DISCLAIMER: Some of this story's also posted in bits on my writing instagram coneyprose. I just wanted to clarify that so that people wouldn't be lead to thinking I was plagiarizing.

Also, Veruca's slightly racist in this chapter. Just wanted to let you know in advanced. There's just one or two instances in this chapter of racism from Veruca. But she's a brat. What did you expect?

(Matilda's POV):

That night I sit at the desk in my room working on my French. Well, trying to anyway. It's very difficult to attempt homework while also attempting to block out your mother's television soap opera applied at maximum volume.

"Just like the amount of makeup she wears," I snicker.

I would ask her to turn it down, but it's no use. She claims she needs to hear it at the best volume in order to be totally into it. I pray for one of her umpteen fashion/gossip magazines to arrive in the post. Somehow she's able to get mail at any time of day or night. Probably thanks to my uncle. Like his daughter, my mother's got him under her thumb, which means unlimited cosmetics, soap operas, clothes, designer purses, etc,. for her.

Finally, thank God, the television turns off. At that moment, I hear the phone ringing.

"Be a dear and get the phone?" Mum yells.

I groan and grab it.

"Prescott residence. Matilda speaking," I greet.

"Bonsoir, little cousin," a snotty voice whines on the other end.

I forgot. She's older than me. By a day.

"Oh hi, Veruca," I groan.
"What do you want?"

"By any chance did you get the paper this morning?" she giggles.

"Yes, I did," I reply quite dryly.

"Anything interesting in there?"

Of course she's prying for the answer she wants. I smirk.

"The stock market's doing quite well now-"

"Not that rubbish! Me. I found the second golden ticket."

"So I gathered," I fume.

She gives a giggle on the other end.

"I said I wanted Neapolitan ice cream from France, not vanilla!" she screams.

I have to hold the phone far away from my ear. Hopefully she didn't do any damage. Keyword: hopefully.

"So tell me. What are you up to?" she asks when she's been pacified.

"Just working on homework."

"Aww. Poor, wittwe Matiwda has to do homework."

I roll my eyes.

"What are you doing that could be better than getting an education?"

"I am getting a French mani-pedi, spa day, and massage with my birthday pooch Chambreau along with Neapolitan ice cream for my eleventh birthday at my mansion in Parie."

"I thought you were in São Paulo with your dad."

"São Paulo is so two days ago. My father couldn't get those ruddy natives to give up their macadamia trees. On top of that, that stupid reporter Fiona kept calling me Veronica. Anyway, aren't you jealous?"

"Sure," I scoff.

"Well, we can't always get what we want. Anyway, I have to get going. Chambreau is about to get his wittle puppy nails painted and I need to pick out his colors. I'll see you at your party tomorrow. Ciao!"

"Wait. What?" I gasp as the dial tone begins.

I rush into the living room.

"Mom!" I assert.

"Why did you-?"

I trail off.

After almost eleven years of living with her, I should be used to seeing my mom in so much makeup. I could make a bunch of jokes about it; how she never goes to the circus because someone would mistake her for a clown, how she never needs to wear a mask to scare kids on Halloween. The list goes on.

"What is it, Molly?" she asks.

I suppose the reporter that interviewed my cousin and my mom planned to mess our names up years before.

"My name is Matilda," I remind her.
"Anyway, did you invite Veruca to my party?"

"No. I also invited her to spend the night with us."

I look at her, frustrated by how oblivious she is with the relationship between Veruca and I. Or the lack thereof.

"Mom, you know I can't stand her," I growl through bared teeth.

"Now, Madison-"

"Matilda."

"-I know you two may have had some rough patches, but tomorrow will be a good chance for you two to bond. Oh, I have so much scheduled for you two after the party; first a clothing shopping spree down at the shoppes. Next a mani-pedi and then a facial. After that a spa treatment, including a massage-"

I start to drone out my mom's words a little until I see her begin to finish.

"But mom. There's no way we'll ever get along. I'm me and she's her."

"Madeline, quit being a spoiled brat. I do so much for you. I feed you. I clothe you. I shelter you. And this is how you thank me?"

At this point, I've pretty much given up on trying to make sure she gets my name right. With that I shake my head and head back to my room, slamming the door behind me.