“Lanton Vani. He’s dead.”
13
Age 16
“What have you done to him?” My mom choked as she fell to her knees in front of Richard. I perused my arrogant date, insensible on the floor. Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth. He was infinitely more palatable when he was unconscious.
“I haven’t done anything.” I smiled behind my teacup, not the sweet one my mom preferred. But the real one, unhinged. Too many teeth. Richard had recoiled from it, and I nursed the tender memory like a jewel. My mom ran to the hall, the phone clattering from its cradle. It hung from the cord and then slapped against the wall. I followed and snatched it from her hand. Her eyes bugged, and for a moment, I thought she might attack me.
“I need to call an ambulance. He’s half dead, Anita.” Her panicked voice rose, fever-pitched, and it grated against me like sandpaper. I grimaced.
“You’re exaggerating. He’s just having a little nap. Although you might want to get him home before he wakes up.”
“Why?” Her eyes bulged as she watched the phone in my hand. I placed it in its holder and crossed my arms over my chest. I wanted to see if she would defy me.
“He’ll probably throw up all over your good rug. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
My mom swallowed a sob, and it sounded like a strangled chicken. I sucked in a deep breath, pleased with myself. Richard had touched me, threatened and insulted me. I didn’t care if his heart was thumping like a fledgling bird’s untried wings. My mom’s hand hovered in the air, the nails glossy maroon.
“Anita…”
I tilted my head and wondered if she was frightened of me yet. She’d laid out the dress I wore this morning, insisting I wear it. She’d circled me, clicking her tongue before Richard arrived, ensuring not a hair was out of place.
“Let me help him.” My mom whispered, “I’ll—I’ll stop the dates if you let me call for help.”
My upper lip sprang back in a silent snarl, and she shrank away from me. Good. She should be afraid.
“You left me in a room with him. Did you hope something untoward would happen? That you could capitalize on it and leverage me into marriage? I’m sixteen years old.”
She shook her head, muttering excuses under her breath. But there was a slight shudder, a wince that made me think I wasn’t entirely wrong. She wanted me gone, and my age, my consent, didn’t matter in the end. I shoved the phone in her direction, laughing as she scrambled to take it from me.
“I’ll never do what you want again. No dates, nothing.” I wanted to go back to Richard and stomp on his spleen to mark my point. She cared more about his well being than her own daughter’s.
“I understand. You win, Anita.” Her voice shook, and I held the victory aloft like a thorn crown. Yes, I’d gotten what I wanted.
But at what cost?
I didn’t like being told to do things. When I was younger, I would dig my heels in, literally, make trenches in the carpet, dirt, wherever I was being dragged to. My mom learned the art of bribery early with me. She offered me something I wanted first and negotiated to get me to agree with her plan.
I have a bag of sweets for you if you put on this lacy monstrosity of a dress.
There were few things that could bribe me now, but I had discovered one. It horrified me. Nothing could induce me to host a dinner with my husband, his best friend, and my cousin. Except the prospect of disappointing Maria. She was bustling around the kitchen with a giddy smile brightening her face. I gave her so little of what she expected as a housekeeper. No parties for her to organize, no babies for her to fawn over. I was a failure of a wife, and she accepted me. But now she was in her element, instructions from Romeo floating off her tongue like harried prayers, driving her to distraction.
“Repeat what you said?” I cleared my throat, hoping I heard her wrong. Her eyes crinkled as she stacked the kitchen counterwith fresh ingredients. Enough to feed an army. Not three mob men and one disgruntled woman.
“Romeo said Bruno and Paolo are staying for dinner and that he expects you at the table by six-thirty.”
I looked at the clock on the wall.
“It’s six twenty-five. Was no one going to tell me about this sooner?”
Maria fumbled with the fresh mozzarella and let out a nervous chuckle. I usually enjoyed tormenting others, but no pleasure came from seeing her hesitate. I wanted her brightness.
“Well, you asked not to be disturbed if you’re in your greenhouse, and I didn’t want to disobey. But if you change quickly, I’m sure Romeo won’t mind.”
I looked down at my attire. Sand-colored overalls and a white and orange striped t-shirt. I’d tied a kerchief over my hair, to protect it. My fingernails on one hand were lined with ingrained dirt. My glove had torn at the fingertips, but I’d kept working. I had the scent of a sweaty garden gnome, and I looked like I belonged in the forest. I’d kicked off my heavy boots and was wearing only long white socks. Would Romeo mind if I came to dinner looking like this? He might. I turned on my socked heel and headed toward the dining room.
“Don’t you want to wash up?” Maria’s voice followed me down the hall. I didn’t reply. Romeo wanted me at dinner? He’d learn it was better for us both if he gave up these attempts at winning me over. We weren’t suited, and I refused to pretend anymore. I rapped my knuckles on the door and strode in before Romeo could get out of his seat. Paolo choked on a gulp of red wine as I neared him with a greeting. His jawline flushed, and I wondered if he felt uncomfortable around my husband, nervous that I might teach him another lesson.
