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The first time I saw him, it was love at first sight. At least my ten-year-old brain, that had watched too many romance movies with my incurable romantic mother wanted to believe. He was standing across the playground talking to the Social Studies teacher whose name I could never remember. He was new from just a few towns over, I later learned, after his wife died in a fatal car accident leaving him widowed and devastated.
It was a warm Spring day, one of the first of the season and I found myself getting hot under my sweater that my mother made me promise not to take off. I pulled at it, wishing I had the courage to disobey just this once, and sighed.
Mark Erickson, this stupid bully that my mother told me only picked on me because he was sweet on me, ran past me, knocking me over and breaking my line of sight with my new love. I hit the mulch, but I didn’t get up. I just stared up at this beautiful man willing him to look at me. He looked like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, with jet black hair and tanned skin. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I bet they were blue just like his. I cocked my head to the side briefly wondering what it would be like to be part of his world.
The second time was later that week. He entered my math class just as we began a test. I set down my pencil, watching him move towards the front to quietly talk to my teacher. I tried to angle my ear towards them just to hear his voice.What did he sound like?I got up and moved towards the sharpener as it was in the front of the room. My heart pounded with every step, knowing that I’d get to hear his voice any second now.And I did.
Soft. Smooth. Rich.
I imagined it was what my father would sound like,if I had one.
The third, and perhaps the most pertinent time, he spoke to me. He told me he liked my pink overalls that I begged my mother not to make me wear. He gave me a grin, baring all his teeth and I almost melted. My heart slammed against my little ribcage and I couldn’t help but feel like I was floating.
The beautiful man noticed me.
Maybe he’d love me one day.
Maybe he’d kiss me like they do at the end of the movies.
But I was wrong.
So, fucking wrong.
Because although I saw him first and told myself at the young age of ten that I was madly in love with this beautiful man, said beautiful man fell in love with someone else.
My mother.
I was ten years old when I fell in love.
Two years later, I fell inhate.
“STASSI VALE, GET UP!” His voice booms through the house and I cringe hearing the way he says my name. First of all, my name is Stassia. PronouncedStah-See-Uh. It was allegedly a nod to my father and my Italian roots. Roots I don’t know all that well, because said father up and left the second my mother learned she was pregnant. A part of me wonders about them. Not really my father because he didn’t really sound like a guy worth shit, but maybe a grandmother? One that could teach me to make pasta or cannolis from scratch or maybe an aunt on her fourth marriage that knows where to find the best gelato and sneaks me wine at dinner.
I sit up in bed, wondering about that side of my family for perhaps the millionth time in my life. My mother claims not to know anything about them or even how to get in contact with them and my heart sinks every time she brushes off my feelings about this whole part of me I know nothing about. Maybe it was just too painful for her to talk about.
I get up and move towards the vanity in my bedroom, pulling my hair out of the two braids that I’d put in last night so that it would sport some natural waves today. My mother is black and my father was…well…isItalian, so my hair can be temperamental, but luckily, today isn’t one of those days. There’s a knock on the door and I snap my gaze towards the sound, glaring at the man I know to be on the other side of it.
“What?”
His deep booming voice moves through the room and resounds off the walls. “Are you decent?”
“If I say no, will you go away?” I rub under my charcoal eyes and lean forward, staring at the bags I know to be beneath them from staying on the phone until two a.m. the night before. A guy, of course. Carter James, the captain of the football team. I’m a cheerleader and it seems the whole school is set on us becoming a walking cliché. I’ve gone along with it because, frankly, I’m bored and he looksreallygood in that uniform.
But in actuality, I’m just looking for something to kill time. I’m so bored with everything. I go to school, get goodgrades—ones good enough to get me accepted to a few Ivy League schools my mothermademe apply to and every state schoolI wantedto apply to.Luckily, I convinced her to let me go to a local university in the fall because I’m not keen on going away much like so many of my friends.
I’ll admit, I slacked off this semester after getting into college and most of my teachers know not to fuck with the principal’s stepdaughter anyway. I go to cheerleading practice and the occasional French club when I don’t ditch to go get high in my friends’ basement.
I’m excited about college and the very bright future still in front of me, but I’m not enjoying the present at all.
“You’re going to be late for school,” he tells me and I roll my eyes.
“Can’t have that,” I murmur. “Good thing my mother is banging the principal,” I call through the door. “Write me a note, Daddy dearest.”
I hear a huff and I can bet every dime I have he’s pointing at the door, waving that index finger around like it gives himanyauthority. “I am leaving here in twenty-five minutes; your ass better be in that seat.”
I get up and stomp towards the door, flinging it open and meeting his piercing blue eyes. He’s already dressed in his usual attire: a black suit, white shirt, and a tie with a pop of color. Today it’s turquoise, and I wish I could admire the fact that it really brings out the color of his eyes. I look away because there’s been a time or two that I’ve gotten lost in those blue eyes, and I’m too annoyed to let them sway my current mood. “This is ridiculous. I’m seventeen, I have a license, I’m graduating intwomonths, and I’m forced to ride to school withyou. I want a car.” I cross my arms over my chest. It isn’t fair. I don’t have a car, and my stepfather hates when I ride in a car with any of my friends; most of us only have our provisional licenses and thus shouldn’t be riding around with any other minors.And yet everyone else does it.
His eyes narrow and he leans forward and points his finger at me. “You can have a car when your attitude changes.”
