This is one of my worse chapters, I'm not going to lie. It's mainly just helping us dive into the story and establishing some important points about Melody's current life and her transition into a new lifestyle. So. Tell me what ya think.
Chapter Two
Tuesday
The next morning I actually awoke to something other than the deafening roar of my mother’s enraged voice echoing throughout the entire house. Instead, I arose to the mellifluous singing of a flock of migrating birds outside my mullioned window, where the world was painted swirling shades of violet and carnation pink. Millions of stars still glimmered in the smooth black sky illuminated with bright color, and as their radiance dispersed and the sun rose, shafts of dull light shone through the window. Outside it looked nothing like the bright and lively daytime that I had grown so accustomed to. I supposed that, like me, Planet Earth had two sides: both very different, but still part of the same world.
But Madre had one side, and only one, or at least, she only displayed that one side to me. And that side was not as dazzling as the luminous radiance of the sunlight streaming through the mullioned kitchen windows during the daytime or as soft and mellow as the pastel shades that merged with the glimmering stars early in the morning. She was more like twelve o’ clock midnight: cold, cruel, and unlit by any radiance. And I meant that literally.
“Good morning, Madre”, I greeted her pleasantly as I entered the room. A polite person would have said “Good morning” in return but as Madre turned to face me I had no problem understanding that those weren’t precisely the words that were about to escape her mouth.
“What is it you want?” she barked. Her eyes were the color of the coffee steaming in a mug before her, but they displayed none of the hot beverage’s warmth.
“What do you mean?” I asked as I poured myself some orange juice from the juice pitcher sitting on the table. Madre stared into her own drink, as though it were the one talking to her rather than me.
“I mean, you are being nice to me, which can only mean that you are about to ask me for something!” Madre snarled, her hands shaking with infuriation and splattering scalding hot coffee all down the front of her terry cloth bathrobe. I stopped dead in my tracks like a dear captivated by the blazing headlights of the car about to collide with it. And as I looked at my mother I realized that if she had a car, I would be as dead as a deer carelessly crossing paths with a carelessly driving driver.
“Yeah, and you wanna know what something is? It’s a little bit of kindness from you!” I retorted, taking a swig of orange juice. “I mean, what do you want from me? Perfection?”
“No! I don’t! I want you to be popular! I want you try to be pretty! I want you to be smart! I dream of you to be more like Alessandra! Can’t you make my dreams come true? Stop being selfish, and do something for someone else?” she snapped. And in addition to her sharp voice, something inside me had snapped. Friends, beauty, and intelligence I could stand even if I couldn’t understand, but with the mention of my dreaded sister Madre had crossed the line.
“No!” I bellowed, slamming my glass down on the table.
“Then what am I to do?” she asked desperately, finally looking up from her coffee to give me a pleading look.
“Dream on!”***
I had no problem doing that, I thought as I pondered the night before last’s dream, as I had not had a real-life dream last night. At an early time in my life, I had been forced to face that the world consisted not only of the beauty and wonders that I had been exposed to when I was younger but of the destruction and ugliness and badness in the world that had never been formally introduced to but had always seen lurking around the corner of my eye, just waiting to disturb the images in my mind that displayed the world as a beautiful place filled with beauty, love, compassion, and best of all to my young mind prancing ponies and vibrant flowers. And when the evil and badness finally struck, it struck hard. At the age of five years old, not only was I forced to live with the fact that ponies died and flowers withered, love perished and beauty faltered, but so much more. I had to realize that sickness didn’t always mean having a cold, but meant being in a critical and fatal shape that wouldn’t always return to normal. I had to realize that not only did sickness extend that far, but far enough that it reached the mind whether or not someone was physically well, that some people were so sick that they aspired to be not the Superheroes that I always watched on TV but the villains that plundered them with evil plots. And their plots? They were more than setting disgusting monsters on the hometown of Spiderman, and at that time, that was a hard concept to grasp. I was forced to realize that when people called the world beautiful that they really meant it looked nice when you concealed all of the crime, illness, death, poverty, and depression within it. And this all started because of the man that had shown me the supposed wonders within the world and all ended because of the man that had showed me that the true ugliness within the world. When I was five, I was informed that my dad, my padre, had Bovine Spongiform. “What’s Bovine Spongiform?” I asked my parents in Italian, as we sat in our small and charming home in Italy giggling. “It’s sounds like an icky foreign name!”
“Well, Micaela, it is really icky. But it’s not a foreign name. It’s a disease. That means you are really sick”, Padre told me, looking at me with his amber eyes. Their usual glimmer had been replaced by nothing, and they seemed dark and desolate as I stared into them, dreading the answer I was about to get. “Some people call it Mad Cow Disease.”
I giggled nervously. “So is it like Chicken Pox?” I asked, trying to compare the diseases based on animal names. But like chickens and cows, the two diseases were nothing alike. Chicken Pox healed. Mad Cow Disease didn’t.
“No, Micaela. It isn’t.” And with those four simple worlds, my entire world went crashing down. Only one thread within me broke, but connected to the rest, it released mayhem and destruction in my soul as great as the pandemonium inside my dad’s body. My former knowledge turned into my current wishes. My former life faded into memories, taking my Padre’s life with it. On my sixth birthday, Padre physically died, although the true Padre had already died months before. He left Madre, Alessandra, and I, only with memories, and memories couldn’t pay the bills and mortgage, couldn’t feed our hungry mouths or clothe our growing bodies. And memories certainly couldn’t ease the pain.
So Madre left our homeland, taking Alessandra and I but leaving behind her love and compassion and personality and replacing it with the desolateness, depression, and drear that she thought would disappear when we appeared at America. And even though America was supposed to be the land of the free, I had still yet to find freedom and release throughout Waterstown, USA. The only time I felt free and independent, rights that I was guaranteed by my country, was when I was dreaming. I was a dreamer.
Alessandra Rosano was never a dreamer. She may have been every boy’s dream, look dreamy, act dreamy, but when it came to her ambition and determination, dream was the last word that came to mind of those who knew her, and that who was her. No matter what her goal was, no matter if her achievement and feat of it seemed likely or impossible, she never doubted herself. She never needed a reason to dream, to wish, that someone would swoop down from the sky and grant her wishes, because she could grant them herself. She was incapable of casting spells but a magic within her granted them. No matter how much hard work she needed to complete to get to her goal, she always continued on, and with a smile on her face. I would have admired her for her constant determination and optimism if it weren’t for the fact that everyone else did, and looked down upon me because of my opposition to her initiative and ambition.
“Ms. Rosano. Daydreaming again, are we?” a familiar English-accented voice snarled and instead of looking into the fathomless amber eyes of the past I was looking into the dark tunnels of relentless icy silver eyes.
“No, sir”, I replied to my English teacher, Mr. Park. I had faced, more than anything else in my life, discrimination. And at the current time, the main source of that discrimination and assumptions about me based on a baseless thought was Mr. Park. If you appreciate puns, then you will completely understand when I say that Mr. Park’s classes were no “day in the Park”.
“No?” His thin lips formed no but his eyes shined yes. “Then do you agree or disagree with Fawn’s description of the first scene in Romeo and Juliet?”
“Uh…yeah, I did”, I replied nervously. What had Fawn said? As I looked over at the dull expression on Fawn’s bright orange face, straight from a spray tan can, I knew that even Fawn herself didn’t know the answer to that.
“What did you agree with, Ms. Rosano?” Mr. Park asked, his eyes widened in false interest. “I’m very interested.”
“I really don’t…” I had always thought it stupid when people said, “saved by the bell”, but apparently those who considered me dumb were right because as a clatter of bells shrieked throughout the classroom, that was exactly what I was thinking. “—Think I have enough time. Bye, Mr. Park!” I finished enthusiastically, slamming my chair against the graffiti covered desk and scurrying out of the room before Mr. Park could even assign me homework. I had plenty of work to do whether or not my teachers gave it to me, I thought as I scrammed, not decreasing my pace, to my locker to quickly dump my books in my Element bag. ***
“I dream of you to be more like Alessandra!” Madre had so bluntly said. Alessandra was captain of every sports team, leader of every club, president of every council, smartest of every class, prettiest of every year, most perfect of every place. But one place she had never dared to venture to was arts. She was an awful artist, awful at painting, drawing, singing, and acting—well, both she and I had inherited our Padre’s awful artistic skills, but I seemed to have inherited something Alessandra had not. My Grandma Carmelina gave Alessandra her beauty, but she had given me my talent for music. I’d never trying acting, but knowing that the school drama department was desperate for a decent singer, for once I felt like Alessandra: sure to get what I wanted. But unlike her, I wasn’t doing it for myself. I was doing it to defy Madre, to push the crudely shaped buttons on her cheap woolen coat so hard that it actually hurt. She’d been irritated by my Gothicism and opposition to Alessandra, but she’d get more than an itch out of this.
But as I plodded towards the auditorium, where the auditions were to be held, my dirt encrusted combat boots clunking on the smooth gleaming tiled floors leading to the cavernous room, I realized that it would cause me more than an itch too. Did I really want to draw attention to myself just to claim vengeances, just to taste sweet revenge when I knew that something on a lesser scale would fill the cravings of my sweet tooth just as well? I glimpsed down at my creased and tattered leather jacket, that appeared as though it had been tossed carelessly into a mass of raging, hissing, and sputtering cats, scratched and torn at the seams like my heart through the years, and suddenly inched backwards. But then Padre’s shimmering amber eyes, like windows into his soul, and how when he died, the curtains closed but the memories remained. His last words to me—“I love you. I always will. I will look down to you from heaven but I will still look up to you, innamorato.” I stared up at the ceiling, and even though it concealed the powder blue skies I knew that my Padre could still see me, that he would want me to make a difference. I knew that he would understand how I needed to show Madre that I wasn’t Alessandra, and never would be, and would encourage me to define myself as an individual. So I breathed a sigh, closed my eyes, and outstretched my trembling hands towards the door. ***
“Open your eyes, please, dear. It really is difficult for us to judge your ability when we can’t see you properly. I’ve heard people say that eyes are windows to the soul, you know.”
I opened my eyes. Before me were three women. With their identical calm and kind expressions and beaming faces, their kindhearted personalities and warm manners, they appeared as though they belonged at a soup kitchen or a homeless shelter, pityingly and sympathetically helping the unfortunate wearing a smile. But apparently they disagreed because they weren’t here at Grover High for the annual Food Drive as much as they were the drama auditions.
Miss Goldberg, Mrs. Peterson, and Mrs. O’Neill of Grover High’s drama department were sitting contentedly before me, the notes they had scrawled throughout each audition resting on a small card table with their aching arms. The table was placed onstage, and as I nervously held my script I deeply wished we were in the broom closet outside of the room rather than the equally unilluminated stage.
“Now, Melody, is it?” the young Miss Goldberg interrogated, her undulating blonde curls streaming out of a tidy ponytail like the tears of hesitance threatening to cascade down my face, her ginger eyes cat-like and somewhat like my father’s. I took a deep breath and prepared to answer. My Padre would never hurt me, so I trusted this stranger.
“Yes, Ma’am”, I answered, toying with the paper in my hand. It was a scene within Grease. I was to perform Sandy’s part while Mrs. Peterson was Danny. I wondered how I would do—somehow I just couldn’t convince myself that the woman before me, with her cascading sun bleached hair, pallid face overcome with freckles, and azure eyes was the tall, dark, and handsome Danny. Maybe because her crisp and neatly ironed jean jacket looked like it cost way more than Danny’s legendary leather jacket.
“Please continue”, she said in a brisk and sharp voice. I gulped. Suddenly the soup-kitchen scene I had imagined Miss Goldberg to be in was turning into a mafia scene because of her harsh tones. I almost laughed out loud thinking of it—Miss Goldberg appeared as though if she did a bad deed (which she would definitely do if she were a member of the mafia) she would go to confession and spill her heart out, and based on her Jewish last name she didn’t usually attend mass every Sunday.
Neither did I. Although I was raised Catholic, I had found myself very confused after all of the horrible things that seemed to have happened to me, and was now unsure about religion. But I knew that whether or not God and Heaven existed, that I had a guardian angel watching over me--Mrs. Peterson was on my right, but my dad was on my left. ***
To: PrettyinPink@aol.com
From: GuitarChick009@aol.com
Time: 8:29 PM Eastern
Subject: YAY
Every day I repeatedly count the flaws and inadequacies within my life, how things could be so much better. But you know what? Things could be so much worse. I could have nothing. I don’t mean material possessions and items, I mean real things, like the ability to love, personality, individuality, things like that. And whether or not Madre thinks I do, I have plenty of that. Whether I make the cut or not, I know in addition to everything I’ve taken for granted, I have a special talent. I guess since I’m always wanting to be someone other than me, acting was a good way for me to apply that desire to my life. When I was reading those lines, I was able to be someone other than me, and I felt like I was Sandy, even if my hair wasn’t in blond and bouncy girls and even if I didn’t formerly live in Australia or wear poodle skirts. I felt as though the love of my life truly had seemed to change—was that because I felt completely that way about Matt when he refrained from contacting me after his relocation, or am I actually that great of an actress? I hope it’s the second, but if it’s the first then at least that horrible event happened for a reason more than to make me miserable. And when I sang, my voice was as sweet as the honey in the mug of tea sitting next to me but as strong as its taste without the sweet honey. I say that modestly. Wish me luck, PrettyinPink.
Sincerely,
GuitarChick009
P.S. My day was awesome except for one thing—the group of people in drama was so diverse, and it totally depressed me that I even when everyone else could merge to make such a group, I still wasn’t included _.
After sending my email, I stole a quick glance at the computer clock. It was currently 8:30 PM. I lamented and allowed my head to drop on the hard and smooth surface of my desk. To my displeasure, I hadn’t yet received a telephone call informing me that I had made the cut and was now an exclusive cast member of the play. I’d been so apprehensive the past few hours that I’d actually completed all of my homework—every single line was filled, word written, and assignment completed. Well, at least even though I probably didn’t make the play, someone got some happiness from this event—yeah, Mr. Park. Because I for once had my homework done.
I flopped down on my lumpy mattress without regard for the fact that I was still wearing my school clothes, pulled the rumpled quilt over my head, and screamed into my pillow. I slept at night to escape all of the pessimistic emotions I experienced during the day, and tonight I most certainly had a lot of horrible feelings to sleep off, so I decided I might as well get a head start.
My bright brown eyes swiveled around the vast, pea-green soccer field, searching it desperately for the thing I wanted most. Amazingly enough, I wasn’t seeking a soccer ball. I desired something more important yet something equally or less predictable as a soccer game—my mother’s attendance at my soccer game.
She never came to any of them. Yeah, I knew, never say never, but it was utterly true. In the one year I had been on the Waterstown Elementary soccer team, my mother, the woman who was supposed to love and support me, hadn’t attended a single soccer game. She always found an excuse not to come, and that excuse was always lame. It’s too sunny. It’s too cloudy. I’m too tired. I didn’t mind these excuses—after all, the thing I wanted most was to please Madre, which seemed to be an impossible task, at least for me. But the one excuse I couldn’t stand, couldn’t stand to contend with, was this—“I’m doing something with Alessandra”.
Alessandra may have been a firstborn child, but did she have be my mother’s first priority too? Whether it was a cheerleading or gymnastics competition, a dance recital, an awards ceremony, a school function, or a beauty pageant, if it conflicted with anything I had scheduled, Alessandra’s always won. Madre didn’t come to my soccer games, my art shows, or even Waterstown Elementary School’s annual awards ceremony, it usually didn’t have any importance unless Alessandra didn’t have something planned at the same time. Madre rarely even paid attention to me when Alessandra was around at home. And why would, how could she pay attention to an average eight-year-old when Alessandra was around? Alessandra was only sixteen years old, and already she couldn’t fit the amount of awards she had on all four walls of her bedroom. She had won almost all of the beauty pageants she had ever entered, competitions she had ever competed in, and excelled in anything she ever did. Ever since she began school, she only received Straight A’s, and was in all honors classes. If that wasn’t enough, she was the most popular girl in her school, and was admired by all of the girls, loved by all of the boys, and apparently invited to every party (although she usually turned down the invitation for a study session). I didn’t care about any of that; none of that made me envious. I loved my sister. I knew that even though Alessa and I were very different, I was just as good of a person as her, just as interesting, just as unique. The only thing that perturbed, that deeply hurt me, was that Madre could not see that. Everything that Alessandra could do that I couldn’t instantly became a flaw of mine in Madre’s eyes. About a year after Padre’s death, Madre’s bad temper remained, but her equal love for Alessa and I dwindled. I figured that Madre obsessed over Alessandra’s “perfection” to replace her constant fixation with Padre’s death. And I didn’t like it one bit.
“Yes, WE WON!” Diamond Mueller screeched, tossing her hands into the air. The garish beads in her hair clinking along with the sound of fifteen eight year olds triumphant shouts as the remainder of the soccer team lifted Diamond into the air like the star of the soccer team she was. My eyes, although they had been open for the few seconds I had been daydreaming, had not seen that the time was dwindling, the game ending, and our team winning. I kicked the ground, allowing plumes of dust and dirt to ruin my purple jersey, and then plopped myself down in the middle of the field.
“Micaela!” A voice snapped at me, and I looked up, expecting to see an angry teammate or soccer coach glaring down at me for my utter space-out. But you know what they say, expect the unexpected. Madre was glowering down at me, her bright brown eyes narrowed and her teeth clenched as though she were a ferocious, starved cat and I was a mouse—no more than her dinner and the cause for her exasperation. I immediately picked myself off of the ground and grinned.
“Mamma!” I exclaimed in my squeaky Italian-accented voice,, flinging my arms across her waist. As abruptly as I had lurched forward, I was pushed back. Madre placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “What’s wrong, Mamma?” My voice trembled
“I told you that right when the game ended, you were to come to me and leave. I told you that Alessandra had dance competition finals after your game, and that it was very important that I attend”, Madre sputtered in Italian. I bit my lip, my throat locking, my eyes watering, and my heart breaking.
“But, Madre, I didn’t know where you were. I—I didn’t see you in the stands. You must have been sitting somewhere else”, I replied, although I knew and dreaded the answer I was about to receive.
“I wasn’t here. I didn’t have the time. I had to buy Alessandra a gift. She has worked so hard to get to perform in this recital, you see? If she wins first prize, it will look very good on a college application to a dance academy, if she wishes to attend one. And if I miss this recital because you are lollygagging...well, just hope that I don’t”, Madre retaliated coldly, snatching my thin wrist and dragging me towards the car. I struggled not to let the tears escape my eyes, the feelings escape my body, but it was very difficult. I tried to imagine that the words I had heard were different, that Madre was simply late to my soccer game because she wanted to buy me a gift because I’d worked so hard to get to state finals. But some things are very hard to imagine.
A flash of colors and light appeared in my sleepy mind as my memory fast-forwarded to the end of the recital.
It was also hard to imagine that Alessandra was not an angel, because surely no one of this world could dance as light-footedly and elegantly as Alessandra was. She moved across the stage as though she were tiptoeing on clouds or soaring through the sky, her movements not sharp and blunt, but fluid and even. Usually my eyes would have been filled with adoration and admiration as the remainder of the audience’s eyes was as Alessandra glided across the stage, but tonight they were filled with envy. My soccer finals, although they were not as fun to view as Alessandra’s dance recitals, should have been just as significant in my mother’s eyes as Alessandra’s. And yet, they weren’t. Just like, in my mother’s eyes, I was not as significant as Alessandra. Even though I knew that deep down in her heart, she loved us equally, what seemed to matter more at the time was that on the surface of it, Alessandra was ranked above me. How she treated me was what mattered most. And needless to say, she didn’t treat me well.
Alessandra leapt gracefully through the air as the soft, sophisticated music fluttered rapidly yet still fluidly, about to stop. She posed as the song ended, still the vision of an angel. Her dark, smooth hair was curled softly, a halo of light surrounding the crown of her head. Her eyes glowed brightly, reflecting the stage lights and adoration that her body was basking in. The audience couldn’t seem to stand the thought that she could stop, as instead of applauding they continued staring at her graceful form. She saw this, pirouetted once again, and let a broad smile play up her lips as she curtsied cutely, lifting the silky material of her pale pink dress into the air. Her sudden movements triggered something in the audience, and they snapped out of the trance that Alessa’s dancing had placed them under. They started clapping, then cheering, then they stood up and began applauding wildly and frantically, beams upon their faces. And to think I had said she was the vision of an angel. No, she was a real angel. But in my mind, she was now a devil.
Although Madre’s love had seemed to falter for me throughout the past three years, my love for Alessandra and her love for me had never wavered. She was not just my older sister, but also and more importantly my best friend. Whenever I had a problem, I came to her for the solution. Whenever I needed help, I came to her to be my savior. Whenever I needed to let words, secrets, escape my mouth, I entrusted them to her. Regardless of all of the work she had to complete or the plans she had scheduled, she was always there for me at some point in the day--always there to make breakfast for me in the morning and to tuck me in at the evening. And yet, something other than love had always been creeping in the few empty spaces in my friendship and sisterhood with Alessandra.
Something unpleasant amongst what seemed like a perfect relationship between two perfect sisters. Envy, because gradually the perfect relationship between two perfect sisters had become an imperfect relationship between one perfect sister and one imperfect sister. At least that was what Madre thought—that I was the imperfect sister. But whether or not I was any less perfect than Alessandra, our relationship was definitely less perfect than it had been before. I was finding more and more that my adoration for her and admiration of her success was faked, masking my envy and anger and wonder why I wasn’t as beloved as she. On occasions I had begun letting this angst show, not approaching her with my problems, achievements, and questions nearly as much as before, for fear that I would become dependent on someone I needed to prove to that I was fine on my own. Our friendship was fading, and turning us into—was it possible—simply sisters.
“Oh, Alessandra, miele, you were wonderful—no—amazing! You won first prize too, I was just saying to Micaela at how superb this will look on a college application, since this is such an elite dance competition”, Madre praised Alessandra a few minutes later, after the judges announced that Alessandra was winner of the entire competition, having been the only contestant to get a perfect score from all of the judges. Madre was so enthusiastic that I was, even at the age of eight, surprised that she wasn’t at this point down on the glossy floors, kissing Alessandra’s feet as literally as she did figuratively.
“Grazie, Madre!” Alessandra exclaimed, beaming at, not only Madre, but also the people that as they passed her gave her a friendly, congratulatory gesture (which was practically everyone). She bent over a few feet and lifted her face towards mine so we were nose-to-nose, grinned, and hugged me. Even up close her face looked like that of an airbrushed model, and yet instead of gazing into her glistening amber eyes, I scrunched up my button nose as though her features were distorted rather than beautiful. She frowned slightly, but continued with her happy air.
“So, how were your soccer finals, Caela?” she asked, not seeming to notice or care that I hadn’t congratulated or complimented her on her performance.
I gave her a rare scowl, scrunched up my eyes, and turned my head to the side. Her figure immediately straightened up as she rose. “We won. But Madre and you don’t care, do you?” I snarled, letting my lower-lip curl in disgust. Even though my eyes were closed, exposing me to darkness, I could imagine in my mind the gracefully sad expression on Alessandra’s face as it dawned on her that I was angry, and that this was a rare occasion upon which I would actually express my anger.
“Madre, what is Micaela speaking of?” Alessandra questioned. My eyes snapped open, and I immediately turned to face my mother. The smile slid off her face, immediately replaced by a scowl. Her thick eyebrows knit, her arms crossed, and the anger she had felt towards me at the end of my soccer game returned along with her unattractively angry expressions. I gulped. At age eight, I was still afraid of my mother and the wrath that Padre’s death had filled her with.
“I couldn’t make it to her game, and I suppose my punishment is that she is going to be a brat, is it not, Micaela?” Madre growled.
The fourteen-year-old me rolled over in my sleep, instantly reminded of Mr. Park and his wolfish features and personality, and more importantly, the inexplicable anger he and Madre both shared towards me.
“I’m not a brat!” I retaliated, stomping a cleat-clad foot on the floor, causing the people to turn their attention to the three of us, as though we were performing one of their beloved ballet dances and they couldn’t miss it. I cared not. People already thought that I was imperfect—a bratty nuisance to a flawless older sister—so why shouldn’t I drag Madre and her reputation down with me? “You could have come to soccer, but you didn’t, ‘cause you were too busy worrying about the perfect flowers for Alessa!” I screeched, pointing to the bouquet of pale yellow roses clutched in Alessandra’s hands. Immediately her hands drooped, the flowers wilting along with her falling hands as though, like Alessandra, they felt ashamed at being blamed for Madre’s tardiness at my game.
Madre’s head whipped around, noting the unpleasant fact that the families that she had formed bonds with over their child’s and her own daughter’s talents were staring at her as though she were the worst mom around. Those parents realized that she was clearly not to be bothered, and immediately went back to praising their own children’s performances.
“Madre, that really wasn’t necessary”, Alessandra whispered.
Madre glared down at me, and I hung my head, finished claiming vengeance upon and humiliating my mother for the day. “I know, those families are so nosy, staring at us as though they don’t have their own little problems.” I blinked back tears, assuming that I was my madre’s little problem.
“No, I meant that you skipped Caela’s game just to buy flowers for me. I appreciate them, but my sister is more important than gifts”, Alessandra replied, the beauty in her face mixed with sadness and tiredness.
“Oh, Alessa, do not be upset with me. I just thought you deserved a reward for all of your hard work. After all, you do deserve the best”, Madre rambled, yet again beaming. She peered down on me. “Not that you, Micaela, don’t deserve good things, but you have to work very hard for them like Alessandra here did. I am proud of you for being dedicated to soccer, but next year, try practicing a bit more, so you can be scheduled to be in the game for more than five minutes, alright?”
And from then on, life was precisely like that for me. Madre would either ignore my presence and needs, or get extremely and inexplicably angry at me, either for reminding her that I was indeed existent, or for the fact that I was not like Alessandra. And yet I never told her how I felt. I never admitted the reason behind my anger. I assumed if she were a good mother at all, she would realize that the anger I gave to her and Alessandra in return was due to her own faults and for her criticizing and comparing mine. And although Alessandra supported me throughout the times Madre neglected and blamed me, I saw her support as her way of reminding me of the fact that Madre had nothing to criticize her for except for being too perfect. So I did the same to Alessandra that Madre did to me--definitely ignored her and seemingly disliked her. My unfriendliness did not only extend to Alessandra, however. I became a generally depressed and downcast person, who was none too friendly. But this negative, horrible change in me was not just caused by Alessandra, Madre, and Padre’s death. It was also caused by...
My eyes snapped open to a buzzing, electronic ringing and immediately swiveled to look at my clock. 9:47 PM. My first thought would have been that I didn’t get into the play, even though I had thought I had done well—that is, if a series of irritating ringing hadn’t continued, sounding from my phone. I raced over to the desk, all sluggishness and sleepiness escaping me, and eagerly picked up the cordless telephone placed on my desk.
“Hello, this is the Rosano residence. May I help you?” I squeaked.
“This is Hannah Peterson of Grover High School’s drama department. Is someone of the name of Melody Rosano present?” a voice of which I recognized as that of Judge # 3’s inquired.
“Yes. Melody speaking”, I confirmed casually, although I could feel the speed and consistency of my heartbeat increasing by the moment. Sweat trickled down my face as my body heat augmented along with my heartbeat.
“Oh, my, Melody, I am so sorry”, she breathed apologetically. “I was just about to go to sleep, reviewed the cast list, and realized I hadn’t called Sandy. Oh...well, I suppose I just gave your part away. Congratulations, Melody. It takes great skill to be dubbed the main character of a play-especially in your first year of high school.”
Just then, my heart nearly stopped beating. I made a sudden wish that the vivacity and happiness that I was currently experiencing would last throughout the remainder of my life. I was that happy. “THANK YOU SO MUCH!” I whooped.
“Nice speaking with you, Melody”, Hannah said politely as she placed the phone into its cradle. I squealed with delight. Just at that moment, Madre dashed into my bedroom, her pupils dilated with bewilderment. Her fair yet rosy skin’s color had drained, and she was prepared for the worst with a First Aid kit and baseball bat at hand. Madre bellowed, panic-struck, “CHE DIAVOLO (what the h***) were all of those screams? You scared me to death!” But the happiness didn’t last the remainder of my life as much as it did two seconds.
“What, are you mixing up English words again? I think you meant to say that you were overjoyed that I seemed to be in agonizing pain. Is that right, Madre?” I said coolly, examining my over-bitten fingernails.
“I am not at all stupid. Your sister Alessandra would have never insulted her own mother in such a disgusting manner. Micaela, why do you idolize these idiotic punk rockers, these rebels”, Madre replied in Italian this time, just in case she had been using the wrong English words, motioning to the posters plastered upon my walls for emphasis, “When you have such a wonderful sister to be your role model? You don’t do anything social, you don’t make an attempt to look nice, and you act so rude and ungrateful. Even to your wonderful sister!” When I scowled, she took it as an invitation to continue. “Why are you angry at me? You were just screaming happy, weren’t you?”
She was right. I had been happy, but how could I tell her that it was because I was defying her standards for me without breaking a rule? I couldn’t. Instead I let out something that I had been thinking about in English that had been replacing Romeo and Juliet. Even though the smallest thing could penetrate my concentration for English class, this thing was not small at all.
I sunk down onto my mattress and slapped the lumpy surface, just barely restraining the temptation to punch Madre instead. “God, will you just SHUT UP about Alessandra?” I screeched. And for once in her life, it seemed that Madre was speechless, and that she had nothing to say. Perhaps this was because for once in my own life I had admitted to her why I was constantly so upset, just implied it. She may have known I didn’t have a pleasant outlook on the topic of my sister, but apparently, regardless of my constant hints and negative behavior towards both she and Lessie, Madre hadn’t figured out why. Madre’s mouth literally hung open, her brown eyes wide. She dropped the bat, and sunk to the ground along with it. I felt on the inside as she looked on the outside, but I had no time to dwell upon my own shock. Once that came out, I was free to say whatever I needed and wanted to say. Which was quite a lot.
“Oh, so you’re surprised? I’ve never actually yelled at you before, not like this anyway, have I? Yeah, Mamma, that’s why I’m always so pissed at you. I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out, since you think I’m so dumb and you’re so smart. Think about it. You’re always comparing me to Alessandra, and throughout all of that never once saying something nice about me. And then I start hating you and Alessandra. Put two and two together, and what does it mean, Madre? It means I hate you always wanting me to be like Alessandra! I’ve never said it because I thought you knew me well enough to figure it out on your own. But apparently not. Apparently the only thing important enough for you to think about is Alessandra. And guess what? I’M NOT HER! So stop trying to make me her! Because I’ll never be her”, I started out whispering and ended screaming.
And I continued, letting the sound of my screeching, piercing shrieks drown out my thoughts and the loud silence between my mother and I, desperately grasping the sides of my quaking face, allowed my mouth to widen and my eyes to narrow and crinkle. I was no longer “screaming happy” as my mother had phrased it, but in determination. I had finally had something to scream happily about, and I was not going to allow her to wrench it away from me just as she had done to everything that had comprised the pleasurable areas of my life. No, I supposed in the split second that I allowed myself to ponder upon why I was taking such maniacal actions, she hadn’t wrenched anything away. Rather than suddenly and quickly breaking my grip, she had picked and pried at my weak arms until my grip upon my happiness, which had been feeble to begin with, loosened and she could destroy my dreams. I refused to allow her to repeat her prior actions. For the moment, she was silenced and stunned, but I knew that if I showed any interest in regaining my previous happiness, as I was this evening, she wouldn’t leave me alone until I cast aside the things that made me happy—because surely, anything that made me, her rebellious other daughter happy, was far from what would make her perfect, beloved daughter pleased. And she so desperately wanted the rebellious one to become the beloved one. She couldn’t do that again...she needed to leave me alone...Just...leave me...Just...
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I ended finally in a howl of anguish. She backed away, fury and confusion replacing the vacant expression in her eyes, crawling backwards across my clothes-strewn floor, squirming and wriggling out of my sight like the repulsive worm she was, her body contorting as she struggled out through my door, slamming the door shut behind her. And although she remained within the same structure as me, and was steaming with ferocity in the room opposite mine, she was only physically present, and would not bother me for a long time after...
I had finally been left alone.***
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