Delightful Devil (prologue and part of chapter 1 part 1)

They say that the past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now. My saying is backwards. The past is all I ever have, the present a dream, and the future a ghost. That is how my life went, goes, and will continue.

Part One-The Past:
I was born on June 6th, 1990 to Maria and Callisto Balducci. Maria, my mother was only 15 and died a few days after I was born. Callisto, my father, was 21 and died when I was 14. They named me Delizioso Diavolo which translates exactly to ‘Delightful Devil’ from Italian. It was kind of ironic considering my fate. I sometimes blame my parents for my fate, but not often, it was mostly my fault. At 14 I got a job at a convenience store, not willing to let child services take me away. I hid in the floorboards under our house until they pronounced me a runaway. I was 15 where we pick up today.
“Del!”Margherita shrieked from the kitchen.
“Coming, Marg!” Margherita was my guardian. She was not much older than I, just 19. She took me in last year. She ran her “mom and pop” pizza shop downstairs. She inherited it from her aunt when she was about 18 and took me in with her a few months later. I remembered the days before her all too well. When it rained the water soaked your bones. When it was sunny the heat made you parched. I was fortunate enough to escape the winter by the grace of Marg. Marg’s shop makes good money, so we were never really worried about money. I closed my laptop and headed down the stairs, my deep purple converse slapping the steps.
“Hey, Marg. What did you call me for?” I questioned picking up an apple from the counter.
“I need your help, Del. It is getting busy and Fernando called out sick, so we are short one.” She replied putting cheese on top of a pizza. Her purple highlights falling into her tan face.
“No problem. Gotta earn my keep somehow.” I laughed.
“Deli,” Margherita said gently, “You know that we don’t operate that way.”
“Yes, I know.” I smiled soothingly, throwing a black apron on over a red graphic tee.
For the next three hours after that I was taking orders and walking back and forth from kitchen to dining space. Closing time is at 11 and Margherita let me off at nine telling me that she and the others could handle the next two hours.

Hi there!

They say that the past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now. My saying is backwards. The past is all I ever have, the present a dream, and the future a ghost. That is how my life went, goes, and will continue.

This was good, but it was short. To quote a good friend of mine, Rosey Unicorn, "A prologue is something that gives a snippet of background information that drives the story at one point or another." To me, this seems to be a random thought or emotion that ran through the protagonist's head, not background fill-in-the-blank.

I was born on June 6th, 1990 to Maria and Callisto Balducci. Maria, my mother was only 15 and died a few days after I was born. Callisto, my father, was 21 and died when I was 14. They named me Delizioso Diavolo which translates exactly to ‘Delightful Devil’ from Italian. It was kind of ironic considering my fate. I sometimes blame my parents for my fate, but not often, it was mostly my fault. At 14 I got a job at a convenience store, not willing to let child services take me away. I hid in the floorboards under our house until they pronounced me a runaway. I was 15 where we pick up today.

I felt like this was a little too info-dumpy. Like you were stating it rather than subtly sneeking it in. In fact, it reminded me a bit of a screen play. So, maybe instead of unloading all this information at once, why don't you try slipping it in somewhere else?

She replied putting cheese on top of a pizza. Her purple highlights falling into her tan face.

i) It should be 'She replied, putting cheese on top of a pizza.'
ii) The second sentence is a fragment. Maybe we could combine the two sentences and say, 'she replied, her purple highlights falling into her tan face as she put cheese on top of a pizza.'
iii) This was also telling. Being a writer, you want to be able to show rather than tell. It's what sets us apart from journalists.

For the next three hours after that I was taking orders and walking back and forth from kitchen to dining space. Closing time is at 11 and Margherita let me off at nine telling me that she and the others could handle the next two hours.

This wasn't really a strong ending. It didn't leave me with that POW!-magnetic-attraction. As of right now, at this standing point, you haven't reeled me in.

Over all,
You could use a little more showing. What did the pizzeria smell like? Like the fresh scent of crushed tomatoes and pepperoni, or the husky smell of smoke from the cheese that dripped down onto the burners? What did it look like? Were there scuffed up ash-trays lingering on the tables? Were the salt and pepper shakers plastic or glass?These are all questions you need to ask yourself when you're writing. (Maybe not as specific as the salt shakers, but that's up to you. )

PM me if you need anything!
- A