by Mj Fields
The shock quickly wore off when my father asked him, “Is there something you want to say to your sister?”
Yuck.
“Sorry for DMing that picture to that girl. But she messaged me and asked if I knew you. Then told me she didn’t believe me. Had to prove her wrong, ya know,” he shrugs. “I didn’t know she was gonna expose you.”
I hold my hand over my stomach as it twists in a knot. When he looks up, I know he’s lying.
Having had enough lies, enough bullcrap to last a lifetime I hold out my hand. “Let me see your phone.”
“What? No! It’s mine.”
Dad asks, “Natasha, why would you–.”
Sick and tired of having to deal with this kind of shit with Dad and his other kids, I cut him off. “I call bullshit! He’s a little dickhead and I’m done dealing with it!”
“Nice mouth,” the dirty little perv has the balls to say.
Dad looks at Mom. “You gonna–.”
Mom rolls her eyes and puts out her hand. “Phone, Johnny.”
“Dad?” Johnny looks up with pleading eyes.
Dad runs his hand through his hair. “First of all, your mouth, Natasha.”
“Yeah, my mouth, Dad. My. Mouth!”
Mom steps forward. “Phone, Johnny.”
Johnny steps back and hides behind Dad.
“I left it,” he pauses, no doubt trying to come up with a lie. “Home.”
Something snaps and I see red as I reach around him, grab his arm, and yank him toward me. “Empty your pockets.”
“Christ, Angela, what has–.”
“Don’t, Davis, just don’t,” Mom snaps at Dad.
“I want my mommy,” Johnny, a thirteen-year-old, whines like a baby.
Dad sighs, “Just give me the damn phone, Johnny.”
“It’s home.” He yanks his arm away from me.
Dad finally mans up, “The damn phone, Johnathon!”
Within seconds, I had opened the message, found the one from Socialite212, and seen the saline bags of one Socialite212 given at Johnny’s request before he sent an image of me.
“I cannot believe you’ve done this.” My Dad looks defeated.
I snatch the phone from my dad’s hand and scroll through his photos. “He has a folder with my name on it.” I turn the phone and show Dad.
Dad flips, “Fucking boundaries, Johnny!”
“You’re scaring me.” He plumps out his lying lower lip.
Finally, I think Dad sees past him. “You should be scared. Any other male on the planet had that many pictures of my daughter on his phone, and he’d be missing his balls!”
Mom’s eyes widen, but she looks amused.
“Delete them.” I push his phone towards him. “Now.”
He does.
“Give me the phone,” I hold out my hand and walk to Dad’s other side.
Not wanting Johnny to know there is a recently deleted file that saves photos for thirty days, I hit delete all.
Dad seems to understand.
“If he synchs his phone to a computer, they’re probably on there as well,” Mom tells Dad.
I look at Johnny and his lip trembles. He’s not faking this time, he appears scared. “Please don’t tell Mom.”
“Don’t ever do it again and–”
I cut Dad off again, “She needs to know! She treats me like I’m a freak and he feeds her bullshit half the time!”
“Mouth, Natasha,” Dad corrects me then looks at Mom. “You find this acceptable?”
“This, meaning our daughter cursing in our presence for the first time at seventeen? Or this, meaning a thirteen-year-old taking pictures of my daughter when she’s half-dressed and clearly doesn’t know he’s there? The same kid who traded a picture of her for a boob picture? Which one, Davis? Because I’m clearly confused as to why you’d scold her after all she’s been through.”
“You know what I mean, Angela,” he sighs.
“I may understand what you mean, but understanding and agreeing are two totally different things. Your daughter, however, is seventeen and has been.” She pauses and scratches behind her ear. “No, Davis, I don’t know what the hell you mean.”
Dad looks at me and shrugs, “I’m sorry, Natasha. I guess, boys will be boys?”
“It’s time for you to leave. And if I happen to get even a feeling that he may be up to something, I will call the authorities.” She looks at Johnny. “You basically paid for an underage girl's naked picture, young… man. That’s a felony.”
“Woo, woo, woo, Angela.”
“No, no, no, Davis. It’s illegal, and he’s not too young to learn boundaries or be prosecuted.” Johnny who now looks as if he may pee his pants. “Mark my word, Johnny, I will be checking up on you and your computer, which better be free of photos of my daughter.”
He nods ferociously.
“And Davis is wrong. To even utter the words boys will be boys, that’s so wrong. Do you hear me?”
Again, he nods.
“Good, now I’d like you both to leave.”
“It’s my damn weekend, Angela, I haven’t spent time with my daughter in–”
“She’s clearly avoiding for good cause. I will not encourage her to accept that kind of treatment, and shame on you, Davis Petrov, for not wanting to protect her from little predators.”
“Jesus, Ang,” he gasps. “I get it. Fine. Whatever.”
“Good. Keep in mind, deleting something doesn’t make it go away. It can be found. It can and will be used if necessary. Now make good choices, both of you.”
She just ‘mommed’ my dad.
After an almost bone-crushing hug and a kiss to the top of my head, Dad whispered, “You know I love you, right, kid?” I answered with a simple nod. Mom and I talk for over an hour about what happened, about the issues with my friends, namely the boys, and that she had overheard me mention London as a choice for college.
“It’s too late, Mom,” I laugh. “Anyway, it’s Stella’s idea. I’m good with going to school here.”
“Good or great?” she asks.
“It’s too late.” I laugh it off, but her constant questioning makes me wonder if it is a possibility.
“How about we look into it. Then decide.”
“You trying to get rid of me?” I joke.
“No, not at all. I’ve just seen you grow so much. Even with everything that happened the other day, you’re still thinking of tomorrow.”
“Ugghh, tomorrow.”
My thoughts are back on the post. We look at IG and see, not only is it gone, but so is Johnny’s account.
“You should send him a text, Natasha. Tell him thank you and that you love him.”
It hits me that I hadn’t said it when he left. But he didn’t really say it either, he just asked if I knew he did.
Mom pats my knee. “It’s not always easy to do what’s right, but it is–”
“Always right,” we finish together.
After we laugh, she nudges me with her shoulder. “There’s a big difference in doing what’s right, and being a doormat.”
After sending the text, we snuggle under the blanket and Mom turns on the TV.
I see a movie pop up we’ve never watched. “What’s Meet Joe Black?”
She scrolls to it and says, “Let’s find out.”
Walking through the steel doors of MSAD, passing through the security checkpoint, I take a deep breath before stepping into the main hall.
Stella and I are surrounded by our peers asking questions about how we managed to break through the platinum gates of de la Porte.
“Natasha mom is Jean-Paul's right hand.”
They all stare at me, but for different reasons than they did three days ago.
I shrug and look at Stella. “I need to grab some things out of my locker.”
Popularity is daunting, tiring; too much… peopling. But at least they weren’t looking at me like I was a freak.
By lunch, I was sure half the student body had c
omplimented me on every article of clothing I had on, and of course, they’d ask if it was de la Porte.
I answered honestly, “The dress is from Beacon’s Closet. The shoes are my mother’s.”
They laughed like I was joking. I wasn’t.
I saw Aaron sitting across the room looking at me in the relaxed manner I was accustomed to with him. And on the opposite side of the room was Sylvia and her girls, but for once, they weren’t snickering at me.
Not that I had too much time to look around, too many people wanted our attention.
It went on, All. Day.
The rest of the week was draining, and normally I would have looked forward to tutoring, especially Aaron, but I was exhausted.
The conversation wasn’t like it had been, fewer questions, more notes taken by him, and I just checked them over.
On Friday when I went to lunch, and it was just Tyler, Jenny, and Jamal at the table, I looked to see if Stella was coming and I saw Aaron and Elijah exchanging words. Then I saw Stella crying. Then they both hugged her.
She didn’t come back to the table; neither did Elijah or Aaron, for that matter.
When I messaged her to see if she’s okay, she replied yes and we’d talk after school.
I didn’t want to push, but it also didn’t feel right doing nothing.
When I decided to find her, I stood and Tyler got my attention.
“Hey, girl,” Tyler said, and I looked over at him. “That’s old drama, I’d let them handle it.”
He was right, so I sat and waited for time to pass.
When Stella wasn’t in class, I began to worry. When I didn’t see her in the hall between classes, I worried more. By the end of the day, I found myself standing at her locker, looking at my phone, waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming.
“Hey Fancy Face, got a minute?”
Annoyed, I shake my head. “And I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Your skin is flawless, makeup perfect, you’re beautiful. Doesn’t have a damn thing to do with that fucking post.” He’s pissed… at me. “And I’m not asking for a minute for me. Stella wants to talk to you.”
“Fine.” I push myself off the locker.
“Good,” he replies and turns his back to me.
I follow him outside
When I see the vehicle he’s walking to, I stop. He must sense it because he turns around and looks at me.
“She’s in the car.”
Still, I hesitate.
“Do you think I’m going to try to kidnap you?” He shakes his head. “It’s a limo, Natasha, not a windowless white van.”
“That’s an oddly specific detail.”
“No, it’s foreshadowing.” He walks back to me and grabs my hand and practically drags me behind him. “When I kidnap you one day, I’ll get a white van. Today, your friend needs to tell you something. Stop being so bizarre.”
“I’m not bizarre,” I huff.
“You are, and most days it’s cute. But not today.”
He thinks I’m cute, rings in my head, in a Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer voice.
I feel a blush begin to cover my body. The sensation stops immediately when he opens the door and I see a red-nosed… Stella, wiping her tears. Elijah is beside her.
I drop his hand without paying mind to the fact that a boy… just held my hand, while telling me I’m cute… and climb in the car. I slide across the seat and hug her.
“Don’t be mad at me, but I’m dropping out.”
I hug her tighter. “But why, Stella? We have only a few months to go.”
She begins silently crying, her whole body shaking and I hug her tighter.
Elijah rubs his hand up and down her back. “Her father’s been ill for a while. She just found out yesterday, when he told her he has six months.”
Confused, I ask, “Six months for what?”
“To live,” Aaron whispers.
“What can I do to help?” My eyes fill with tears for my friend. “I’ll do anything you want, Stella.” Tears spill as a sob escapes her. “Anything at all.”
After a few moments, her sobs silence, and she whispers, “Be my friend, no matter where we are. Be my friend, Natasha.”
To say my senior year was all I had dreamed it would be, would be like confessing I don’t spend my days dreaming of the moment my life actually begins. In other words, it would be a lie. Without Stella, I felt more alone than I had before I met her. So here I am, back to being the old me, but feeling empty, and so much pain for her. It’s overwhelming to say the least.
You know the saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’ There’s a great possibility it’s the truth.
Once again, I live for the moments when I can get lost in my head, where I can create something beautiful, something that enhances the natural beauty of those whose inner beauty has yet to shine, from the inside out.
I know it’s unrealistic for most to believe that sometimes happens. Sometimes our inner beauty gets pulled out when we wear a beautiful dress, heels, a necklace or those days when our hair looks great, or our makeup is popping.
I implore the unbelievers to look on IG, Twitter, or Facebook and see the millions of photos posted when a person feels their best, eight times out of ten, it’s true. The ninth time out of ten is when one's inner beauty shines in a shared moment with someone else who made or makes them feel beautiful, full of joy, important, happy, and that person draws out the inner beauty of the person in the photo. Then the other time, is when there is a cry for help.
Those moments break my heart. It breaks my heart because if one person had been kind to them in their most desperate moment, then their cry for help wouldn’t be the butt of a joke, or judged by tens, or hundreds, or thousands of people.
I can almost feel the wind hit my face from the collaborative huffs beyond the screen, almost hear the mixed snickers of the multitudes, and feel the weight of judgment others give as they reply to someone’s painful plea for help. But most of all, I can feel the tightening in my chest of a mix of anxiety and heartbreak for all of them, because I know all too well how it feels to be judged.
Not only do I know how it feels, but I hurt for those I don’t even know, or see, but I hear the gossip, the jokes made at their expense, and it hurts my heart.
When the whispers were about my friend, about the girl who dropped out, about Stella, it enraged me.
Luckily, Aaron was where he tended to be, when moving from class to class, near me. “Fancy Face, they don’t deserve to know her, let alone her reasoning. Fuck them.”
“But–”
“Don’t fuel the fire, eventually it’ll burn out.”
I gave him a dirty look.
“Fuck them,” he reminds me.
Lunch became a quiet affair as we all felt the loss of the glue that bound us altogether as a group.
The rest of my senior year at the fashion school is spent with earbuds in my ears, and a pencil in my hand. Creating beauty. Creating love.
I spend my free time with Mom, Autumn, Dad, and on the phone with Stella, being her friend, which was not difficult to do. Her heart is so big.
8
Angela
The past year has been tumultuous to say the least.
Jean-Paul de la Porte passed away unexpectedly. To say it was devastating to the community in which I work is an understatement. To say that the loss wasn’t even more profound to me personally would be a lie. Jean was more than just a boss, he was a mentor, someone I respected, and cherished.
No one was sure what would happen with the company; his last will and testament was more complicated than the average Joe. With billions of dollars in assets, and no next of kin, it was understandable.
I held my position with professionalism, as he would have expected of me. I didn’t take offense to the erratic nature of the board, employees, or shareholders. Not because I didn’t care, but because I learned, from Jean, how important prioritizing was.
My daughter was first. She had
always been, but at this time in her life, it was of the utmost importance that my focus was on continuing to nurture her growth as she became virtually independent.
In spite of all of the issues she had faced, and was still facing, Natasha had grown so much stronger in the last year.
She’d stood up for herself with her father. Something that needed to be done, but is never easy. But she did it, she told him he hurt her, and she told him in words and actions what was acceptable to her within their relationship.
To say it was a proud moment for me, would be like standing in front of the ocean for the very first time and saying it was just okay.
Every mother wants her child to have and do better than she did. To grow beyond what is not within their control, and do it with class, and in Natasha’s case, with an elegance that cannot be assumed. One she was naturally born with.
She did that in spades. Even if she wasn’t aware.
She formed friendships, and even though they have been rocked by a force no one can change, fate, they have remained.
She still buries herself in her own creativity, more often than not, and some people would be concerned with her less than social tendencies, but that’s because most people don’t make the effort to fully understand what drives a person. They judge, and they do it harshly. And they do it to feel better about themselves. It’s pathetic. Completely and totally pathetic.
What most people don’t notice is when a person has blocked out the outside, sat in solitude, and allowed an inner voice to drive their passion. They become who they were meant to become. Like Natasha has been doing.
Society’s hymns are of the utmost importance to the masses, it’s saddening. If we waiver from what society deems normal, we are freaks, taunted, picked on, and judged harsher than those who put themselves out there for their fifteen minutes of fame for attention.
I’m beyond blessed that society has yet to penetrate her acceptance of herself, her ever growing love of herself, and her passion for what her heart, or God, or whatever she believes in, is driving her toward.
Two days before the day every mother dreads, her child leaving for college, I sit in the living room and watch through her open door as she sleeps. My head is screaming, tell her she can’t go. She can’t live an ocean away from you, she needs you, stop her at all costs.