These are the things I know are true:

Mom says that cultured women write to get all the thoughts out of their heads so they don’t have much to say when they’re acting as arm jewelry, something to be seen and not heard. Out of simple placation with this ridiculous idea, I’ve grudgingly agreed. But I warn you, I will not go quietly.

My name is Molly Rose Donatella Berluddi. I am the daughter of the engineer Joseph Carlino, and his moll, Angelina Berluddi. I was born September 24, 1909 in St. Simon’s Hospital on 57 Street in what I know to be Boston. I’m an only child, and just recently celebrated by 17th birthday. I was raised Catholic, but I’ve never been a very good one. Recently, I got kicked out of the church. More about that later, I guess.

My best friends in the whole world are Norma, Sue, and Betty Ann. We all met in a milliner’s shop when we were seven or eight. Our mothers wanted to buy us new hats for the Great Oaks Country Club’s May Day Soiree, or some silly shit like that. We all chose a red hat. We didn’t actually get to become better acquainted until the day of the soiree. I chased Frankie Thomasino around the 11th hole with a nine iron for pulling Norma’s hair and making her cry, and Sue and Betty Ann hid me under the punch table until my mother got drunk enough to forget why Frankie had a red welt across his forehead.

My biggest dream is to become a botanist. I just want to spend my days working in a garden, finding pretty flowers and plants and cures for all sorts of terrible diseases that are running rampant. I’ve always wanted to help people, and I’m a little squeamish sometimes (guess it’s the sissy girl in me), but I’d really like to make medicines. Mom, however, wants me to be a moll like her. I think my mom used to be smart but then had low expectations as to what she wanted from life. And yes, I do consider being a show case to be a low expectation. I have no intention of living off my father’s money for the rest of my life, ample though it may be.

Mom’s gotten really embarrassing since Dad left about a year ago to go to St. Petersburg. Most recently notable, when we had to entertain guests and she made fun of my big feet in front of Dad’s gross friends. Since I’ve reached my pine feather period, some of them have gotten the impression that I’m supposed to ‘entertain’ them. One of Dad’s newer business associates, Jimmy Pertucci, recently (as in a few days ago) thought I’d be interested in having his big filthy mitts underneath my kneeduster. He didn’t get any further than that after I broke off two of his incisors with my fist. I was politely told that I was unwelcome at church because I refused to do penance for my ‘vicious attack on an upstanding citizen.’ An upstanding citizen now known to the business world as Jimmy Snaggletooth or Jimmy the Pussywhipped. (Oh yeah. I said it.) Funny thing is, our church is called Our Lady of Perpetual Forgiveness. Ha. More like Our Lady of the Perpetual Flatulence, since the church is filled with old farts that expect women to be divinely judged like men, but still serve under them. Mom forgave me—eventually. She figured out he wasn’t just getting fresh and she let me alone—after she locked me in the closet for a few hours to think about what I did. I’m surprised she didn’t knock the everlasting piss out of me for bleeding on the carpet (who the hell carpets a closet?!).

Halloween is coming up soon, and I’m surprised I still get to go out with the girls that night. I have to promise to wear a costume with gloves so the scabs on my knuckles won’t show (so unattractive, Mom says). The girls and I have decided to go as Musketeers, and if I can just convince Mom that Musketeers didn’t wear skirts, I shouldn’t have too much of a problem. And if I can find a milliner’s shop that makes feathered tri-corner caps, that would really be copacetic.

Well, tonight’s another party night, and Mom’s off sawing logs already, so maybe I won’t have to slide down the drainpipe like I did a few night ago. I hope to spend my evening getting hot, petting a tight goof, and getting positively zozzled so that if I do anything embarrassing, at least I won’t remember. Good night, sweet albatross around my neck. Tomorrow I will have more loving things to say about Mom. Tonight I will wish her chicken pox.