Ugh… I don't even wanna talk about this one.
But whatever. You're here. I'm here. We're doing this.
Sweet 16. That's what they called it. Like it was cute or whatever.
Let me ask you something. If someone dies at your party, do you still get to make a wish when you blow out the candles?
I didn't even like cake. I liked the attention. The power. The fact that people finally gave a shit.
I mean… yeah, I was famous. You would be too, if someone died and everyone thought you did it but then boom—you walk free.
Ex-convict with a baby face. Who wouldn't wanna invite that girl to their table?
So, yeah. I leaned into it. I planned the biggest party my school had ever seen. Maybe I was trying to prove I was untouchable.
Spoiler alert: I wasn't.
My ***** died that night.
And that's when everything started coming for me.
—And now here I am, confined to this bed, still craving the spotlight even when the lights are out—
Hello, Chicos y Chicas. Yeah, I know—I'm treating this like a blog. But hey, bedridden doesn't mean the ability to have fun is, too.
I'm pretty sure I'd be a hell of an influencer, don't y'all think so?
Okay, cut the shit. School life got instantly better. But damn, I had to sacrifice a lot for that fame. I literally obliterated my morals.
No popular high-schooler is morally upright—let's face it. I was no different, and neither are the shitty high-schoolers of today. Ugh.
I was raised—or at least raised myself—to believe true sex needs some connection or whatever. But think about it: real sex is rarely as fun as what you see on "The Hub." It's just missionary, doggie, maybe a splash of oral—nothing like the athleticism and wild variety that grace those screens on **** sites.
"Brought myself up" is the right phrase, because being a teenager is arguably the hardest stage—for kids and parents alike. So please, parents, stop complaining about how hard it is.
'Cause what we need—what I needed—was simple: love, support, attention. Lots of you are like, "But they give it." No. That's not it. Not even close.
You should walk your way up to that stage where I can come home and tell you about my troubles, my worries—just spill how my day actually went, you know?
So yeah, we're complicated—especially us girls—but big whoop. You all went through the same crap. It might be harder now with technology and all, but honestly, the old-school method works like a charm. I wish my mom had thought of this. But hey, when you're Christian, you believe everything happens for a reason. If she'd done it, I wouldn't be here, stuck narrating my life from a bed. I'd have already told her everything, and she'd have whisked me away from this country I'm… currently stuck in.
Okay, enough! I'm starting to sound like a therapist for parents—and I always get carried away. So… um… back to the point. I'm dialing it down, okay? Good.
Sweet sixteen… sweet little sixteen. Right. My birthday was a week away, and I was—no joke—both terrified and excited. I was "terricited."
I didn't have time for a montage. Fast forward to today: shopping—lots and lots of shopping—while invitation cards flew out. I basically invited the whole bloody school. Because, you know, the Queen was throwing a coronation, so yeah—peasants and nobles alike were welcome.
But my mom never actually told me where she got the money to book a hall that big. I guess I must've had fans, super-secret donors, or maybe my guardian angel was just filthy rich.
Honestly, though, I'm glad the party didn't go as planned—otherwise you wouldn't have a six-foot-somethin' Davina Hetley narrating her own train wreck. Kooky, innit?
And no, I'm not British—I just dig their slang. "Innit, mate." And I'm definitely not Mexican. Wait… is it "Mei-ko" or "Mexico"? So is it "May-hee-kan" or "mek-see-kan"? Ummm… I'll go with Mexican ("May-hee-kan"). Cool. I'm not from a Spanish-speaking country—I'm proudly—okay, not so proudly but distinctively—American. Yeah, American. I learn Spanish because it's cool. French can wait.
Anyway, back to business. There was something off about the invitations. I designed them, but the venue info? That was my mom's addition. It was meant to be a "surprise," I guess—turns out it was more than that.
Oh, and before I fast-forward to D-Day, there was the rodent infestation at home. House needed fumigation, so we decamped to a hotel. No place nearby to crash, so hotel it was.
That morning, I woke up at 5 a.m.—the earliest I've ever risen in my entire pre-adult life. I wanted my skincare routine to be on point for my big day. I brushed my teeth, washed my hair, then showered. Hair done, I came out to dry it when I heard the window creak. Scared the shit out of me. I ducked behind the bathroom door. Then… footsteps. Two of them. Men? Boys? Approaching the door.
Kidnap me like a coward? Or go down swinging? Instinct kicked in—I yanked the hair dryer from its socket and held it like a weapon.
When I felt the footsteps getting louder—closer and closer—I bolted out of the bathroom in my bathrobe, hair dryer spinning overhead. It didn't last long: thwack—smack on Kidnapper 1's forehead. He lost it. But who gives a fuck? Those bitches grabbed me by the arms, hoisted me up, my legs flailing like crazy.
I screamed, sure I'd wake my mom—she's a "deep sleeper," though—so nope. Next thing I knew, they shoved me into a black bag. Being tossed into that thing was dehumanizing as hell.
Word of advice: never book a ground-floor room. They tossed me right out the window, no sweat. Then into their trunk. Thirty minutes of speeding later, the trunk popped open. Blindfold still on, but free. I figured they didn't want me spotting landmarks.
If my life were a Bollywood flick, this is where I'd end up in a warehouse by a train station, engines roaring, so whenever my family was called for a ransom, my ass would've already been saved by my ninja uncle, who would've kicked the fuck out of the perpetrators' "asses."
They just guided me—hand in hand—into a building, then just walked away. Just turned and left; no ties, no threats.
Foolishly, for some reason, they didn't tie my hands up.
I chuckled, yanked off the blindfold, and—boom—a massive banner:
> "Happy Birthday, 'D'. We kinda love you 😁"
Then a roar:
> "Happy Birthday, Davina! Woo!"
RESPECTIVELY
I couldn't even contain how happy I felt and smiled, till it came out immediately with tears of joy. Which, of course, my friends Elsie and Becky rushed to use a hug and hide, 'cause the Queen doesn't falter or show emotions, and definitely not publicly.
Who's Elsie and Becky? Oh, that's a nice question, which I'm going to answer by saying: you get more acquaintances when you get famous. Even if Elsie and Becky might try to always be there for me. But to me, just shopping buddies and gal pals. Necessary for boys' gossip (not on my side though).
They're there for sleepovers, girls' night out—Night Out. Oh, and makeup! And Instagram posts.
To me, they're just like... Iron Man's Jervis. But... sexier.