Isabelle smiled, her face bearing an uncanny resemblance to a horse. Obsidian eyes glittering in the soft light of the party, she seemed to be feeding off the uneasy vibe I was experiencing. She soaked it in like emotional UV rays, giving her ego that orange-y tan. "Now Vanessa," Her voice had that faux-british accent so many of the socialites around here like to fake. "You must go and change, that outfit is absolutely hideous. Imagine what your father would think if he saw you dressed like this."

"My name's not Vanessa." I replied coldly. It's really not. It's just Van. Or Vannie if I like you or I'm dating you.

The smile flickered for a moment, before returning full force. "I beg your pardon?"

I smiled sweetly, "My name's not Vanessa, Isabelle, it's Van. Plain old Van. No extension. My mother named me after Van Morrison." He's my mother's favorite musician, and when I was born one of his songs was playing on the radio beside her bed. Thus, my name is and will forever be: Van Elise Brenhauer.

Isabelle's perfectly sculpted brows furrowed, betraying the lines on her forehead she and so many other women worked to kill. "Van....Morrison?" The confusion on her face was completely convincing, almost leading me to believe her.

"He's just a musician, Izzy. No one you would know." Women like her listened to Whatever is Hip For these Five Minutes.