I'd never given much thought to the way I'd die. After all, they (whoever "they" are) had only given me seventeen short years of life, and truth be told, I was having way too much fun to mull over something as grim as my own demise. In the light of day, I never really thought I'd descend into the afterlife so quickly. I, like all others, thought I'd at least be married, maybe have a few annoying kids; before I kicked the bucket. Ideally, I was going to break the world record for old age, but that's what every self-absorbed eight year old ruminates. By the time I was seventeen, I had torn that embarrassing scrapbook page into shreds. My current dream had been to continue the same (maybe better) life I lived. And it was going to come true, I was sure of it. Why? Because I deserved it.
My name is Kristen Gregory, and I was part of that group in high school. You know, the "it" group. The populars, the elite, the A-list. No matter what moniker you used to describe us, even "those bitches" in some cases, you knew we were the best. We were the daddy's little girls. The angels. And mainly, the people that got anything and everything we wanted. Including your boyfriend.
My best friends and I were the ones born with silver spoons in our tiny perfect bee-stung baby lips. No, literally. The tiny, probably slave-made solid silver versions that our parents bought at the flagship Tiffany's, blocks away from Lennox Hill, where we were all born. Awed? Don't be.
At the young ages of eight and nine, all of our families, ever so unconnected (hey, NYC is big), made the decision to move to the suburbs. Westchester County, to be exact. All in the summer of '09. Granted, my dear mother and father waited until late August to uproot the family, trailing far behind the three families I would soon get to know so well. So naturally, this made me the freak in third grade, where all of the natives had already pretty much figured out who's who. But I wasn't alone.
Being the new kids was a bonding experience so tight, I'm not sure if we'd have lasted eight more years without it. The "in" group of third grade took one look at our perfect curls and strong New York accents, and deemed us stuck-up heiresses with no friends. We were out. And so naturally, all of us, spread out at four different elementary schools, begged our parents to switch schools. Most would call it a stroke of luck, but we considered the fact that we all ended up at OCD destiny. And throughout the remainder of third grade, we shed our loser titles and claimed our rightful place. Alphas, the supreme rulers. Knowing that, you might think we should of had a little mercy towards the loser herd at BOCD High. You know, a little of the "I've been there" thing. But we weren't. We were worse.
Like anyone really cared in our lives. Our parents were a successful businessman, a world-class lawyer, a famous talk-show host, and the richest art dealer in the country. And, of course, their passive stay-at-home partners. With the exception of my parents, we were always allowed everything we wanted. My parents went through a strange "lets pretend we've lost all of our money to freak the shit out of our daughter faze" around seventh grade, which almost got me kicked out of the group. By tenth, I'd broken down my mother's psyche so well that she hardly even cared what I did, who I saw or where I went. My dad? He was never really around to care. I sometimes still wonder if his business was completely legit. All I knew was that it paid my credit card bills, and that was all that mattered.
I'm sure that most people at BOCD hated one of us in some way or another. We probably even hated each other. That's how toxic our high school was. But that probably doesn't surprise you, because every high school in the great union is like that. Popular girls are like great dictators. There's a small core of supporters, the sub-A-list, and then there's the clueless peasants, and finally the rebels. Unfortunately for most, our reign was guaranteed to last for four years, if not more. The only difference is that popular girls are as common as dirt.
Look at me; I'm speaking of high school like it's already over. Done. Kaput. Complete. It is for me. After all, I finished high school when I was seventeen. Not because I was smart or anything, even though I was, and definitely not because I was one of the lame summer-birthday kids. No, there's a little more sinister reason why I was done so young.
I was murdered on the night of February 31st. What? Great, looks like I've got a smart audience. Maybe you're too smart. I was. There is no 31st of February, you say. Well, I guess we're going to have to pause this story. Why are you so eager to learn the date of my expiration? That's creepy. No, wait, I'd be curious too, I guess. If it wasn't me.
As they say, patience is a virtue, and you're going to learn a lot here with me. Truth is, I know exactly what happened to Claire Lyons. I know exactly who killed her. Why? Because they killed me too.
If you're listening, my dear foe: let it be known, I am Kristen Gregory. And I'm going to haunt you until the day you die.
Leave your thoughts in a review. Should I continue? Or is this too much like TKAB?
xx,
- sp