by Mj Fields
“You little sh—”
“Get her out of here! Can’t you see? The devil himself is inside—”
“Enough!” Dad yells. “All of you, ENOUGH!”
Sabrina, who thinks I need an exorcism, jumps back and covers her mouth.
An hour later and I am stepping out of an Uber in front of mine and my mother’s Brooklyn apartment.
I see her. My mom is beautiful. She’s tall, five foot seven, long, wavy brown hair and dark blue eyes. Eyes that are so expressive, I can practically hear them. Right now, as I step out of the car, they’re screaming worry.
“You okay?”
I nod as I hurry into her outstretched arms.
As her hug tightens, tears roll down my face.
She doesn’t pry and I am so thankful she doesn’t. She merely ushers us into the building, walks us to the elevator, presses the button, and within moments we’re inside our home.
I wipe my nose with my sleeve before pulling my arms out. Mom takes my jacket and hangs it in the entry closet. She waves a hand to the couch, “Movie?”
I nod as I toe off my flats and walk to the oversized couch, one you can actually sit on and feel comfortable, unlike the one in my father’s showroom slash living room.
My mom, Angela, calls over her shoulder as she opens the cupboard that holds the cups, “You pick the movie while I make us some tea?”
Sniffing, I answer, “Yeah.”
I search through the movies we have downloaded as Mom makes our tea. When she sits next to me, I still have the remote in my hand.
“Can’t find anything?” she asks as she sets the cups on the coffee table and pulls the thick, gray, woven yarn blanket off the arm of the couch to cover us, then sinks into the sofa. I lean against her shoulder.
“Tired?” she asks as she positions the blanket.
“It’s four in the morning, Mom, of course I am.” I sigh and then I realize it may have sounded harsh, and she doesn’t deserve harsh, so I add, “I know you must be, too.”
“Not too tired to listen when you’re ready to talk, Na—”
“I don’t ever want to go back there again. She’s a horrible person. And Dad! That man, he has no balls, Mom, none. And Johnny is a little peeping perv.”
The entire occurrence comes forth from somewhere deep inside of me in the form of tears, words and sobs.
She hugs me, holds me together, and listens.
She. Listens.
Half an hour later we’re watching the Little Mermaid, my favorite Disney movie.
“I’m tired,” I yawn.
“What’s keeping you awake then?”
“Sebastian,” I smile.
“You’re waiting for the song.” She smiles back.
“Kiss the girl,” I nod, “yeah.”
“Always that song,” she whispers and I snuggle in closer.
I must have dozed off because when I wake, I wake to Mom’s whispers from her bedroom.
“I will not argue nonsense with you, Davis. You have—” she stops. When she begins again, her voice raises an octave, which never happens. “Put it on a chain, for God’s sake, Davis.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Your wife!”
A longer pause.
“Let me stop you now. A young man like James Charles owns who he is. He helps others accept who they are and love themselves.”
Pause.
“Davis, you and I both work in the world of fashion. Sabrina used to work the runway shows as a makeup artist, putting makeup on men.”
I’m unsure of when the giggle began building, but I have to cover my mouth to stifle it. It may have started from the giddy feeling I get when people stick up for others or the fact that my mom finally gave my dad a little bit of hell… for once.
I quietly get up and move closer to her room so I can hear better.
“My daughter doesn’t need to be judged by a woman who, after having an affair with a married man, decided to find Jesus. And, Davis, just so we’re clear, a woman who has an issue with a young man like James Charles owning who he is, needs—”
Pause.
“Fine, our daughter doesn’t deserve to have some, some…” she pauses, “wayward soul judging her because she took a wrong turn on the straight and narrow path to righteousness. Jesus wouldn’t be at all impressed. So, you relay the message, and if that doesn’t help, I have no issue doing so. And if that doesn’t work, tell her to get some help. Our company’s healthcare plan includes mental health benefits.”
I bite my lower lip, trying not to laugh out loud, and hear Mom pace back and forth across her hardwood floor as she listens to my father.
She lets out a loud sigh and after a second begins to talk again. “I’ve decided that I’m going to let Natasha go to the private art and design school in the city. Before you say a word, I don’t need your money. I’ll figure it out.”
I bite harder because this is a dream come true. My dream.
Another pause.
“Well, clearly she’s more interested in the arts than she lets on, and I’m going to do whatever I can to foster her love of… whatever she wants.”
She pauses and I’m dancing inside.
“You do whatever it is you need to do, I’ll do the same,” she huffs then tells him, “have a great day.”
I’m now standing in the doorway waiting for her to hang up, fighting the urge to tackle hug her from behind.
“Thank you for the offer, Davis, but she’s sleeping and I’m sure she’d rather not go sit in church with you all today.”
I watch as she ends the call and tosses her phone on the bed, then… I tackle hug her.
Chapter Two
Natasha
Due to an overwhelming amount of excitement, I’m no longer tired. The level of excitement? An eleven out of ten.
Mom and I sat in front of the TV and mindlessly flipped through the dozens of Disney movies we’ve watched and re-watched, discussing the changes coming in just a month with school beginning… a new school.
I will no longer be attending an all-girl Catholic school, with classes taught by nuns, where we all wear uniforms. This is especially exciting because fashion has been something I’ve adored for as long as I can remember.
My earliest memories are of watching Mom altering dresses for proms, weddings, and events, at our house. That’s what she did to make money after I was born, instead of going to work outside the home. I loved watching her transform department store gowns that were made for the ideal woman, not the average woman. She would make the frumpiest of finds look fabulous, which in turn caused the saddest, most insecure smiles to shine.
We spend an hour looking at the de la Porte fall line and pick out classic looks that I can pair with more age-appropriate clothes.
“It’s all too much money, Mom.” I shake my head from side to side. “I know tuition is going to—.” Her laugh cuts me off.
“I get a hefty discount. And, Natasha, I never want you to worry about money. If I couldn’t figure it out, I wouldn’t have decided it’s what’s best.”
Pondering, I look down at my hands, push my fingers through the loosely woven material of the blanket and knot them.
My mom’s hand covers both of mine, stilling them.
“Natasha, what is it?”
“I want this, Mom. I truly want this, but...” I stop to organize my thoughts. When she squeezes my hand, all the jumbled words fall out… unorganized. “You can’t afford it, and this is, is, is.” I snap my mouth shut so hard my teeth hurt. The stutter I had outgrown chooses now to reappear? “Is because Sabrina was picking on me and, and, and,” I take a deep breath. “You’re trying to, to, to—”
When she lets go of my hand and stands, I feel panicked.
“I, I, I.” Oh god, she’s walking away. She never walks away from me. He does… she doesn’t. “I appreciate.”
She holds up her hand and I stop. At the counter, she opens a drawer. “Mom?”
Holding a mani
la envelope in her hand, with a smile on her face, she walks toward me, sits down and hands it to me. “Go ahead, open it.”
When I waver, she taps it. “Why are you hesitant?”
I answer honestly, “I don’t know?”
“Well.” She scratches behind her ear. She does that when she’s thinking. I imagine it helps jumpstart her thoughts. “Let’s talk about it.”
I nod.
“Last night was rough.” Her eyes squint as if it hurts her too and I know it does.
“It’s always like that, Mom, and not just there, at school too.” I touch my lips. “I know there’s barely a scar. I know I can cover it with foundation and lipstick, but it’s there, Mom. It’s always there.”
She takes my hands and brings them to her lap. “Natasha, you are smart, intelligent, and beautiful.”
“But, but, but—”
“I think I may have led you a bit astray in the past.” She pauses and then sighs, “Sixteen years.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Well, I may have implied that beauty is seamless. Maybe I caused you to believe that everything beautiful is born without difficulties. Maybe I put too much emphasis on trying to make things perfect.” She scratches behind her ear again. “I’m botching this up, aren’t I?”
I shake my head.
“You know my mother had issues.”
“She was a drunk.” Her face scrunches up, and she forces a laugh.
“I don’t know who my father was and I never had anything, except this.” She taps her head and then her heart. “And this.”
“And this.” I take her hand and put it on my head, she laughs.
“Exactly. And that’s all that truly matters in the world.” She scratches behind her ear again. “But other things are important too, Natasha. With the right clothes and makeup, anyone can be pretty. Being smart, educated, and talented, those things only happen with hard work and dedication to one’s own self. Few people are willing to put the work in to pursue their dreams.”
She takes the envelope and opens it. “You are first in your class. Your drawings are so beautiful and detailed. And you, Natasha Petrov, you work tirelessly on creating beauty.” She hands me the papers. “Friday, while you were at your father’s, I met with Mademoiselle Acord, the Dean of Students at your new school. This has nothing to do with Sabrina. It has everything to do with you and your passion.”
I look down at the pile of papers. “This is.” I stop and attempt to catch the tears from spilling onto the acceptance letter that sits on top of the other papers. “Mom, it’s...” I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “It’s too much.”
“It’s just the beginning.”
Two weeks before I’m to begin my new life, I stand in my closet. All but one of my school uniforms have been donated. The one remains as a memory, a reminder, a token of my time, my past.
The rest of the closet is a dream. I’m well prepared. If I’m honest, I’m probably overly prepared. But when your mom and her best friend-slash-assistant work for the premier fashion house in the US and France, you’ve no way of reining them in.
After pillaging de la Porte’s ‘closet’, a three-story room bigger than our Brooklyn apartment, we then hit Beacon’s Closet.
Beacon’s Closet is a budget conscious, women’s fashion dream. Okay, it’s a thrift store, but you’d never know it. Racks upon racks of clothes discarded with little to no wear, some with tags still on them.
Mom’s suggested list of must-have wardrobe items is expansive. White tees, gray tees, black tees, perfectly worn jeans, dark denim, a black blazer, black pants, a cashmere crewneck sweater, a boyfriend cardigan sweater, trench coat, denim jacket, little black dress, a wrap coat, a crisp white formal shirt, cotton leggings, twill leggings, khaki pants, two cashmere jumpers, a pencil skirt and two miniskirts, all hang in my closet.
Autumn’s love of perfect accessories makes it more colorful. Silk scarves in an array of colors. Statement necklaces for dress up, daintier ones for every day. Earrings, boots… so many boots, red heels, black flats, white canvas tennis shoes, a pair of athletic Adidas, a new wallet, bags, socks, bras, and matching panties.
When Mom nixed the thongs, Autumn insisted every girl should wear them, they make her feel more powerful, and like she has a secret, Mom caved.
I’m not sold on thongs, but hey, if I get the urge or decide to feel powerful, or have a secret that is only mine, as doubtful as that is, they may come in handy.
Now, standing in front of my closet, in a burgundy romper, one of the few things I chose, I spin in a circle indulging my mom and her best friend by giving them a fashion show. After all, they deserve to see the fruits of their labors.
They have helped pull together a wardrobe fit for a future fashionista.
“What I wouldn’t give for tits like yours,” Autumn sighs and Mom smacks her. “Oh please, tell me you don’t feel the same. Those things are so perky.”
She pulls her bra straps up. “At sixteen, they were here.” She releases her straps. “Now at,” she pauses and giggles, “twenty-nine and holding, they’ve settled south.”
I laugh. “Like your parents?”
“Hush up, girl. They’re still above the Mason-Dixon line,” she pretends to scold me.
Mom interjects, “By retirement they’ll be in Florida, so will mine.”
“NEIGHBORS!” Autumn claps.
Laughing, I walk in the closet and grab the next outfit they’ve hung. A white tee, black leggings, and a boyfriend cardigan.
The boyfriend cardigan, yet another reason I love fashion. I slip it on and it feels like a warm hug. Nothing beats a nice warm hug. Nothing I have experienced anyway.
“Girl, we aren’t getting any younger out here,” Autumn calls, snapping me out of my faux hug induced standstill.
When I walk out Autumn says, “The gray lacy bralette goes under that white tee. Get your perky behind back in that closet and put it on.”
“Really?” I roll my eyes because I’ve seen it a million times in ads. And it looks great, but it’s never been… me.
“Yes, really,” they say at the same time.
Two hours later and we’ve settled on my wardrobe for the first two weeks of school.
At last, I emerge from the closet in my favorite PJ’s. Autumn laughs at my unicorn onesie as she pushes off the bed. “Movie and munchie time?” I nod.
While Mom pops up some popcorn, the way we like it, on the stove, Autumn opens a bottle of wine and then a bottle of sparkling grape juice for me.
Autumn walks over and sets down three of the four crystal champagne glasses she purchased at one of the many thrift stores we browsed today. “In the spirit of change, I’ve brought a few movies.”
“Oh, dear lord,” Mom grumbles as she dumps the popcorn into the vast bowl.
“Just suggestions,” Autumn says. Practically skipping toward the door, she grabs her bag and hurries back. She opens her Gucci hobo and pulls out a stack of movies. “Fifty Shades—”
“WHAT?” Mom yells and I hide my giggle behind my hand.
With her back to Mom, Autumn crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me. “Just joking, left that one at home.” Pleased with herself, she plops down on my left. “10 Things I Hate About You, Cruel Intentions, Step Up, and A Walk to Remember. All high school movies, Ang,” Autumn laughs as she grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Ones with real boys, not animated ones.”
“We love Disney, don’t we, Natasha?” Mom hands me the bowl of popcorn and sits down.
“We do,” I nod.
“I also brought The Notebook, Dear John, The Lucky One, Definitely Maybe, Titanic, and Magic-”
“No,” Mom interrupts her before she finishes the title Magic Mike.
“How about we let our sixteen-year-old art student pick?” Autumn grabs a glass of wine off the coffee table and hands it to Mom.
“Fine,” she concedes.
I look through the movies smiling. It isn’t like my mom keeps me from f
ilms that aren’t Disney. It’s just that, up until a couple years ago, that’s how we passed the time in waiting rooms for doctor’s appointments and hospital rooms before and after surgeries.
All those movies seemed to help me escape while waiting for the next step in making me look ‘normal’. And normal, for me, didn’t come easy.
Movies took me away. Earbuds stopped me from hearing most of the questions the kids in the pediatrician’s office would likely ask. For example, “What happened to you?” With earbuds in, the questions about my lip, teeth, or scar were directed to Mom. They’d ask her, “What happened to her?”
At birth, it was severe. A bilateral cleft, which meant both sides were affected. As a toddler, more surgery to repair the palate. As an elementary student, it was still easy to see the scar. And, of course, my teeth were a mess and my speech was horrible. I was different. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until last year when I started using makeup that I stopped hearing the snickers in the hallways at school.
“She doesn’t talk?”
“She has a speech impediment.”
“She used to drool.”
And then, “Underneath all that makeup, she’s still a freak.”
It’s always been a no-win situation. Heck, everyone pretty much grew up knowing me because of my difference. Those who didn’t, learned of it through the gossip mill.
That’s not the way one wants to be known.
I’d never asked to change schools, I knew money was tight. But to say changing schools, attending a place no one knew me, would be life-changing is an understatement. I feel like maybe this year I’ll be able to be me. Well, find out who I am anyway.
Mom nudges me lightly, and I look at her. Her unspoken questions are staring me in the eyes so I answer, “Imagining.”
“Always imagining,” she winks.
Autumn gets up and puts a movie in. “A Walk to Remember is first up.” When she sits, she grabs a red leather journal from her bag and opens it.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
She pulls out two more, tossing one to Mom and me the other. “These are for lists.”