My name is Marigold Lavender. Not Marie, not Mary, simply Marigold. I hate any nicknames. As nineteenth century as Marigold sounds, I like it because it's kind of powerful having "gold" in your name. And it's unique. I don't know any other Marigolds.
You could say I'm a typical high school girl, but I know I'm more than that. Everyone knows I'm more than that. After all, I'm Marigold Lavender. If you don't know my name, you're living under a rock. I might only be a junior, but I'm easily the most well-known student at Moressley High.
I guess it helps a lot that we're rich. My father owns a huge fashion company that brands women's clothes. He says women's clothing is where all the money is. Some of the clothes he brands are well over hundreds of dollars. Sometimes he lets me try them on, though he thinks I'm still too young to model a lot of the clothes, especially the underwear. It's not like it's anything I haven't tried before, though he doesn't have a clue. Still, he doesn't want me to model for him until I turn eighteen. Only then I can become his "cover girl" and eventually own the business for myself.
My mom is a politician. She's relatively new at politics. She used to be on our school board at one point, but is now a lobbyist for our town's mayor and governor. Before she entered the political game, she stayed at home and took care of us while volunteering throughout town. She became so much of a soccer mom that she became an activist, which eventually led her to her political career. Now she's a highly contested favorite to run for mayor in our town's next election.
I'm the oldest kid in our family. After me, it's my two identical twin sisters, Annabelle and Tatiana, who always try to act as cool as I am, and my younger brother, Michael, who plays too many videogames and is a constant brat who throws fits when he doesn't get what he wants. My sisters are annoying because they're always trying to get into my stuff and wear my clothes. They're at the age when they start liking boys, so they're always looking to dress up into the perfect little angels that they are.
Everyone looks at us as rich snobs. My parents practically own our town, as my dad has the most successful fashion business and my mom has a successful political career. We live in a mansion. We have a butler who does all the work for us, and three dogs and four cats. Our yard isn't just a yard, it's a full walkthrough garden with hedges made out into each of us, lush flowers and exotic plants, and a drawbridge over a moat of water. We also have two silver fountains with one of those naked Cupid statues peeing out water. Honestly, our home is like a huge science facility in itself, which is why we always have people and reporters constantly visiting our home and testing out the pH level of our water, as if it really matters. We have an Olympic sized pool in the backyard, and one in our basement as well, and two jacuzzis. My wardrobe in my room is so big that it's like a miniature version of Forever 21.
It's amazing how my parents want us be moral and civil children, but they're conceited themselves. Today, my parents say they're conservative, but that could easily mean they're liberal tomorrow. They're political, and they'll do whatever it takes to be relevant. As a family, we take a lot of pride in our luxury. We're rich snobs who don't like to give a cent to the poor and working families because we're too busy looking better than everyone else around us.
The funny part is that my parents think I'm their "perfect little princess." They call me princess and they buy me dresses. Just because I'm so beautiful. I know I'm beautiful. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. I've been told I look like goldilocks with freckles and deep violet eyes. But I'll be honest, it gets old real fast. It's pathetic really. They make me feel like I'm Barbie in her large playhouse. I buy into it only to get what I want, but it's sickening how ignorant my parents really are.
Yet they fail to see how I mischievously hide behind a porcelain face and crisp red lips. They don't know the real Marigold Lavender. The one who likes acting as if she's the nicest girl in the world. The one who changes out of her father's twentieth century dresses into crop tops and tiny skirts that they would never let me wear. No, I'm not their perfect little girl. But they still think I'm a role model. That's the Marigold Lavender they know, and that's the one I want them to know.
"Marigold, what's this?" asked my mother, entering into my room. On the tip of her hands was my tiny pink g-string. Apparently, our dog had carried it over to her.
"Oh, it's just one of Shayla's rags," I said.
"Or maybe it's a hammock for Annabelle's Barbies."
"Marigold, get real. I'm not laughing," said my mom. "How long have you had this?"
"Who says it's mine?" I asked.
"Well it certainly isn't Annabelle's or Tiana's," said my mother. "I pray to God it isn't."
"Why don't you ask them?" I said. "They're certainly old enough by now to know what a thong is."
"Marigold, I know it's not theirs," said my mother. "I never let them into any store outside of my sight. There's no way they could have gotten this."
"Well, it's not mine," I said. "It's Holly's. She must have left it here last time she came over. Her parents actually let her wear thongs, mom."
"Well, I'm not Holly's mother," said my mom. "And if her parents had any sense of decency they wouldn't allow her to dress like a skank."
"Geez, mom. You make it sound like she's going to hell just because she wears a thong," I said. "It's just a pair of underwear. Honestly, what's the big deal?"
"I don't want my daughter, or any of my daughter's friends wearing such trash," said my mother. "I always knew that girl was a bad influence on you."
"Mom, she's my best friend," I said.
"Yeah, but I won't allow these disgusting garments in my house," said my mom. "They're slutty and disgusting."
"No, mom, they're not," I said. "They're made to prevent panty lines."
"Why would you even need one?" my mom asked. "God forbid, Marigold, if your father ever saw this, he'd have a heart attack."
"Well, dad isn't here right now," I said. "So just give it to me and I'll give it to Holly at school tomorrow."
"I don't ever want to see this again," my mom said as she threw the thong at me.
That was close. She almost caught me red-handed. I think my mother knew it was mine, she was just afraid to admit the truth. She didn't want to accept the fact I was growing into a sexy mature woman. If I had admitted it, she would've grounded me for life. But she took my word, and we stopped the whole conversation right there.
Little did she know I've been wearing thongs since the seventh grade, ever since I stole my first pair from Victoria's Secret. Since then, I've become quite a kleptomaniac. I'd go back numerous times, crumple the fabric in my pockets, and walked out with a fresh new pair of panties.