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“Well then…” She joins in my laughter and points to the cake. “Blow out the candles before the frosting burns!”
When I let her out in front of the Chamber some forty minutes later, she turns to me as she exits.
“I’m sorry to burden you with this…” She presses a piece of paper into my hand. “But could you please get what I need for your birthday party?”
A party? Everything in me screams “No!” but I put on a good face. “So, what will it be?” I ask after glancing at the list. “The ingredients…” Pied dough kebab buns, canned tomatoes, concentrated tomato paste, Manchego cheese, chorizo sausage, and black olives. “…don’t make sense.”
She takes my hand with the sheet and turns it so she can look at it. “Oh, stupid. I forgot olive oil and Mediterranean seasoning. Will you write that in, please?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” I suppress a grumble. After successfully resisting Bella’s attempts to train me, I really should refuse. “But now tell me what you’re making?”
A mischievous smile charms Celine’s face. “A very special pizza, you’ll love it,” she announces. “Well then, see you tonight!”
“See you tonight…”
Thespecial pizzahits the guests at the impromptu birthday party like New Year’s Eve fireworks.
Even Bella, who is usually conspicuous by her complete lack of cooking skills, asks Celine for the recipe. “Ace! I really need to make these when Jorge stops back here on his tingle tour of the parlors.” She hugs Celine, pressing a peck on her cheek in exuberance. “I bet he’ll eat it up that I had them express-delivered fromPizza Hut.”
The two girls giggle peacefully, then Bella says goodbye with the last batch of invitees.
Silence descends over the building as the door slams behind them. Celine and I are left alone. No artist has checked in this week. We’ve had the big rush to get dressed up for today’s Valentine’s Day for the last fortnight.
Hand in glove, quite harmoniously, we clean up. Lastly, I vacuum away the crumbs while Celine wipes ring-shaped water stains off the grand piano left by set-down glasses. After I turn off the vacuum cleaner, she hits individual keys with her finger.
“Too bad I can’t play the piano,” she says, polishing the varnish with abandon. “Otherwise, I could have played for you today.”
“Did you forget?” I tap my forehead. “Your serenade this morning was amazing.”
She gives me a sidelong glance, timid as the shyest deer. “I hope it wasn’t too encroaching to improvise your birthday.” Then that typical feminine curiosity flares in her eyes. “Why aren’t you celebrating it, anyway?”
“On Valentine’s Day?” I lure her down the wrong path. “That’s when everyone’s all about their crushes.”
Pursing her lips slightly she eyes me in a way that almost scares me. Careful not to let on how I feel about her, I sit down on the piano stool. “Can’t you really play anything?” I ask her, picking up a few introductory chords. “Not evenChopsticks?”
“It sounds fun,” she remarks to the simple melody in waltz time. “But no: I’m afraid as far as piano playing is concerned, I’m the absolute opposite of a God-given talent.”
“You have other things down pat.” Gently, I close the lid. “Thank you for a lovely day.”
Fingers dig into my chin-length hair. A whimper escapes my throat in anticipation of what’s to come.
Promptlyshechastises me for my effeminacy. “Mimosa! Princess Prissy!”
Is it possible that words hurt more than blows? When they are spat out byher, they do.
“…never be a real man,” she hisses, “Just as much of a pencil-neck as your father.” She emphasizes the last word with scorn. “For once, he had balls in his pants. And what came of it? What did he father? His miserable decal: prissy, spoiled, tame.” The fingers that had clawed into my strands of hair are now tearing at them. Forcing me down to the floor, across the room. Seemingly aimlessly—but it’s clear to me, and toher, what she’s aiming for.
JERK. JOLT. PLUCK.
I can’t hold back the tears that spring in my eyes. It hurts so much! Stop it, Ma! If she keeps doing that, she’ll rip my scalp off my skull! Why can’t she hit me? Why?
JOLT. PLUCK.
The pain almost makes me see stars. Not wanting to givehermore reason to be angry, I bite my tongue. I taste blood, which strangely calms me.Take the belt out of the loops of your pants!I try to telepath her. I’ve gotten so well used to the whipping of the leather on my skin, after all.
PLUCK. JOLT—JERK.
With a last painful surge, the roots of my hair give way.
