Chapter 2...the ending is bad. Any ideas for another?
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Chapter 2
At home, I’m lonely. My mother took little or no interest at all in my school life and my father, Michael, was a busy lawyer who took many trips abroad concerning work. Now that Seb was gone, I had no one at all to confide in. Except Maya, the black and white kitten. So I hold her in my bed as soon as I get home I tell her all about Luca Griffin.
Not that I like Luca in that way. There was no way that I’d fallen for him so quickly, nor for someone so much poorer than I so easily. I didn’t judge people like Fisher did, but I also had standards coming from a wealthy family. It wasn’t every day a rich girl fell in love with a peasant boy. I think I’d only fallen in love with the idea that Luca liked me for more than just a friend.
I tell Maya all about him, how Saskia had pointed him out, how he fell unconscious from the soccer ball hit, how I helped get him to the infirmary. I recount his good looks, my surprise how well-kept he seemed despite his obvious poverty. After I think about it for a few seconds, it was almost unbelievable how good—health wise—he looked. But it wasn’t something worth dwelling upon.
I’m startled from my ramble when Maya hops from my lap and races as fast as her kitten feet can carry her downstairs. I hear her slip and slide across the hardwood floor, then a sequence of thuds as she tumbles down the stairs. The bang of a closing door. It could only be my mother back from work. As expected, I remove myself from my warm bed and trudge down to the entry to greet her.
Her hair’s in its signature blond bob, only this time the left side’s pinned back with a dull silver bobby-pin, accentuating her eyes. She has minimal makeup applied, to keep to that ‘fresh’ look that’s apparently now all the rage with middle-aged mothers. She’s still got on her name tag. ‘Susanna’ is typed in bolded Times New Roman on a rectangular silver card.
I point to her chest. “You’ve still got your name card.”
“Oh, thanks, Stella. I must have forgotten to return it to the desk after.” She unceremoniously rips the card from her shirt, leaving a gaping hole in her lime green tube top. I can’t help but let my mouth drop open. Her tube top was a gift from her boss, Leanna, and it was very expensive.
“Don’t worry. I can get another.” And I can’t help but be appalled by my mother’s reaction. One word pops into my head. Ungrateful. However, I keep it to myself.
“Your father’s coming home tonight on the five-fifteen flight from Oceana, so we’re going out for dinner. Wear something nice, Stella.” With that, my mother walk past me, up the stairs and most likely to her room to remove her ripped top. I sigh, following a few minutes later into my own room.
Wear something nice. That would be difficult. Usually, when I’m at school, I wear the required pleated gray skirt and white blouse with the black and gold vest as the uniform for the wealthy. At all other times, I don a simple sundress and a pair of plain flats, coordinated only with the dominant colour of whatever dress I’m wearing. But when I’m told to wear something nice, I have to dig deep into the depths of my clothes to unearth some old fancy outfit that I’ve never worn let alone tried on.
Surprisingly quickly, I come across two dresses. One’s knee-length with a black and white flower pattern, a large brooch emphasising the bosom. The second is black and reaches mid-calf, with a high waist of crimson velvet. Both, I find, are absolutely hideous but I eventually settle for the brooch-on-bosom one. After pulling out a pair of strappy black heels and putting everything on, I’m set. Until I realise it’s only four o’clock. I have an hour to kill.
I decide to go downstairs anyway, perhaps into the living room to flip through magazines or attempt a decent conversation with my mother. But when I get down, my mother is nowhere to be found. I’m thinking she’s probably upstairs ‘preparing’. Also, any traces of magazines have been removed, the black ebony coffee table empty of everything but a bowl of staged plastic fruit. I sit stiffly on the firm white love seat, knees side-by-side, hands clasped together. I feel like I’m posing for a photo shoot. Maya comes and joins me.
I jump when a knock sounds from the entrance. Who could be calling? My mother’s friends never come to our home nor my father’s — if he has any— and all of Seb’s know full well he’s left for university. As for mine, I have only one and Saskia isn’t allowed out to socialize during the school week. Her parents say it’s for grades upkeep.
I pull Maya into the crook of my arm as I stand up. I walk slowly to the door, not in any rush to open it. I can make out the tall and skinny figure of the person through the artisan glass of my door. As I’m about to open the door, find out who the caller is, my mother struts down the stairs. She’s wearing a knee-length crimson gown, a simple string of pearls at her throat. Her hair, however, is wrapped in a towel turban and her nails are separated by foam. She’s clearly just painted them.
“Who is it, Stella? Open the door,” she orders. I do and I find myself staring into sweet chocolaty eyes of Luca Griffin. I purposely move my body between Luca and my mother, positioning the door only slightly ajar.
“Hi, Stella.” Luca smiles brightly.
“Hi,” I reply, lowering my voice. I glance back to see my mother’s face contorted in confusion. “Who is it?” she asks.
“It’s—” Before I can continue, I feel the door being pushed farther out, most likely by Luca. I turn back to him, aghast, his face still smiling.
“You must be Stella’s mother,” says Luca. “And that’s a lovely dress.” I’m surprised that Luca’s manners are so good. Not that I thought his comportment was barbaric, but nor did I think that he was so well-trained. Perhaps my mother will think he’s of a lower class of the rich, I think with hope.
“It’s a nice dress, I know,” begins my mother, her tone annoyingly authoritative. “But who are you? From the looks of your clothing, you’re nothing but poor.” My mother snootily waves at Luca’s clothes, unnoticed by me until this very moment.
Luca’s clothing was a problem. His jeans, when skimmed over, looked like any normal pair of jeans, but if you really studied them, it was possible to see the dirt and grime collected after days of use. His sweater was thin-looking with many holes throughout it. His shoes’ soles were coming up. My mother’s critical eye caught all of this in one peek.
“Mother, don’t be so rude. Luca’s a nice boy,” I interfere.
“Luca, is it? Common name for a common kid.” My mother looks at me harshly. “Come, Stella. This boy, Luca, has no right to talk you. Mingling with his superiors...I mean, really.” She walks back up the stairs.
I turn to Luca, who’s already past the front yard’s gate. Before he moves from earshot, I call out, “I’m sorry, Luca.” He just nods.
*
I fiddle with the cloth napkin in my lap, twisting and untwisting the corners. My mother and father make stiff conversation, what they deem only appropriate for public. All around me are other tables set similarly, decked out in off-white everything. Tablecloths, napkins, vases.
Around comes our waiter, who’s dressed in creased black trousers and a white—off-white—shirt. He skilfully balances three large, wide-rimmed bowls. One’s piled high with a grilled duck strawberry salad; another is the restaurant’s ‘traditional’ spaghetti with meatballs. The last, smaller bowl is mine. Simple, how I like it. As it’s laid down in front of me, I’m happy to see that it’s nothing too fancy. Penne with parsley cream sauce, dotted with tiny shrimp. As my parents chow down on their large and luxurious meals, I delicately fork a perfectly shaped piece of penne. Slips smoothly between my lips, onto my tongue. The flavour is amazing, bursting in my mouth and for a moment I only think that nothing could get any better. I find myself actually enjoying everything until my mother speaks up.
“Stella had an odd visit today,” my mother’s eyes dart over to me, “didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say odd...” I begin, but my mother interrupts before I can voice my thoughts. “It was some boy named Luca. Grimy little thing, he was. Penniless, no doubt.” She shakes her head as if she actually feels bad for Luca.
My father nods, stopping his fork full spaghetti halfway to his lips. “He probably came over to ‘kindly’ invite himself in and then steal our precious items.”
I can’t believe my parents could be so stupid—dim, in fact. Before I can stop myself, I find my lips spitting out words. “Luca Griffin is a very nice boy, actually. He most likely dropped by to thank me for helping him on the soccer field today.” I catch a hurried glance between my parents. “He was hit in the head by a ball.”
“Darling,” starts my mother. She lays a pale hand upon mine. I slip it out from under her hand, placing it on my lap. “I wanted to tell you when you’re older, but it seems I must tell you now.” She looks back at my father. Eyes ask for help. He grunts. Clears his throat.
His eyes bore into mine. It’s a look so direct, especially from my father; I have to a blink a few times to gather thoughts. “Stella, your mother is trying to tell you that...that not everyone has a gentle heart. This Luca boy, he’s probably a greedy thief. He just wants to know you to steal everything from you. The poor steal from the rich. It’s the way of life.”
It’s a statement so absurd, so judgmental, so ignorant and lacking in true intelligence that my jaw seems to drop to the floor. Really, however, my eyes only turn as round as or rounder than saucers. A gaping mouth revealing the true nature of masticated shrimp.
“Have you gone out of your minds?” I’m also standing. My hand’s thrown a napkin onto the table, narrowly missing my mother’s salad.
“Stella—”
“Shut UP!” I feel my hair fall onto my back. The hairspray’s not held up its side of the bargain. “You’re just...totally...selfish! Both of you!” In my fury, I swing my hand across the table. A vase goes flying, flowers and water spilling. I hear it crash to the floor. The whole restaurant’s quiet now. I’m humiliated, but not as much as I’m enraged. I storm from the table, restaurant staff making an effort to keep out of my way. Just before the doors, I turn around violently, fixing my gaze on the table where my shell-shocked parents still sit.
“I’m mortified to call you my parents...you inebriated, brainless idiots!” With that, I run out of the restaurant, slamming the door behind me. I know I’ve taken it too far with the last comment, but I find that it was only necessary.
I’m alone in the large and busy main street of Cassa. Cars zoom by, and the wide sidewalks are still packed with people, despite it being dark out. Neon lights advertise open shops while large screens flip back and forth through various commercials. I suddenly feel very vulnerable, clothed only in my thin dress and fancy shoes. I’d forgotten my fur wrap in the restaurant in all my madness.
Crossing my arms tightly together to uselessly preserve my body heat, I resolve to walk to home, even though it will probably take an hour or two. I walk swiftly down the walk, careful not to bump into others, mindful of puddles in deep grooves. The smell of rain is fresh in the air.
I walk with a clear mind, with the one purpose of getting home. I’m not noticing my surroundings and once misstep and my right foot plunges into the chilly dirty water of a puddle, I’m brought back to reality. It seems that I have wandered astray and into one of the extremely poor neighbourhoods. There are no streetlamps here and the roads are merely dirt speckled with gravel. Rows upon rows of shacks haphazardly line the makeshift roads. Candlelight flickers in the glassless windows. I nonetheless decide to continue on. I’ll eventually get home one way or another, I think.
I stumble along, my feet catching in pits in the road. By now my dress is splattered with mud and grimy water, shoes soaked, hair loose and soggy. I’m chilled to the bone, but I can hardly feel it. I’m so cold; it sometimes almost feels like I am burning.
As I stumble under a weathered old tree, a thin figure appears in the distance. As it comes closer, I realise that the person is a girl, emaciated from malnourishment. Now slumping against the tree, she comes into full, clear view. Her strawberry-blond hair is scraggly and wavy, reaching past her shoulders. She wears a thin dress with a small knit cardigan, torn tights. Shoes covered in mud. In all her misery, she appears perfectly pleasant, smiling joyfully as she comes up to me.
“Hi there,” she says brightly. I look up, wanting to greet her, but my mouth seems frozen shut. “You look cold. Come with me, I’ll get you someplace warm.” The girl gently touches my arm. I hold out my arm and her own wet one takes it. She leads me back the way she came, weaving around puddles and ruts in the dirt road. I drift off into a daze.
I shudder back to life as I feel my body warming, a red-orange light close ahead of us. I step with the girl, lightly, but eagerly. I want that warm flame close, melt away the nightmarish evening I’ve had.
The girl sits me down in a spindly chair. It’s easy to see that it was handcrafted unskilfully. Around me is a family. A mother, two lanky boys, three girls, including the one that helped. I see no father or male household figure in sight.
“Mother, here’s the wandering girl,” my helper sits to my immediate left, readying a plate with a small bun, a bit of lumpy soup. She hands it to me.
“She looks rather pitiful, Darling, don’t you think?” The mother eyeballs me.
“Well, obviously,” the girl rolls her eyes in exasperation. She then turns her head at me. “What’s your name?”
“Stella.” I break off a piece of the bun and form it to make a bowl shape. I scoop up a bit of the stew, expecting it to taste awful. But, in fact, it’s amazing. Like none of the food I’d ever eaten. Better than restaurant food, at least.
“Pretty name.” A pause. “Well, call me Darling.”
Now I stop eating. Her name’s Darling? I think. “You’re name is Darling?”
“Yeah, sadly. Mum here’s the one who named me. Ask her the reasoning for the choice. I hate it. If I had a middle name, I’d go by that.”
I’m somewhat happier now, with a full stomach, a fire at my fingertips and a humorous girl beside me. I start to giggle and add, “You can take my middle name, if you want.”
“What is it?” I can’t see Darling’s face, but her tone hints that a smile has made its way onto her face.
“Olive.” I grin.
“Ugh, how horrible! I’m keeping Darling.” I love Darling’s frankness. It’s not dipped in sweet talk, no fluff. She just says it as it is. Free to do as she wants.
