Snow, Blood, and Envy
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Jean Haus
Chapter 1~Snow
In the short time I’ve lived with my father, I’ve met more than ten of his girlfriends. Why he introduces me to these women is beyond me. Beside the fact I never see them again, I rarely see him. Maybe he thinks the two-minute introductions equal quality time. This is so not quality. Music blares in my ears, my father’s mouth moves, and the woman stares at me. Judging, dark eyes slide over my frayed jeans, t-shirt, and even pause at the bracelets on my wrists while I force a fixed smile. Ugh. Where does he find them?
Then his mouth forms an unbelievable word.
I rip my earbuds out. “Did you say married?”
“Yes, married.” Grinning—he never grins—he lifts her hand to show me a ridiculously huge diamond. “Next week in Fiji, Mali will become Mrs. Drew Nash.”
“Next week?” I gasp, staring at the rock. With each beating thump from my iPod, the stone pulsates, grows, and threatens to swallow me. I stumble away from the swelling shine until my legs hit the back of the couch and my unsteady fingers scramble for the stop button.
He taps his blazer chest pocket where an envelope sticks out. “We fly out on Tuesday.”
My palm grows sweaty and my iPod almost slips from my fingers. The words are like a foreign language. Mali, Fiji, Tuesday…Has he lost his freakin’ mind? “How long have you been dating?”
“We met three weeks ago.” He wraps an arm around her waist while my brain slowly calculates three weeks into twenty-one days. His stupid grin grows wider. “It was a whirlwind romance. So we thought we’d stay home tonight and cook dinner for the three of us.”
“Our first family meal,” Mali says, smiling up at him and running a hand through her long, black hair.
My father cooking almost surprises me more than him getting married. He’s never even made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in all my sixteen years. Granted before moving in with him, I only saw him two weeks during the summer and a few days over Christmas break, but now he’s a culinary master?
“I’ve been waiting so long to meet you, Nivea.” Mali places a manicured hand on his silk tie and leans forward until that long hair swings over her shoulder. “I’m hoping we can become close friends, and maybe one day you’ll even refer to me as mother.”
Um, that’s never going to happen. Of course, tall with model-like bone structure the woman is flawlessly beautiful. Silver jewelry drips posh off her neck and arms. Her designer outfit—white blouse, black skirt, and high heels—matches my father’s tall custom-suit-wearing-form perfectly. Though younger than my forty-four-year- old father, she isn’t young. Standing amid the suede furniture, modern art, and bronze sculptures of our living room, they look like an upscale magazine ad—glossy, hollow, and perfect. I glance down at my Bugs Bunny T-shirt. I don’t like posh. In fact, I loathe it. But the remark about my mother makes posh irrelevant. This woman isn’t even comparable to my mother.
My father’s eyes narrow at my silence.
I force a weak smile. “My friends call me Nivi.” I need to get out of here. Now. “I should go finish my homework while you two…um do dinner, I mean cook.”
I stumble past their questioning gazes, the large dining room table, and out onto the glassed enclosed patio. Somehow, I shut the door without slamming it. With the sky pictured above and potted greenery at eye level, the glassed room is my favorite place in the penthouse. Nothing designer here, just wrought iron furniture and a stone floor. An ordinary nook inside overwhelming luxury. Right now, I’d like to destroy the tranquility, beat my head against the glass, and twist the plants into pieces. Instead, I lay my face against the coolness of my open chemistry book lying on the table.
I should’ve gotten that Coke. The one I’d been on my way to the kitchen to get before my father’s ambush. Deprived of the fizzy goodness, I try to blame thirst for burying my nose in the book’s crease. It doesn’t work. I can live with thirst. I’m not so sure about the earth shattering news just delivered.
A long sigh escapes me. I want my father to be happy, and really I don’t care who he marries. Yet could he at least date for a couple of months? Let me get used to the idea?
High-pitched laughter rings from somewhere in the penthouse.
Obviously not.
As shock slowly dissipates, the bang of cupboards and the chop of a knife sound from inside. Rosa, our maid, must have left the kitchen doors open. Curiosity has me tiptoeing past the glassed dining room to the edge of the curtained kitchen doors. I just about press my ear against the fabric.
“Drew, how can you let her dress like that?” Mali’s question has my eyes narrowing on the gauze between us. “It’s atrocious. She looks like a teenage bum.”
So I’ve become a bit lazy about my appearance, but who the hell is she except a step monster dropped out of the sky?
The chopping pauses. “Believe me,” my father replies. “I’ve tried to change her wardrobe. She refuses. Other than her school uniform, she persists on dressing that way.”
Glass clinks on the granite followed by the sound of pouring liquid.
“She’s far from homely, and so tall and lean. The contrast between her dark hair and blue eyes is quite stunning. And that porcelain skin… It’s just hard to see her coloring past the garbage she wears.”
“Her mother let her wear whatever she wanted.”
My hands clench at the reference to my mother. Like he knows anything about her.
“Yes, that’s apparent.” Glass clinks on the counter again.
Something sizzles on the stove and the scent of garlic fills the air.
“How long were you married?” Mali asks.
The chopping pauses again. “We weren’t. We lived together for about five months. Nivi was born in Cleveland.”
My nails bite into my palms. He makes it sound all nonchalant, but my mother canceled that wedding because she wanted affection in a form other than money. And maybe the bimbo in the kitchen shouldn’t get married so fast if she doesn’t know this stuff.
“Hmmm…once we’re settled I’ll have to take her shopping and to some shows. Introduce her to high fashion. I suppose they dress that way in Ohio. It simply won’t do in New York.”
“I’m sure she’ll adore shopping with you.”
Um, no she won’t. I’ve grown attached to my old collection of t-shirts. Once mostly weekend and sleepwear, my t-shirts are like a toddler’s worn out blanket, warm and comforting.
“We’ll see,” Mali says. “Exactly how long has her mother been gone?”
“The accident happened over six months ago.” Chop.
A tight pinch forms in my chest.
“It was just so sudden.” Chop.
His knife pierces my heart.
“We’ve both had a hard time adjusting.” Chop.
My head bangs against the brick. Somehow, it’s always about him. Somehow, my mother’s death equates to an adjustment. With my blood vessels about to explode, I go to the glass wall that splits our patio into two sections, an indoor and outdoor area, and open the door. Cold air blasts me in the face.
“And that hair—”
This time, I slam the door.
The huge terrace, large enough to host a party for a hundred, appears desolate. The wind howls at seventy floors up and the sounds of early evening traffic rise from below. The skyline, an overlapping jumble of buildings, towers over me. The bitter January air stings but I don’t go in. The wind bites my skin and makes it numb. I’m hoping the numbness will travel to my brain and heart.
At the frozen rail, New York sprawls beneath me. I don’t see the busy city. I’m too busy fighting tears. My mother’s death has become a constant shadow over my life. Over me. I want to move past it, but I’m stuck immobile in grief. The awful memories—the policeman at the door explaining the truck killed her on impact and the closed coffin covered in white flowers—never fade. Nor does the loss of her. And yet somehow I can’t face the memory of her.
A glass scrape and a soft yelp sound behind me. My body thaws and I slowly turn. Chilly, my white Pomeranian, looks at me with worried eyes from between patio plants. Somehow, the little bugger must have escaped my room. I’d shut him in there to avoid him nipping at the new girlfriend’s heels— I can’t help think a missed opportunity now. He sits, stares, and barks again. I can’t contain a smile. He’s the one thing my father got right. Drew Nash might not know how to be a father, therapists and money equates parenthood to him, but he does care. Although he can’t stand any form of pets—even sea monkeys—he brought Chilly home a month after I moved here, knowing I needed something to help me out of my grief.
Past Chilly’s warm brown eyes, I catch a glimpse of my father at the stove through the tiny gap in the curtained door. Sometimes I do think about conforming just a little for him and wearing the expensive, untouched wardrobe in my closet. Acting like the millionaire’s daughter he expects. Even though his uppity life style makes no sense to me and embracing it seems like it would change me. Change who I was, who I still want to be, who I’m trying to get back to, the person lost somewhere inside of me.
I draw in a lung full of wintry air. My father’s going to marry that woman in the kitchen regardless of how it affects me. Unbelievably, he’s in love. He puts up with Chilly for me. I should be able to deal with this stepmother thing for him. I should be nice. I should be respectful. I should ignore my instant dislike. And maybe if I do, my father and I won’t feel like strangers occupying the same space anymore. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll become whole again.
Ready to embrace—okay except—my fate, I tap the snow off my Chucks and reach for the frozen door handle. My skin sticks when it won’t twist. I wrench my hand away and a thick drop of blood splatters on the snow near my feet. The vibrant contrast—scarlet on a white backdrop—has dread pooling in my stomach. The image, more than the cold, causes a shiver to run through me.
Chapter 2~Envy
An ocean breeze laced with the smell of salt and sand blows in through the open window, but the woman in front of the mirror only notices her reflection. She touches her skin. Under her fingertips, she feels them. Tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Her hand shakes as she traces the small line marring her forehead. Another line, fine and thin, breaks the smooth skin of her neck. Faint wrinkles on her hands strain as her fists clench.
She wants to look away, but cannot. She wants to smash the mirror until her knuckles bleed. She wants to tear the flawed skin from her bones until they are picked clean.
Releasing a tortured cry, she swipes everything off the counter.
Lotions and creams crash to the tile. Glass clinks and plastic lands with a thud. Using a stiletto heel, she smashes and breaks every bottle while cackling with glee. Youth promising grease squirts and oozes until it coats the marble floor.
The outburst does little to ease her anger. She sneers at her reflection. She must be beautiful. She must be young.
A phone lies on the counter. She pushes numbers with a manicured nail. Before the man on the other end finishes saying hello, she hisses, “I don’t care about complications. Find someone to take care of it. I want her gone by the time I return. Or someone else will do the job.” She hangs up before he can respond then smashes the phone into the mixture on the floor.
Chapter 3~Snow
Wrapped in the warmth of my comforter, Chilly’s barking has me rolling over. The doorbell rings and another round of barking erupts. “Rosa!” I yell, trying to think of who would be at our door on a Saturday morning.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“Rosa!” I grab pillow and try to drown the noise. It just muffles the commotion. Dang. Since my father and Mali come back from Fiji tomorrow night, this could be my last free weekend for quite some time. I so want to sleep in. “Rosa!” I yell again.
Buzz. Bark. Buzz.
I give up. Blankets hit the floor and a pillow flies through the air. It lands on a sketch—my father and Mali in caricature—I’d been working on until two in the morning. I follow Chilly out of the room and let out an, “Ugh,” as I pass the hallway mirror. My shoulder length hair with its red dyed tips stands at an odd angle. Like a ninety degree angle. Between my rooster hair and my mismatched pajamas—a Sponge Bob tank and reindeer shorts—the bell ringer may run when they see me.
Another buzz and Chilly’s scratching at the wooden doors.
Where the heck is Rosa? And who the heck is at the door?
“I’m coming,” I shout as my toe makes contact with a glossy table. With my toe throbbing, I wobble past the square of suede furniture and scoop up the ball of jumping fur. The bell rings again and Chilly wiggles in my arms. I whip the doors open and am about to yell out a ‘WHAT’ as I teeter on my injured toe and attempt to contain my squirming dog, but my mouth freezes in an O.
A living sculpture stands in our entrance hall, or rather a boy. Maybe a man, it’s hard to tell. What I can decipher is gorgeous. His face is all fierce angles like the carved statues cluttering the living room. The slight slant to his black eyes and the dark sheen of his hair make me think he’s Asian, or at least part. He’s staring at me too, but I’m caught in the image floating through my mind of touching the sharp lines of his cheekbones then sketching the curve of them. The thought of sketching doesn’t surprise me. The touching does. I haven’t thought of the male species in eons.
It’s at that precise moment—with my attention enslaved by my hormones—my tail wagging, wriggling dog decides to jump from my arms. Right inside the basket encircled in the living statue’s hands. Which wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, except being off balance, and in a somewhat of a trance, I teeter forward and smash into the basket. Crunch. The hot guy stumbles back. The basket and dog fly through the air. I continue falling and crash into a stumbling wall of muscle. He lands on his butt. Thud. I land on him.
He’s now sprawled beneath me. Those black velvet eyes are inches from mine. Chilly lets out a bark from somewhere behind us, and those eyes blink away our locked gazes. Quick as lightning, strong hands hoist me up by the waist and set me several feet away from him.
“You okay?” he asks in a breathy voice.
Somehow I nod. Before I can begin an apology, Chilly’s teeth latch onto the guy’s jeans in a playful yank. I participate in tug-of-war before finally dislodging my dog while the guy above smirks. “Sorry, he’s not used to people at the door,” I mumble, clamping Chilly under my arm.
“No harm done,” he says with a grin and I can’t help smiling at him. His eyes widen. His grin shrinks. Abruptly he kneels at the spilled mess on the marble floor.
Stunned by the sudden change in his demeanor, I say, “I am really sorry about your…”
“Delivery.”
Chilly finally settles down in my grip so I reach for a wad of golden tissue at my feet. “The least I can do is help.”
“That’s alright.” He yanks the paper away. “Just holding on to your little friend will help.”
I stand there like an idiot and study the small bright red orbs, spiky ovals, and strange leafy balls filling the basket instead of staring at him. “What is that stuff?”
“Fruit,” he says without looking up.
“Really? That doesn’t look like fruit.”
His glance is patronizing. “It’s Chinese.”
My face grows warm. Okay, I’m clueless about Chinese fruit. So what? But I’m not sure if it’s the lack of knowledge flushing my face or hormonal nervousness. When he stands, I reach for the card sticking out of the edge.
He pulls the container away. “Are you Nivea Nash?”
I hold out my hand for the card. “I go by Nivi.” He passes the envelope without a word while those dark eyes seem to study me even more than before.
Under his stare, I tear the envelope open with shaky fingers while trying not to squish the ball of fur in my arms. Geez, what’s the matter with me? I haven’t been like this in ages. I thought my boy craze, as my mother called it, had fizzled out. I thought that part of me, like most parts, had died. Of course, just rolling out of bed, I would land on the most gorgeous guy in the world and my hormones would spark back to life. Though irritated with myself, I concentrate on the cursive scrawl on the card.
Dear Nivea,
The beginning of a family should always start fresh.
Your new mother,
Mali
As the words ‘new mother’ make BITCH roar through my head, I forget about the hottie standing before me. Forget about my plan to get along with Mali. My hand crumples the note. I want to rip the card to shreds then light it and the basket on fire. The final highlight would be flushing the ashes down the toilet. Meeting his dark stare over the card, I let out a strange laugh. His eyebrow arches. Exasperated by my own behavior—first ogling and then malicious—I reach for the basket with one hand.
His fingers tighten on the rim. “It’s too heavy.”
I stare at his stoic expression. Maybe he should leave the bin in the entrance hall. Sure, he’s gorgeous. Sure, he fills me with a wistfulness I forgot existed. But he could be crazy or a thief or a…Where the heck is Rosa?
“Fine,” I point to the nearest table, “set it there.”
He walks past me and I catch a clean, woodsy scent that has me sniffing at the air. While trying to decide if the scent comes from him or the strange fruit, I’m startled to find him staring at me with a raised brow. My nose unwrinkles as my face turns hot again. Okay, I’ve had enough of the revival of my hormones. He has to go. Like now. I cover my mouth and let out a fake cough. He doesn’t move. “Oh,” I say in rush of embarrassment. “If you step back into the entrance, I can get a tip.”
“No need, I have already been compensated.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as his gaze slowly sweeps the room full of art. Dressed in jeans, a canvas coat, and lace up boots, this guy so does not look like the artsy type.
Maybe he is a thief.
Finally, he moves toward the door then stops next to me while the traitor in my arms wags his tail. I look up and unwanted anticipation roars through me at his nearness. A frown forms on his lips. His dark eyes search mine. My pulse beats in my ears. Wow. I’m like in hormone overdrive.
Bam!
All three of us turn to the sound.
“Ah! What are you doing up? Who is this?” Rosa stands with a hand to her chest on the edge of the living room. A laundry basket lies on its side. Towels are scattered across the wood floor.
I gesture to myself. “I answered the door.” I point a thumb at the hottie next to me. “He brought fruit.”
“Que?” she asks and yanks out an earbud.
The delivery guy moves past me and his scent once again captures my attention. I have to concentrate on not sniffing air. As he stands in the elevator, his gaze is only for me. It lingers on my bare legs again before his eyes meets mine. “Have a nice day, Nivi,” he says with a smile, showing sparkling white teeth.
As the elevator doors close, the card flutters to the floor. The smile had transformed his appearance from fierce to charming. Totally charming. After standing there like an idiot staring at the closed elevator, I finally shut the doors, set Chilly down, and snap up the card. Geesh, he’s only a delivery guy. It’s not like I’m going to see him again.
Rosa picks a towel off the floor. “Who was that?”
“A delivery,” I say and point to her iPod. “I wouldn’t have bought you that for Christmas or spent so much time loading it, if I’d known I’d be waking up before ten on a Saturday.”
She wrinkles her small nose. “I still have five boxes to unpack. She sent over more?”
“No. She sent me a fruit basket and a card.”
She re-folds a towel. “What’d it say?”
I read the card.
“Well, she’s trying.” She drops the towel in the basket. “Let her try, Nivi. It won’t hurt.”
I groan. “It will hurt. It has hurt already. Just being around her is painful.” I pull a towel out from between Chilly’s teeth before folding it. “Look at how many shopping excursions to Fifth Avenue she dragged me on in less than a week.” I used to love shopping. That was with my mother at the mall or second hand stores where I picked out my clothes. Not fancy boutiques where a woman past forty dresses me like an expensive doll. “And I am trying. I’ve kept my temper in check. I’ve been nice. She just makes it so hard.”
Rosa tilts her head and folds a towel. “You know, you could sell those clothes. Those designer things bring a pretty price.”
“You always think with dollar signs.” I grab another towel.
She nods. “I have to. How hard is it to go shopping anyway?”
I snap the fabric in half. “I’d rather scrub toilets all day.”
“Ha! You do that for a day! Then you tell me which is better.” She hands me the basket of towels. “Guest room,” she says before plugging in an earbud and Salsa dancing away. Chilly, the traitor, follows yapping at her dancing feet.
The guestroom is full of Mali crap. I seldom go into the room. Now that she keeps her things in here, I never enter it. I stumble my way through boxes and tissue scattered all over the floor. My reflection gazes back with each step. Mirrors of every size and shape fill the room. Tall mirrors lay against the bed and walls. Free standing mirrors on the desk. And hand held mirrors lay in open boxes on the floor. Between the mirrors are potted plants of every shape and size. Some look tropical while others, spiny and sharp, look dangerous.
I stuff the towels into the bathroom closet then teeter back out into the maze of glass and plants. I snicker, walking past the mirrors. I would have bet on my stepmother’s narcissism. Now the proof surrounds me. I snag a hand held mirror from its bed of tissue. Gold colored metal makes the object heavy. The raised back pictures a woman with voluptuous skirts sitting over a man who stares at her from his place on the ground. I run a hand over the intricate details. Who collects mirrors? Stamps, coins, teddy bears, but I’ve never heard of a mirror collection. I toss the mirror back into the tissue. What a weirdo.
As I step toward the door, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Startled, I spin around. Nothing there, except my reflection everywhere. The movement must have been a reflection from one of the other mirrors, a reflection of a reflection in a room full of reflections. Ugh. The thought hurts my brain.
After shutting the door to Mali’s cavern, I go and lug the fruit basket to the kitchen. The thing is heavy. Way too heavy for Rosa to move it.
On the granite counter, I pick through the strange fruit. I’ve never seen anything like this stuff before. The texture of it scrapes my palms and a light film dusts my skin. A sweet smell fills the air. I peel a triangular leaf from a leafy ball. Moist pink fruit stares at me. Pretty and glistening it begs to be eaten.
In a nearby drawer, I reach for a knife.
My fingers have trouble grasping the utensil. I try again, but my fingertips feel numb. I look down. The skin of my hand has a purplish tinge. I drop the heavy ball of fruit and it thumps then rolls across the tile.
Of course, she’d send me something I’m allergic to, I think rushing to the sink. Normal produce isn’t good enough for my uppity stepmother. After washing and rinsing them several times, my hands return to their normal color and feel.
I walk past the basket of fruit without another thought of it. My last day of freedom calls.
Since sleeping in is now out of the question, I plan to lounge the day away in between finishing the caricature-wedding portrait. Since they’re both rich, buying them a gift seemed ridiculous. So I decided to create something personal. And although I think it’s a fabulous idea, I’m not sure Mali’s going to like her face exaggerated in charcoal while wearing old time clothes and portraying a cheesy grin. I find the drawing slightly funny and whimsical. So at least I like it.
In my room, I grab a blanket, a pillow, a sketchbook, and my Looney Tunes video collection. From the kitchen, I add a Coke, a bag of chips, and two doggie treats to the pile in my arms. I’m off to the couch. No hot guys making me nervous, no weird fruit, and definitely no stepmother. Unfortunately, my honeymoon will be over tomorrow night.
Chapter 4~Snow
Monday morning, after walking Chilly, I’m in a rush to get to school and away from my stepmother. Once hated, school now offers an escape from her constant nagging. As I pass the guest room, I see her staring into one of her mirrors. She’s the CEO of her own consulting firm, but she seems to work whenever she wants and spends most of her time staring at herself. As she stands in front of a tall mirror, she’s so engrossed in her likeness, the image of her saying, “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” flashes through my mind. A laugh almost escapes. Then I notice her reflection and a gasp escapes. The image in the glass, light hair and a round face isn’t Mali.
“Nivea?” she asks, turning her profile to me.
I look at her then the refection. Her silhouette is in the glass. I shake my sleepy head. That was beyond freaky. I really shouldn’t stay up so late drawing. “Yeah, just leaving.”
“Don’t forget about our shopping plans tonight.”
She’s definitely a wicked stepmother. They got back two days ago and already the shopping. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Five-thirty sharp,” she says from her room of reflection. “Be sure to dress appropriately.”
“I’ll be ready. See you then,” I say, keeping the irritation from my tone. Ugh. I could get along with her, maybe even like her to a point, but her obsession with changing me makes me crazy.
I smash my feet into my untied boots and snatch my lunch off the counter cluttered with tropical wedding photos from Fiji—the caricature lies in its frame underneath the pictures—taken by some photographer who works for National Geographic.
Outside, our driver pulls to the curb in my father’s black Mercedes SUV. Behind him on the other side of the street, a man on a motorcycle watches me. At least I think so. It’s hard to tell with the helmet he’s wearing. His gray coat and the red basket strapped to the seat catch my attention. Fruit deliveries at this hour? I can’t tell for sure if it’s the delivery guy, yet I have the sudden urge to run to him. To jump on that bike and not look back. Luckily for me, he revs up the engine and drives away.
Confused if that urge stemmed from long lost romantic notions or desperation to escape myself, I shake the feeling off and pull the passenger door open. Harrison has given up holding the door for me. Besides it being stupid, the man is nearing seventy. He shouldn’t be getting in and out of the car just so I don’t have to lift the handle.
“Is there enough time to stop at the coffee shop?” I ask, buckling the seat belt.
Harrison lifts a gray eyebrow while shifting into drive. “Sorry, Nivi, Mrs. Nash says no more stops for Irish-cream lattés. She’s declared it a very unhealthy way to start the day.” He keeps his gaze straight ahead while I glare at him. “Hey now, she asked. I wasn’t about to lie.”
I slam my head back against the seat as my temper explodes. “What’s her deal?”
“She’s trying to look out for you, that’s all.”
“I met the woman less than two weeks ago. Now, all of a sudden, I’m shackled with someone playing mommy. I’m almost seventeen, not freakin’ four.” I’m so trying to get along with her, but she makes it so damn hard.
His eyes stay on the road. “No comment.”
Even out of her presence, I can’t escape Mali. I stare out the window in anger until we pull in front of a brownstone building. Small, elite, and expensive, Wesley is one of the most prestigious high schools in the city. I slam the door without saying my normal goodbye and stomp up the stone stairs. The marble-floored halls full of plaid skirts, pressed pants, and navy blazers ring with chatter. The hallways are always loud here while a silent hush pervades the classrooms. The students here value education. I mean really value it. Their parents are CEO’s, lawyers, stockbrokers, or anything else that makes boatloads of money. And they plan to do the same. I plan to be an animator, so I’m pretty much silent in all areas of the school. Cartoon makers and stockbrokers don’t have much to talk about, which is probably one reason for the strained relationship with my father.
I go to my first hour and study for an upcoming test in an empty room. When lunch comes, I go to study hall. I don’t have friends here. Back in Cleveland, I had tons of friends. Now, I don’t care about friends here or there. When I first came, a few students had welcomed me. Grief stricken and lost, their words and faces had passed by me in a haze.
After signing in at the front desk with Ms. Kay, the choir teacher who dresses like a hippie, I set out a sketchpad and unpack my lunch. I’ve never eaten in the cafeteria here. I prefer to be alone. School has become that, just school. My lunch consists of an avocado sandwich on whole wheat, raw broccoli, a bag of almonds, and that weird fruit from the basket. Ever since Mali had moved in, Rosa has been packing me these gross, healthy lunches.
As I draw—a Venetian backdrop for my monkey cartoon—and pick at my nutritious lunch, other students trickle into the room. Some are here to study for the day while others are permanent fixtures like me. Mark Brant, a pint sized sophomore, sits behind me as usual. I tolerate him, but if he asks for my number one more time…well he may get more than an earful.
“What’s that?” he whispers and nods to the Ziploc bag of fruit.
“Chinese dragon fruit,” I say. The kid never brings lunch. I’m always giving him something. “You want it?”
“Sure.” He holds out his hand.
I pass it back then continue to draw and shade. Halfway through the forty minute lunch hour, Mark starts knocking his desk into the back of mine until the top of a bell tower becomes a scribble. “Stop that,” I hiss.
“I like your hair. The red tips are pretty,” he whispers into my ear. “Not as pretty as you.” My pencil falls from my hand. This is overboard even for Mark. I turn and almost collide with his face. “Can I touch them?” he asks in a slur and blinks.
“No!”
“Why not?” He reaches toward my ponytail.
I knock his hand away. His eyes have a glazed look to them. He’s acting weirder than normal, and Mark’s normal is usually too much for me. “Leave me alone. Do your work or something,” I say in a hard tone.
He taps a fingernail against his long chin. “I like your eyes too, they’re so blue.” Obviously, the idiot didn’t catch my tone. He leans closer. “Blue like the sky or the ocean or Cookie Monster. Do you like cookies?” Thinking he has to be high or something, I reach for my book bag. “How come you won’t go out with me?” he asks loudly in my ear, loud enough for the entire room to hear.
“Shut up,” I snap.
He bends over me. His eyes are round and huge. “You think you’re too good for me?” The stench of his breath has me leaning over the isle between desks.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on us and the blush on my face. “Go and sit down,” I demand from behind my teeth.
“No.” He shakes his head, grabs my chin with his thin hands, and lowers his head.
Braces tear at my lips. Wet lips suck at mine. Eww! Shocked and disgusted, I gag and jerk back, too far back. We land on the floor, me underneath, him on top. He’s not kissing me anymore. His lips on mine or his body sprawled across me, I’m not sure which is worse.
“Get. Off. Me.” I spit the words and try to push him, but he’s stronger than he looks. Since I hear students moving toward us and I’m wearing the standard school skirt, I can’t buck him off unless I give the entire room a glimpse of my underwear.
“Just let me….” He bends toward me.
I watch those clammy lips descend in slow motion. There are only two possibilities here. I puke or Mark gets a fat lip. The choice isn’t hard. My fist clenches and anger makes the punch harder than I intended. His head snaps back and students in the ring around us gasp. My knuckles throb. He weaves a bit but still sits on me. Gaining his balance, his eyes narrow and his lips pucker. My fist clenches again.
“Everyone out in the hall,” I hear Ms. Kay say then the shuffle of feet around me.
Psycho kissing boy clutches my blazer and continues to weave on top of me. I push at his bony chest. He stays locked on. He looks like he’s going be sick. To be truthful, I’d rather have him puke on me than kiss me. If he does kiss me again, there just might be a pukefest between the two of us.
“Mark, get up,” Ms. Kay says from above us as the beads around her neck clink together. She pulls at his shoulder. “I’ve already called the principal.”
He just sits and stares at me and drools. Ugh. He’s so dead when I get my hands on him later.
Mr. Leonard, the assistant principal, appears above us. “Mr. Brant, get off of Miss Nash, now.”
Mark leans forward. His lips pucker. “I just wanna kiss.”
I’m too shocked to even push at his chest. The law stands above us and psychotic kissing boy is still puckering up.
“Mr. Brant!” Mr. Leonard grabs him and yanks him off me.
Finally. I scramble up and away while Mark tries to pull free of Mr. Leonard’s grasp. Luckily, Mr. Leonard, though old and bald, is a big man. There’s no way little Mark’s going to break free.
“Any more resistance and you’re going to earn yourself a longer suspension,” Mr. Leonard snaps. Mark just keeps pulling and yanking himself like a yo-yo, and chanting, “I just wanna kiss.” Anger apparent on his face, the principal twists Mark’s arms behind him and forces him to walk out. Mark moans and blabbers all the way about kisses.
Over an hour later, after washing my mouth multiple times over, I sit in a small room off the office. Even with the door closed, I hear Mark whining, yelling, and crying. My mind alternates between calling him a jerk and feeling sorry for him. Something is definitely wrong with him today. Maybe he’s allergic to that weird fruit too, but I’m not sure how an allergy would excuse his awful lips on mine.
Although the kiss is the biggest shock of the day, once his parents drag him away, I get another shock inside the principal’s office. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if gross guys force lip locks on you. You may not retaliate, and my retaliation earns me a week of after school detentions. Though I keep my mouth shut, when the principal holds up the pink papers up, I can’t stop myself from snapping them from her hand.
Chapter 5~Snow
After serving my detention, Harrison offers to let me drive home. Although I usually jump at the chance to get a driving lesson—since he’s a retired racecar driver—I decline. Driving as mad as I am right now would not be a good idea. Waiting for the elevator to take me up to Chilly and tranquility, I glance over and almost gasp.
The hot delivery guy stands next to me holding another basket. My bad day evaporates in a second. I lower my chin and raise my eyes. Yeah, he’s still tall, dark, and exotically hot. Wistful longing comes back in an instant.
Maybe I should just give into it.
Preoccupied with the elevator arrow, he hasn’t noticed me. At least that’s what I tell myself. While the arrow makes its way down the numbers, I conjure up a variety of ways to get his attention. I haven’t tried to flirt in ages. Once I’d been a pro at it. Now without practice, my mind stumbles over imaginary awkward phrases. I peek at him from under my lashes again. Is he near my age? It doesn’t matter. I only plan to flirt. I just want to be normal for once. The spark his looks evoke brings back forgotten memories. A giggle, a brush of my arm against a muscled one, bubbles of excitement in my stomach, and that rush of breath right before lips meet flash though my mind. Part of my life before my mother died, gone now along with the happy-go-lucky girl who once embraced the world.
Does she still exist somewhere deep inside?
Ding. The bell sounds and the door opens. A young couple, dressed for a night on the town, stroll out. I go in, push my button, and ask, “What floor?” Very lame, but it’s something. Baby steps, my therapist—the one my father used to force me to go to since he’s clueless about how to deal with me—always said with a grin.
“Fifty-eight,” he replies without looking at me and steps in the corner.
Excitement rolls in my stomach. I push the button then pretend to study the basket in his gloved hands. “So do you deliver a lot of those to this building?”
Those black eyes meet mine. “Sometimes.”
“Really?” Geez, I totally suck at this now. He nods and stares at me in the fluorescent light. His lips form a slight frown at my plaid skirt. I smile faintly. “Private school can’t let go of the uniforms.”
He doesn’t reply.
I bite my lip and struggle to think. Being trapped in his dark gaze doesn’t help. I glance at the floor. The small space bears down on me. Sweat peppers my forehead. Think of something witty, Nivi. Something funny. Something to make him smile so you can see his face transform again. Nothing comes. I’m witless. I’m about to give up.
He sets the basket on the floor then crouches over the bin. My brow rises when he plunges his hand into the fruit searching for something. “Whatcha got there? Gold?” I plaster a smirk on my face, but wow, why do I even try?
His hand stops moving. A piece of nylon rope falls over the edge of the basket. He looks up. Under an angle of dark hair, his eyes are cold.
My face grows warm at his cool stare. My gaze snaps to the ceiling. The emergency hatch becomes the most interesting thing in the world. That’s it. No more flirting. Though a normal inclination, I’m not normal anymore. I cross my arms. Okay then, I’m just riding in an elevator. Ignoring the heat on my skin, I lower my gaze.
He’s still crouched next to the basket. Our eyes lock for an embarrassing second before his drop to the dusty floor. He collapses against the wall. His head falls back as if he’s tired. His eyes close and lashes fan on skin. The muscles of his throat tighten with a deep breath and anguish etches his face before he buries his head in his hands.
I drop my book bag. “Are you all right?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even move a millimeter. Until his knees begin to tremble.
Thinking he’s sick or in pain, I kneel next to him. “Do you need something? Can I help?” I put my hands on the floor and try to peek at his face. My butt’s in the air. Great, if those doors open, say hello to my little friends, Snoopy and Woodstock. He continues to tremble. Afraid something is terribly wrong, I reach for his gloved hand. “Should I push the emergency button?”
He pulls his hand away and raises his head.
I drop my hand and hold in a gasp. Anger, dark and intense, fills his features. “Ah…” I lean back on my heels. I blink. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be sick or something.” Okay, I suck at flirting. But where is this dislike coming from?
The elevator bell above us dings.
I shoot up. At least my ass isn’t in the air anymore.
He scoops up the basket and moves past me, but pauses between the doors. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t take it personal. I’m just…upset.”
Though he can’t see me, I nod like an idiot.
“Take care,” he says, stepping in to the hall.
He moves down the hall with a graceful litheness. I’ve never considered walking to be an art, but with each step, his body ripples with grace and agility like one of my father’s sculptures come to life. The elevator doors close and I stare at metal.
What was that about? My mind scrambles for an answer. Nothing comes. Maybe he’s just a great looking weirdo. Though I’d bet he thinks I’m more than a bit odd.
The sudden sight of my father’s gilded entrance startles me. In a trance, I search my bag for the key. Unlocking the door, I notice the note taped to it.
Nivea,
Remember to be ready and dressed properly for shopping and dinner by 5:30.
Mali
I tear the note off and crumple the paper in my fist, while chanting to myself that I will get along with her. I will. I will. I will. Even if it kills me. And at her current rate of empty-headed fashion, it might.
Chapter 6~Snow
“No, she will not have a Coke.” Mali flips her black, shiny hair back. “Bring her juice, freshly squeezed if possible.”
The young waiter nods and offers me a quick glance of pity before leaving. My face twists into a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and want. I really want a Coke.
“What’s your deal?” I snap as soon as he’s out of range.
She tugs her huge purse open. “Caffeine and corn syrup pollute your body.”
I resist slapping my hand on the table. “You know you’re not my real mother.”
Her hand pauses inside the bag. “You know beyond giving up your disgusting eating habits,” she pulls a tube out of the leather bag, “you need to show some appreciation for the small fortune I just spent on you.”
She’d been pestering me about the shopping trip for days, acted surprised when she came to pick me up, and had been unbelievably bossy the whole time. Though I promised myself to get along with her, I’ve had enough. My palms screech across the smooth table while she slathers her lips. Although the dim light above us is tinted blue, red fills my vision. “I didn’t want any of those clothes. And as far as I’m concerned you can shove each overpriced piece of ugly crap up your—” I catch myself before the last word.
She stops painting, sputters, and snaps her mouth shut. However, the evil look she gives me says a thousand words. Her eyes spew the filth from every language known on earth, and maybe some from far away galaxies.
I could care less. Her anger is like a cherry on the top of a very bad day.
The waiter drops off our drinks.
Mali taps the bottom of her wine glass on the table.
I refuse to look at her.
She drums her long red nails.
My ears twitch at the sound, but I ignore her. She sips her red wine. I push the juice away. Soft jazz music fills the air. The scent of fresh flowers rises from the center of the table. Yet the atmosphere does little to quell the almost tangible fury between us.
Ignoring her malicious gaze, I glance around the restaurant. Even it irritates me. When I used to visit my father during the summer, I loved going to expensive, swanky restaurants. Never mind the food, the experience had been exciting. Now after half a year of living with him, the novelty has worn off. Fancy lighting, linen tablecloths, and artsy décor doesn’t improve the food. Good old fries and a hamburger beat a small filet of meat dribbled with mystery glaze over pureed mush any day of the week. However, my mother’s lasagna or fried chicken beat them all. My lip quivers until I push the memory of home cooked meals out of my mind.
Mali taps her glass again.
I finally look at her. Meeting her narrowed gaze, I feel pain shoot through my head. Her eyes narrow more and lightning sizzles behind my eyes. I tear my gaze away and catch my father passing a swirled, abstract painting across the room. He slides into the booth, gives Mali a quick kiss, and then faces me. “What happened today?”
I blink through the pain in my head. So used to his indifference and haphazard parenting, I haven’t given a thought to the e-mail the principal promised (threatened) to send him. What is this about? Has Mali’s over care inspired him? Or is he worried about his reputation? Forced into it—his look brooks no argument—I describe my lunch in detail as my head continues to pound. He listens with a fist under his chin while Mali’s eyes shoot sparks of anger. By the end of my story, she grips the edge of the table. As if any of this is really any of her business.
My father rubs his chin. “Well, I guess I understand why you punched him, but why do you eat lunch in study hall? Why not the cafeteria? I believe I pay for lunch along with your tuition.”
I get into a fight at school and my father’s worried about where I eat lunch? “I like the extra time to do work.”
The lines of his face become stark. “Not only did I pay extra to get you in there, Nivea. I pulled in several favors. Don’t wreak the chance of a lifetime. That school is like Harvard compared to the public school you went to in Ohio. This is when you start making connections and opening doors for yourself. Start acting like you belong there. Mali’s trying to help you fit in. You’re even disregarding her.”
My self-esteem fizzles out of me to land under the table beneath his custom-made Italian leather shoes until a rush of anger hits me. Raised in the suburbs, educated at public school, and an average teen, I’ll never be good enough for him. I lack posh. I lack superiority. I lack class. And we both know—though the words have never been said—that raised by my mother I’ll never be any of those things.
“I’m just keeping up my grades,” I mumble.
My father leans back and smoothes the wave in his dark hair. “Other than art class and going to the therapist, you don’t do anything. You have enough time at home to keep up with your studies. It’s time you made some friends and some connections. Time you act like my daughter.”
My hands clench under the table. “Maybe I don’t want friends here, maybe my friends back in Ohio were just fine.”
Mali just gulps her wine and stares at me while my head pounds.
“You’re not in Ohio anymore,” my father says in a steely tone.
I unclench my hands and tell him what he wants to hear. It’s not like he’s ever going to find out. “Okay, I’ll eat in the cafeteria if it makes you happy.”
“It does,” he says with a nod while adjusting the heavy watch on his wrist. “So how was your day?” He puts an arm around Mali. She smiles up at him and I’m forgotten. Past the surge of anger, my heart is heavy. I excuse myself to the restroom. They don’t even notice me leave.
My head thumps all the way to the tiled room. Inside, I wet a brown paper towel and press it to my pounding forehead. I refuse to lose it. I will keep it together, I tell myself as I stare in the mirror. My father didn’t pay much attention before he married Mali, it’s not like anything has changed. Getting upset about it now seems a little after the fact. Still I can’t help a sudden stream of tears.
I take deep breaths and will my mind to clear. The coolness of the paper towel helps the pounding in my head until the door swings open. I open my eyes and find Mali standing next to me. My aching brain pauses. How the hell did she move so fast?
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You know, your father’s just trying to help.” The thick, cloying scent of her perfume surrounds me. “I’m trying to help you, but you’re always so resistant.”
I rub the paper towel against my temple and wish her away. “I just need time to adjust.”
She raises a plucked eyebrow. “It’s been over six months. Your father says you’re depressed, have no friends, and won’t face your mother’s death.”
My fist clenches the paper towel into a wad. “Face it? I live it every day.”
Her bracelets’ jingling echoes in the tiled room as she brushes a strand of hair from my face. She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Let us help you, Nivea.”
I flinch from both her words and her touch. “If the most expensive therapist money can buy can’t help, how can you?”
Her eyes roam over my tear stained face before her fingers brush across a cheekbone. “You’re a beautiful girl.” A hand cradles my chin and forces me to look in the mirror. “You have such lovely skin,” her other hand sweeps the other side of my hair back, “such lovely coloring.”
I try to shake off her hands—enough with the touching—but she holds me tight and stares at my reflection. Why is my coloring so important all of a sudden? After the healthy eating and the clothes, are we moving toward skin care? Make up? This woman is going to drive me nuts.
Her eyes widen then narrow on my reflection as she rubs a thumb against my jaw. A shiver runs through me. It’s like she covets my skin or something. She leans forward and murmurs softly, “Quit hiding yourself. You’re wasting a gift of nature. You should embrace what you’ve been given. Beauty is power.”
Okay, this woman’s shallowness has led her to be officially whack-a-doodle-doo.
The drip of the faucet echoes in the silence of the tiled room as my eyes find her’s in the mirror. I gasp. In our reflection, a different profile framed with reddish hair leans toward me. Younger hands hold my face. I jerk in her grasp and stare at her.
Mali smiles slowly at me.
My gaze snaps to the mirror.
Her reflection smiles back.
The faucet drips into the silence as my eyes still search her face. She still looks the same as always, nothing’s changed. My imagination has gone into over drive. The tight control I keep over my emotions just might be escaping in other ways.
Suddenly, she lets go of me. “Hurry up. Rinse the sadness from your face. Your father’s waiting. The waiter’s coming back for our order,” she says then leaves as fast as she came.
I lean against the counter and shudder. Why do I keep seeing different faces with her reflection? Either something’s wrong with me or with her—more than just her obsession with looks. But I fear the wrongness has everything to do with me. Everything to do with the grief I keep buried deep inside. I push my fear down. The grief is not coming out. It’s better to be a nut than the zombie I was after my mother’s death.
The pounding in my head returns with a vengeance. Another wet towel doesn’t cure the pain. After splashing cold water on my face, I trudge back out to the dining room. My head pounds with each step. The headache has to be a mixture of no caffeine, my awful day, and the irritation my stepmother produces. The last has to be the biggest offender.
I stop at the bar out of sight from our table.
“Cool t-shirt,” the bartender says, gesturing to my chest.
“Thanks,” I grumble, glancing at Tom and Jerry. I forgot which one I wore. I pull a five out of my pocket and slap the bill on the counter. “Give me a Coke.”
Chapter 7~Snow
I rush out of school for more reasons than one. Tuesday afternoons I have art class, but the strange looks I’d been receiving all day add to my haste. School had been awful. The hush of whispers followed me through the hallways and in each hour. Whoever said it doesn’t matter what they say as long as they are talking about you had it wrong. School had been way more tolerable when I’d been anonymous. I can’t wait to get to art class and forget about the mess—between home and school—my life has become.
A strange man waits at the curb. Hanging back, I double-check the car. It’s my father’s Rolls Royce and the man is at my school. He has to be here for me, yet, I’ve never seen him in my life. Very weird.
“You are?” I ask from the snowy sidewalk.
“Call me Smith,” he responds in a monotone voice while opening the door.
I step closer. “Where’s Harrison?”
“He is on vacation.”
I slide into the back seat and try to remember Harrison talking about a vacation. I can’t. However, I haven’t talked to him since he pissed me off yesterday morning.
The driver pulls away from the curb. “We will be arriving shortly to your destination.”
Middle aged with white hair, the man is dressed like a professional limo driver with a long wool black coat and a matching cap. Maybe he’s like a rent-a-driver? Whatever he is that monotone is annoying.
The driver doesn’t matter. I just want to get to art class. My father signed me up for classes hoping I’ll create things similar to the crap gracing his living room. Although that’s never going to happen, I love the one-on-one time with the real artists the studio supplies each week. There are some perks to living with my father.
Smith turns the opposite way at the corner Harrison usually takes.
“Hey, where are we going?”
“To your art class,” he replies.
My brow crinkles. “It’s the other way.” When he doesn’t answer, I lean forward over the seat. “It’s in the other direction.”
“I know where it is,” he says in his monotone voice.
“Then why are you going this way?”
“This way is faster.”
As unfamiliar scenery passes by, I try to figure that out. Though I still don’t know the city well, going the opposite direction makes no sense. “It can’t be faster.”
He keeps driving and with each street we pass, my frustration grows. We enter an area of the city I’d never been to before. From the large colored awnings, sidewalk vendors, and Chinese lettering on the overabundance of brightly painted signs above, I guess we are in Chinatown. I’ve always wanted to go check out this part of the city—my father refuses to come here—but not like this.
Staring at a bright open neon sign in a restaurant window, I say, “Turn around.”
“You should relax and enjoy the ride. Let me worry about driving.”
Ugh. Who does this guy think he is? And why does it seem like he wants to calm me with his monotone voice? I pull my book bag into my lap and tug on my gloves and hat. “Turn around or let me out.”
“Sorry, Miss Nash, your mother gave me explicit orders.”
“Stepmother,” I say, grinding my teeth together. Enough’s enough. I can’t stand being in the car with Monotone Smith for one more second. At the next stoplight, I flip open the lock, yank the door open, and take off in less than three seconds.