Page 1 of Souls and Sorrows
PROLOGUE
AGE 13
Like every woman before me, my soul was born fractured.
But the cracks didn’t come from closed fists and wandering fingers. They were made from extreme pressure and took years to take shape, like diamonds formed beneath the earth’s surface.
They were forged by those who claimed to only want the best for me.
“I hope that isn’t what you’re wearing to the recital.”
My fist tightens around the box of my brand-new pointe shoe, crushing the stiff material under my palm, as Mamma strides into the studio. Any other time, she’d send one of the house staff to help break in a new pair of slippers, and I hate the hope springing inside my chest at the thought of her choosing to be here instead.
As if she’s here for any other reason than to desecrate the only house of worship I still respect.
The Hermès tote draped on her wrist catches my eye, and a tiny sliver of uncertainty flashes in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if she even brought the Leatherman to break in my shoes or if the contents are just her normal wallet, makeup, and pills.
Her dark gaze stays on the mirrored wall in front of the barre, though I can’t tell if she’s watching me or herself.
Keeping my expression neutral, I glance down at my short-sleeved black leotard and the fishnet rehearsal skirt I got this morning. The mesh material is a little transparent, but it’s what our instructor suggested for flexibility, and all the other girls in the class wear the same kind.
“It’s for rehearsal,” I say, swallowing. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You look like a prostitute.”
“Ms. Laurie picked it out.”
Mamma huffs, lifting her arm to tuck her brown hair behind one ear. Her engagement ring shines beneath the fluorescent lights, and a tiny pang of jealousy strikes my abdomen that Papà bought her such a nice piece of jewelry.
I’ve always had to beg my nonna for her hand-me-downs, because I’ve never been allowed to buy anything new.
“Laurie Pereira can’t be trusted to know what is and isn’t appropriate for little girls. For God’s sake, look how she dresses herself.” Mamma shakes her head, glancing at a black-and-white class portrait hanging above one of the windows. “You don’t see Elena or Stella traipsing around in tight skirts with their breasts hanging out, do you?”
The comparison to my sisters isn’t new or surprising, but it annoys me nonetheless.
Heat rises in my cheeks, spreading across the bridge of my nose. The box of the shoe gives beneath my grip, and I slide my fingers to the shank, applying pressure there. The tighter I squeeze, the less chance mortification has of settling in my bones.
I can’t help the way my body developed over the summer, and I’m not sure why it makes Mamma so angry. My sisters dress modestly, but only because they’re the two constantly being invited to important business dinners and functions. Meanwhile, I’m mostly hidden away, where I can’t embarrass anyone.
“I’m not a little girl,” I mutter, turning so she can’t see my chest at all. The Lycra neckline barely scoops past my collarbone, so I’m not even sure what the problem is.
She stops several feet away, and I try to shrink into myself as her shadow looms near me.
“Ah, yes, I forgot thirteen is such abignumber. Tell me, Ariana, is that what that boy from Mass told you last weekend before he kissed you in the confessional? That you’re anadultand your urges are normal?”
Oh crap.Freaking Lorenzo Barone. I knew going into the booth after Sunday service was a mistake, but Mamma had stepped out to speak to parishioners about a potluck, so I thought it was okay to talk to him.
Or maybe, in the moment, I didn’t really care about who was watching. All I knew was that Lorenzo had a nice smile, and helookedat me the same way Papà had once looked at Mamma and the way I’d seen Mamma look at the scary man who came around on occasional holidays.
I thought that look meant something, so I let him trick me into going inside, and he stole my first kiss. I certainly didn’t return the gesture, but I suppose the truth doesn’t exactly matter now.
My chest tightens to the point I can barely breathe, and I glare down at my shoes, desperate not to let my apprehension show. If Mamma sees vulnerability, she’ll grab a hold of it and twist until it hurts.
As she draws even closer, the clicking of her Givenchy heels echoes off the glass walls, and I’m tempted to look out and search the building for potential witnesses.
Then again, she wouldn’t have come at all if her presence could be made into a spectacle.
Black leather fills my vision as she comes to a halt in front of me, digging into her bag. She pulls a Zippo lighter out, then bends at the knees and snatches a shoe from the floor.
