?
I’m not complaining. My childhood was perfect and amiable because, for me, it was normal. I loved my parents—albeit, from a distance; but that too, for me, seemed normal.
Yes, my life looks all shiny and full of vibrant color to the naked eye. But, after closer examination, it’s manufactured plastic crap. I discovered my truths during my time at Perpetual Mercy School for Young Women. And that, my friend, is where my real story begins.
Chapter two
Perpetual Mercy School For Young Women
Perpetual Mercy School for Young Women is an all-female boarding school in Warton, New Hampshire located a short jaunt upriver from Dartmouth University. The Sisters of Mercy, a group of dedicated but severe nuns, govern the school. Clusters of unremarkable, ivy-covered brick buildings comprise the school’s campus. Massive brick walls surround the twenty acre campus and serve to keep the students within the campus confines; but more important, the layers of chipping brick and mortar prevent the world—the unworthy—entry into our elite bubble. The classrooms, dorms, dining room, library, a common room with the school’s solitary television, an infirmary, and of course, the living quarters for the Sisters are found within the buildings. Also nestled inside the brick border walls is a dense forest, tennis courts, and manicured fields doing triple duty for the soccer, field hockey, and softball teams. An impressive stable houses the school’s dozen thoroughbred horses. Perpetual Mercy mandates all students to imbibe in fresh air and regular exercise in addition to their rigorous academics and strict moral instruction.
Despite its humble exterior appearance, Perpetual Mercy, isn’t just any run-of-the-mill boarding school. The crème of the elite accounts for one hundred percent of the student body. All students derive from one of two places: old money and pedigree, or new money and power. Without either pedigree or power, admittance is impossible. Students from old money—families of breeding one could categorize as “blue-bloods,” to use the antiquated term—once ruled the school. But in recent years, the majority of students derive from political families that wield great power; the daughters and granddaughters of senators, g
If you’re wondering what draws the elite to Perpetual Mercy, I’ll try my best to explain. The allure of Perpetual Mercy—aside from its near-impossible admittance and Draconian moral and academic convictions—directly coincides with the school’s rural New Hampshire address, which provides students safe anonymity far away from the political D.C. realm and media spotlight. The lack of a webpage or any online presence perpetuates the school’s charm. Go ahead, give it a try—Google it. On second thought, don’t bother. I’ll save you the time. You won’t find it on the Worldwide Web. To the outside world, it doesn’t exist. Perpetual Mercy is one of the best-kept, known secrets amongst the wealthy and powerful.
An unwritten hierarchy—an upper-class caste system—exists at Perpetual Mercy because, even amongst elites, prejudice lives. Three—well, technically four—tiers exist at Perpetual Mercy. The top tier, tier one, consists of the old money, blue-blood girls. The second tier girls, tier two, belong to powerful families of old money who lack the proper pedigree. In the third and least desirable group, tier three, the political new money girls wallow. New money’s easy to sniff out—flashy, brash, and a false sense of entitlement.
I’ll wager that you’re trying to figure out which tier I belonged to and why I only described three tiers when I mentioned that four exist. Personally, I never cared about the tiers; such judgmental rankings never mattered to me. They mattered to most of the girls at Perpetual Mercy, though. I saw too many exceptional girls bullied and ostracized by a member of a tier higher than their own. And I hate cruelty as much as I despise prejudice. I’ve spent most of my life desiring to be seen for me—not for my family, money, or material possessions.
I know you’re the curious type and thinking Ari, you belonged to the bottom tier so you’re downplaying the rankings.
Well, if that’s what you’re thinking, sorry; I’m about to burst your smart bubble. I wasn’t a member of the three tiers that I described. I’m a member of the final Perpetual Mercy tier, the ultra-exclusive platinum tier reserved for the elite amongst elites—the purest of pedigrees. As the sole member of the platinum tier, I found myself envied by the girls who found their worth in the tier rankings. This, I’m sad to report, comprised the majority of my schoolmates. Everyone wanted to be a platinum, everyone except me.
As I’ve already exposed, I come from a family of great wealth and great power. I’m the result of the dual parentage of blue-blood, old money, and political power—the Holy Grail of elites. My maternal grandfather was a blue-blood governor of Massachusetts; my mother, a proud member of the Daughters of the Mayflower; and my father, a direct descendant of European aristocracy. It also doesn’t hurt that dad’s a charismatic senator with presidential aspirations.
I found Perpetual Mercy adequate and the dorm rooms spacious but not ostentatious. Two girls shared a room with two beds with five-star mattresses, two desks, two dressers, and one large walk-in closet. I shared a closet—half the size of my closet at my family’s homes—with my roommate. It’s difficult for me to think of the family mansion in Beacon Hill or my father’s D.C. brownstone as my homes. I’ve spent ten months of each year since I turned six away at boarding school. So, I consider whatever school I am attending my home.
Anyway, sharing the walk-in closet wasn’t a big deal for me. I spent the majority of each day clothed in the traditional parochial uniform. The pleated plaid skirt, conservative white blouse, and sensible black shoes were my daily penance for my wealthy birthright—and also a hideous consequence of attending a school run by Catholic nuns with dour faces and dreary attire.
But I survived. Hell, I’ve survived a ton of shit far more ominous than a bunch of elderly nuns. Weekends and evenings students dress in normal clothing. For me, I sported t-shirts and jeans or comfy yoga pants whenever possible—a casual nature not embraced by the rest of the student body. A stroll through the school’s hallways on any weekend rivaled the fashion runways of Paris and Milan with each girl fighting to one-up the next with their designer threads. Let’s face it, girls can be horrific. The majority of my schoolmates at Perpetual Mercy consisted of snobs, self-centered twits, or sycophants, and the worst of the lot—a combination of all three.
I know it sounds disingenuous of me to judge my fellow students. I’m sure you think my assessment’s harsh because of the ridiculous tiers and me serving as the sole platinum member. I assure you it isn’t the case. In life, it’s normal to encounter the occasional royal bitch. At Perpetual Mercy, there was an infestation of them.
Chapter three
Mags
I shared a room for three years with Margaret “Mags” Fowler, a new money daughter of a U.K. diplomat and two grades above me. So, in case you care about the petty tier system, Mags—tier three. Now, a snob would never befriend a tier three, but as I said before, rankings never mattered to me. We bonded over our love of dogs and mutual frustrations over the school’s no pets rule, not our tiers.
The Sisters tried their best to pair roommates by grade. Mags’ clashed with her first roommate, a tier one nightmare, named Justice Mason. Justice’s father, an influential superior court judge—hence her ridiculous name, gag—whom she manipulated ad nauseam. Justice refused to share a room with the lowly tier three Mags and whined to her father with such repetitiveness that the poor man succumbed. The judge ordered the Sisters of Mercy to reassign Mags or else he’d yank his precious Justice, and her prepaid tuition, out of Perpetual Mercy. I warned you that the majority of Perpetual Mercy girls took their tier placements seriously, and the Sisters of Mercy valued the hefty tuition more than they opposed the sin of pride. So much for the old adage that justice is blind. At Perpetual Mercy, Justice is a bitch—literally and figuratively. So after all the bullshit, Mags packed up her things and moved into my room.
If you ask me, Mags’ beauty—not her low-tier ranking—tipped the scales in Justice’s jealous mind. Mags was beautiful inside and out; tall, lithe, with flaxen hair that possessed the perfect natural wave, large cerulean eyes like pools from the Caribbean ocean, full rose-tinted lips, flawless and opaque skin that rivaled the finest porcelain. Justice Mason, on the other hand, fed her insatiable craving for European chocolates without restraint and even her father’s generously cut judicial robe couldn’t conceal her rotund body or double chin.
It thrilled me to room with Mags. I found her unpretentious demeanor and constant thirst to find joy in life refreshing, like a ray of sunshine in my otherwise dull existence. We hit it off right away despite our age difference. Mags’ quest for fun changed our lives forever and left me saddled with welcoming a new roommate—a new girl to Perpetual Mercy—for my sophomore year, and that sucked big time.
“Oy, Dearie, why don’t you get yourself all dressed up and join me?” Mags said and added another layer of pink petal lip gloss to her full lips.
“No way,” I said. “If my father ever found out, he’d ship me off to Siberia—or worse.”
Mags smacked her lips and laughed. “Stop being so dramatic, Dearie,” she said in her best big sister tone. Mags nicknamed me Dearie our second semester as roomies. I found it endearing coming from her, not condescending as if uttered by an adult. “There aren’t any boarding schools in Siberia.”
“Well, then he’d send someplace far away. There’s nothing my father won’t do to become the next President of the United States—even exiling his only child.”
She shrugged, adjusted her silk top, and pirouetted in front of the mirror; stopping to admire the way her jeans hugged her ass. I didn’t blame her. She’d spent the better part of an hour wriggling and struggling on her bed to pull the tight denim over her hips. The jeans melded to her body like a second skin. While Mags looked fabulous, all I could think was, How the hell’s she going to get them off when she has to pee?
“Last chance, Dearie,” Mags said and grabbed a cashmere sweater from the bed.
