“Daniela.”His voice is cold and emotionless, a stark contrast to his usual fiery temper.“Open the door.”
I don’t want to.I want to barricade it, to hide from him, to pretend that none of this is happening.But that’s not an option.Not when it’s his house, his rules.
I rise from my bed, my legs shaking as I approach the door.Taking a deep breath, I open it, flinching at the sight of my father standing there, his presence overpowering.His eyes are hard, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“A week,” he says through gritted teeth.“A week of antibiotics, Daniela, and then re-test in a month.”
“This wasn’t my fault, Papa.”
His rage takes over his demeanor.
I’m right.It’s not my fault.
But that’s not how he sees it.
“You will pay the price for this,” he says.“A month.After a month of punishment, you’ll be begging to go back to entertaining my associates.”
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
How I wish he would slam it!Show who he truly is.
A day passes.
Another.
Until my father enters my room.
“Daniela.”His voice is fond, which means it’s dangerous.“Feeling better,mija?”
I arrange my face into the good daughter.“Yes.”
“Good.”He gestures.“Come with me, please.”
I secure my robe around me and follow him out of my room, down the spiral staircase, through a hallway, and into his private office.
“What the…?”I let my jaw drop as I take in the line of young girls.
Five of them, all standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the bay window in my father’s office.
They can’t be older than thirteen.Maybe twelve.Their dresses are childish.Not in the sweet way of girls who still love the twirl of a skirt.More like what you might dress a doll in.
For show.Strictly for show.Displaying a caricature of youth.
White socks.Patent leather shoes.
All very pretty, hair glossy and black and dressed with bright colored ribbons.Except for one.She’s blond and pale and she looks slightly older, with breasts beginning to develop.Her hair is twisted into a long braid.
My heart pounds in my ears.
These girls are beautiful in the way girls are when they’re on the verge of womanhood.Eyes too big.Knees knobby.Hands folded because someone told them to fold them.
One of them looks at me with a spark I recognize from poor stray dogs who have learned what a kicked rib feels like.Another stares at the carpet like if she doesn’t move maybe she’ll disappear.It’s a feeling I’m far too familiar with.
My father clasps his hands behind his back and smiles.
“Choose,” he says.
My mouth is dry.“Excuse me?”
He nods to the row.“Pick one.”
I look at him, at the girls, back at him again.I open my mouth.No sound.I swallow hard enough to hurt and try again.
“Pick one?”I repeat, because I’m still not sure what’s going on.“For what?”
