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Prologue
9 years old
I hated when it rained.
While other girlsmy age spun and danced in the summer rain, I never felt the call to move my feet or let my hair soak in heaven’s downpour. Instead, I’d hide away, under my tree, praying for the sun.
“Bexley, come here.” My mother’s hoarse voice rang through our tiny trailer, grating across my skin. Slowly, I untangled my legs from the warmth of my bed and padded to her side. She had the lottery show on, the one that always had her smoking an extra pack of cigarettes and yelling like a madwoman once it was over. I always liked the little balls that pumped and jumped in the plastic machine, but Momma never seemed to be happy when they’d finally land.
“Since it’s raining, you’ll need to stay near the house…you know how the mud gets around here…so don’t go wandering off when your daddy gets here.”
I nodded my understanding. She didn’t have to remind me of these things. It was why I hated the rain. Whenever my father came, Momma always told me to leave the trailer…said they had grown-up business to talk about.
For some reason, my daddy only came to see my momma on Tuesdays and Fridays, usually during lunch time. I hated it because he’d stay so long, and if I wasn’t quick enough, I’d miss lunch entirely. Momma never seemed to care if I ate on those days…one time, Daddy was here until the streetlights came on and I was still huddled in the grass, under the large sycamore. I remember wishing on the stars I could see through those big branches that time would hurry up and school would start. At least during the school year, I was only kicked out when Daddy showed up randomly on the weekend every now and then.
Daddy never wanted to see me, though he had given me a plastic tube filled with candy close to Christmas. Otherwise he only came to talk to Momma. I heard him yelling at her about as often as I accidently saw them doing grown-up things. If Momma’d had her own room, I s’pose I wouldn’t have caught them kissing or any of the other things I wasn’t supposed to see. Like the time my daddy threw money at my momma while she cried for him to stay…but he was always leaving.
When I was little, I figured daddies not seeing their kids was normal. Like lions or something…how the mommas raise the kids and the daddies just hunt and don’t spend much time with the kids. Now, as a nine-year-old, I knew from seeing my friends’ families that mine was different.
“Can I say hi to him this time?” I bit my lip, wishing I didn’t feel so silly for asking. He never wanted to say hi to me. If he saw me at all, he acted like I wasn’t there.
My mother’s laugh got tangled in my chest.
“Honey, he doesn’t want to see you.” She shuffled the green and pink papers in her lap, flicking her cigarette into the tray on her left.
Normally, I’d leave, but this time, I wanted to know.
“Why not?” Had I done something wrong? Jessie from school told me the reason my daddy wouldn’t want to see me was because my hair was as white as lightning; she said he probably thought I was a witch.
My mother let out a sigh, her curly hair sky-high from the hairspray she used, always making it stick in place. Her makeup was done in pastel blue, and her off-the-shoulder sweater revealed her aqua blue bra. It was my favorite color out of all the colors she owned.
“Simplest way to put this: you aren’t enough for him. While I don’t mind you running around here…he does.”
“But why? I don’t talk, I don’t take up much space…maybe I can just talk to him about his day or show him I know how to make grilled cheese now?” He’d be proud—no one else my age was allowed to use the stove as much as I did.
“How can I explain this to where you’ll understand…” She let out one of those heavy sighs, the ones that seemed to always make me feel like I was falling through the floor. “You like ice cream, right?”
“Yeah…” I tangled my fingers together, ignoring how dirty they were from using the burnt pieces of wood from the next-door neighbor’s fire pit. I liked to draw pictures of animals with them. One time I asked my momma for paints or colored pencils to draw with, but she said we didn’t have the money. That was okay though; burnt wood worked nicely if you pressed it right.
“Well…everyone has their preferred flavors. Your daddy likes chocolate—it’s his absolute favorite—and while I may be like chocolate, you are not.”
“What am I then?” I wanted to think if I were to be any ice cream flavor, it would be strawberry or pineapple.
“Remember that flavor you ain’t never liked?”
I screwed up my nose, thinking of the gross blended flavors of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate.
“Well, you’re like that: sweet, and good for the right kind of people, but not everyone’s first choice. You’ll see when you’re older.”
Somehow my little heart felt like it had shrunk to the size of a marble. How could I be the worst kind of flavor? I was nice to everyone, even to Momma when she was mean. I didn’t understand what I had done to deserve such a disgusting flavor…but that night I realized I didn’t want to be someone’s second or third—or last—choice.
I wanted to be someone’s favorite. I would do anything to be someone’s first pick.
