Prologue. Introduce protagonist. Establish tone. Introduce concept of Emily Post books.
PROLOGUE
The world was destroyed by a fickle thirteen-year-old girl armed with only a cell phone and a social media account—Ellison’s world, that is, and like any good apocalypse it arrived unexpectedly on a beautiful Sunday afternoon with a delightful, little ding.
Ellison’s nails were still wet when she heard it, so she carefully picked up her phone with the pads of her fingertips. Her best friend had posted a video titled Funniest Thing You Will Ever See. Ellison pressed play, preemptively smiling, Mae always sent the best videos, but she was confused when she saw herself fill her screen. It was a video of her from last night.
As soon as she realized what it was, she started screaming. “Mom! Mom!” Ellison shrieked. “She posted it! She posted it! I can’t believe it!”
Beth Brierley rushed through the door, carrying a basket of laundry. “Ellison, what is going on?”
“Look!” Ellison thrust her phone at her mother, bashing her freshly painted nails in her haste.
Beth dropped the laundry and grabbed the phone. “Ellison, what is this? Why are you running around in your bra and underwear? Where are you?”
“It was last night! We played Truth or Dare at Mae’s house last night—like we always do! They dared me to run around the house, outside, dressed like that.” Ellison paced. She bit the edge of her thumbnail and grimaced as her teeth sank into the gummy lacquer.
“Why did you let them tape it? Who is taping you?”
“Mae! Mae recorded it! Mae POSTED it. She said it was the funniest thing you will ever see!”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. This isn’t funny. It’s…”
Ellison saw her mom’s eyes widen as her words fell away. “Oh, Ellison, you fell?
“The grass was wet! It rained all day yesterday, remember? I went around the last corner and totally wiped out!”
“Well, you hopped right up,” her mother said, unable to tear her eyes from the screen, “Oh, but,” she took a dramatic pause, “You’re so…muddy.”
Ellison grabbed the phone back. “Oh God, it looks like I pooped my pants!” Heat radiated from her temples to her stomach as she watched her carefree, yesterday-self bound back into the house and disappear, laughing, wet and dirty. The video ended with the door closing behind her.
Ellison and her mom stood in her room, silent.
“What am I going to do?” She raked her fingers through her hair and felt the individual strands sticking and pulling against the wet polish. Damn it. Still wet! Ellison ripped her hands down to survey the damage. Each nail was now scarred with a maze of deep, thin trenches.
“Did she just send it just to you?” her mom asked. “Just ask her not to send it to anyone else.”
Ellison’s eyes filled with a hope that was soon dashed, as her phone began to ding and ding and ding.
Ding. Nice tighty whities
Ding. Poopsie Daisie
Ding. 7.2. Nice form. Totally missed the landing. “Oh, mom, it’s Gabe from gymnastics camp! Hot Gabe. Oh my God, he saw it! What am I going to do?” Ellison was apoplectic.
Ding. I thought she had a better body. That was from a girl Ellison barely knew from school and now fervently hated.
“Why would Mae do this?” Her voice broke as she asked, looking helplessly at her mother.
“Is there any chance it was an accident?”
“An accident? It’s edited! She set it to music!”
“Just call her and ask her to take it down.”
“It doesn’t work like that mom.” She heard her snarky, indignant tone, but couldn’t change it.
Ellison watched her mother walk over to the overflowing bookcase in the corner of her room. She could feel “the speech” coming. “Oh, mom, please. I don’t want to hear about THE BOOKS.”
“I think that this might be the most perfect moment to hear about THE BOOKS, especially since you recently decided to run around half-naked with an audience and a camera crew.” Her mother gave her a withering look and then turned her attention back to the bookshelves.
Two years ago, Beth Brierley joined Ancestry.com and was delighted to learn that she was a not-too-distant descendant of the manners maven herself, Emily Post. The revelation had quickly been followed by the purchase of several of the phenom’s biographies, as well as all the Etiquette books Ms. Post, and anyone related to her, had ever published.
Her mother tapped her nail across several thick spines, hunting for a particular title. “You may not know this, but Emily Post was at the center of a very public scandal when she was in her early thirties. Her husband was a terrible cheat and when his secret was discovered, he was blackmailed. This type of blackmailing was somewhat common practice then, but Emily’s husband decided he wouldn’t pay. Instead, he reported the blackmailer. The trial was the talk of the town for weeks. Emily was humiliated. Do you know what she did?”
“Wrote some rules around the right way to attend a trial.”
Beth laughed. “No. She held her head high. She dressed exquisitely. She wore red—hats, feathers, shoes, nail polish. And then, when the trial was over, she divorced her no-good husband and became the preeminent authority on how to handle even the most uncomfortable social situations—and a bunch of other stuff.”
"Yes—I know—the forks, the thank you notes, and the no white after Labor Day, which isn’t even a thing anymore, mom.”
“I know it’s not now...but back in the early 1900s, it WAS a thing. Only the rich could afford a light, white-colored summer wardrobe—most people couldn’t—and wearing it after Labor Day was considered rubbing it in. But this rule was unspoken, so the newly rich and the people who wanted to socialize with the newly rich didn’t know it. So, these poor people, who just didn’t KNOW any better, would wear white after Labor Day and they would be ridiculed.”
“And, so, she wrote the books,” Ellison said, making a large sweeping motion with her arm, as she’d also heard that line a million times.
“Yes,” her mom smiled. “And so, she wrote the books.”
“People don’t think like that anymore, mom.”
“Only a sociopath would have no regard for someone’s feelings, for the rights and wrongs in society…that is literally the definition of a sociopath.”
“Mom, I’m in middle school. We’re all sociopaths.”
“You’re not. Because you KNOW better.”
Ellison smiled the tiniest smile.
“So, what are we going to do about this?” her mom asked, nudging the phone.
The image of herself slipping and falling on the grass, in her bra and underwear, flashed through her mind. “Oh God,” Ellison moaned. “My stomach is cramping. I can’t believe this is my life right now.” She curled into the fetal position on her bed, as her phone dinged again.
Beth sat down next to her. “What do you want to do?”
“Is boarding school an option? Maybe an Amish community where there’s no cell phone service.”
“Is that what you really want to do? You’re allergic to horses.”
Ellison sat up. “I never thought I’d ask this, but what does the book say?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Beth replied, as she flipped through the thick etiquette tome. “Am I looking for social media humiliation?”
“Is that in there?”
“Something like it. Here it is. When it comes to social posts, one big component of etiquette has to do with making sure you have people’s permission before you post an image of them or tag them. … If you are upset by a post that’s gone up, by all means reach out to the friend or family member who posted it. ‘Zephyr, I had a ton of fun Friday, but would you please take down the photo of me by the pool? I’m not comfortable with pics of me in a bathing suit being online—even among friends.’”
Ellison hated to admit it, but that response made sense. She and Mae had been best friends since kindergarten. Of course, she should reach out to her. Ellison picked up the phone and sent Mae a message, “Mae, I had so much fun last night, but would you please take down the video of me running around the house? I’m not comfortable with pics of me in my bra and underwear being online. Thx!”
“Honey, I’m proud of you. I’m sure Mae will take it down.” Beth tapped Ellison on the leg, picked up the laundry basket and walked out of the room.
Ellison sat back on her pillows and felt better. Everything was manageable with the right response. She took a deep breath. Her phone dinged.
“People LOVE this video and you look great! Stop worrying about what other people think! (heart emoji)”
Ellison was stunned. Mae wasn’t going to take it down. That took a minute to absorb. Mae wasn’t going to take it down. Asked and answered. Polite request denied by her oldest friend in the world.
She stared down at her ruined nails and began to pick at the polish. Tiny piece by tiny piece of pink pulled away as she attempted to make sense of what had just happened. How could she go to school now that everyone she knew and more she didn’t had seen her like that? If she wanted that video down, she was going to have to do something about it.
Amidst all the unknown, there were two things about which Ellison was absolutely certain. For the rest of her life, she would always remember this moment when she saw the color of Pink BIG nail polish, so she would never wear it again and her long-lost relative—Emily Post—and her mom—were wrong. A knowledge of etiquette won’t save anyone anymore.