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"You think I care what you think of me?" My mother lowers the book to her side. "How dare you read a romance novel."
"It’s not a romance novel."
"Oh?" Her gaze grows more piercing. "Now you’re lying to me?"
It’s a spicy novel. There’s a big difference.
My chest hurts, and my stomach ties itself in knots, "I… I’m n-n-not, lying to, y-y-you." I hate how my stuttering makes me sound weak.
"Oh, and now she stammers. You are incorrigible. You can’t do anything I tell you to do. Then, you go against my instructions not to read romance novels. How many times have I told you, you should not read these sinful tomes?"
Tomes. Did she say tomes? She said tomes.
"It’s not a tome," I snarl.
My ma curls her mouth. "It’s a tome."
"No, it isn’t."
The whiteness extends out from the tips of her ears to the lobes. Oh, no, that’s bad. So bad. I’ve seen that happen only once, when she got so upset with my sister Olivia that she caned her.
I begin to back away, but my mother closes the distance between us and snatches me by my ear. She twists my ear lobe and pain slices through my head. "Let me go, you… you… witch."
"You mean bitch with a capital B, don’t you?" my ma snaps.
"Yes, I do."
She stills. "What did you say?"
"I… I… I…"
She laughs. "Can’t string two words together and wants to read romance novels. The way you’re headed, you’ll be losing your virginity before you’re fifteen, and then your brother won’t have a choice but to sell you into prostitution."
I stare at my mother in horror. "That’s a terrible thing to s-s-say."
"It’s what you deserve for reading these evil words."
"They are not evil."
Her smile widens. "But I can be when you don’t obey me."
* * *
I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.Maybe she has a point. Maybe at fourteen I am too young to read these kinds of books. Not that I looked it. Thanks to an early growth spurt, when I also filled out, I’m often mistaken for an adult. I certainly feel like one in my head and in my soul. Besides, all of my friends are reading them, too, and one of them loaned a book to me. How else am I supposed to find out about what happens between a man and a woman? My mother certainly isn’t going to talk to me about it, and as for my brother... That would be creepy. My sister already left home; else I’d have someone to talk to about these strange goings-on in my body that I really didn’t understand at all.
I drag the back of my hand across my face. My arm trembles. My palm hurts. I turn it over, stare at the slashes of pink that crisscross the soft skin. "She’s a bitch with a capital B." My mother caned me. She dragged me to the kitchen, made me hold out my palms, then in front of all the staff, she brought the thinnest stick I’ve ever seen down on me.
I almost cried out. Almost. Thankfully, I managed to bite down on my tongue enough to draw blood. But I’ll take the coppery taste over giving her the satisfaction of hearing me scream. Twenty strokes on each hand, and by the end, I was sweating and shivering. She’d finally stopped only to send me to my room and ground me without food for the next day.
I threw myself on the bed, had a good cry, and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was past midnight. I was starving, and my palms still ached. I drank water from the sink in the bathroom, which sated me for the moment, then washed my face. I headed back to my room, and unable to sleep, paced back and forth. I was still awake when the clock in my room struck two a.m. So, I crawled out of window and down two floors using the branches of the tree that grows past my bedroom window. Then, I raced across the lawn, through the gate in the fence and down to the beach. I kept running until the house was out of sight. Only then, did I slow down. I walked until my feet were tired, finally sinking down on the sand under the moonlight.
It’s late, but I couldn’t stay in that house for one second longer. I needed to get out and run and pretend I’m free, at least, for a little while. Also, this is Naples, and everyone knows who my father was. It means anyone could recognize me and report me back to my family. On the other hand, no one would touch me. Not unless they want to incur the wrath of the local Mafia Don, which, face it, no one wants.
I bring my legs up, wrap my arms about them, and rest my chin on my knees. "I am going to run away and become a singer. I am going to be the most well-known pop star in the world. Everyone will want to hear me. I’ll be rich and famous and—" I sniff. It’s always a struggle to complete a sentence without stuttering when I get emotional.
The only exception is when I sing. When I close my eyes and allow the music to carry me away, I don’t stammer. I don’t trip over my words. I’m a completely different person. A beautiful woman, who is confident and bold, and who never has to worry about anyone catching her reading a spicy novel.
So what, if I’m a teenager? I understand what’s happening between the pages… Most of it, anyway. And my imagination fills in the gaps. I love how the spice in the books makes me feel. All those tingles and trembles which imbue my lower belly, and between my legs, and send spurts of heat under my skin. It’s weird, but also, strangely familiar. Like I’ve been waiting my entire life for something. Like I’m ready for it. I am.
