If Pacifica's parents had taught her anything, then it was to be better than the best, to stand over everyone else. No matter what she did, she had to be on top. From grades to sports to friends, everything had to be better.
Maybe that was why they couldn't see Pacifica's new jewelry.
To be frank, they were rather messy. Her bracelet was made of fraying colored threads tied together, hard plastic beads that looked to be worth even less than a dime, and a bit of neon green duck tape to keep it together. Her necklace wasn't much better. It sparkled, but not from the gleam of a gem, but from liberally applied glitter.
They were by no means the fine gems of an heiress.
Perhaps that was why Pacifica no longer felt like at her parents' daughter. How could she? The feel of Mabel's hands against her skin and her lips against Pacifica's own made her feel alive, free from the bonds of a socialite. Electricity ran through her skin and happiness filled her blood.
With Mabel, Pacifica was free. Pacifica was herself.
The jewelry, handmade as it was, served as a reminder of this. And even when Mabel was gone, it would still sit against Pacifica's skin.
And it, with its craft store supplies, was worth more than anything else in the world.