Battle seemed like the most appropriate word to describe the ride from school to my parents’ place. A silent war raged between us—him stoic, glaring straight ahead, me in painful flames because words of wrath seemed too easy for him—each of us staring out of the opposite side of the window.
Loveisa battlefield, thank you very much, Pat Benatar!
My arms hadn’t uncrossed since he took the driver’s seat. A few times I opened my mouth to speak, but the words refused to come. Nothing I could think of was strong enough to neutralize or defeat him, to prove to him that the female sitting next to him wasnothislittlesister.
And why should I have to prove anything to him?
There were three things in life that I knew for certain: It was fruitless to try and change his perception. I loved him madly. I would forever cling to that love as long as blood flowed through my veins—but what I wouldn’t do,no, refused to do, was accept the fact that he might love me, but in a polar opposite way.
Beastly, stubborn, hardheaded Italian!
I wanted to shout at him, to push his buttons until he admittedsomething, anything to me. But Brando Fausti had long ago proved to me that he was not a man to be persuaded into anything he didn’t want or wasn’t ready for. All he could give me was “we’ll see.”
Which actually translated to:No. No. No.
The word floated around my head in an angry swirl. To prove how immature his little sister could be, I stuck my tongue at him, and then turned my face toward the window before he could catch me. Lucky for him, I wasn’t in the mood to flick his ear. I used to do that to Elliott all of the time.
A soon as my parents’ house came into sight, I removed my bag from the backseat, and as soon as the tires paused at the curb, I catapulted myself out of the car, taking off for the safe zone of the house.
Slamming the door behind me, I took a moment to catch my breath. Not from running, but from the overwhelming feelings making it hard for me to catch air. Being close to him was more strenuous than any performance or rehearsal I had ever had.
Barely over the drumming of my heart, my parents’ voices carried from the kitchen. Eunice excused herself into their conversation and then asked a question. Before any of them noticed my presence, I took the stairs two by two, just to make it to the confines of my room without interruption.
I threw my bag on the bed and rushed to the window, sliding my finger behind the lace curtain, pushing it aside. Brando waited outside of his car, leaning on the door, just like he had at school. Another sucker twirled in his mouth. Little wonder if he had to brush his teeth three times a day.
Our eyes met and he glared at me before turning and leaving.
My heart restrictedandrejoiced.
In a rush, I packed my overnight bag and then searched my closet for something to wear to the party Violet had invited me to. My eyes scanned the clothes, fingers finally settling on a baby blue sweater that fell just above my navel, a plaid skirt to match, black stockings that ended above the knee, and a pair of oxfords with a bit of a heel. A leather choker that would match Brando’s (my) leather jacket felt right.
I took a long shower, then styled my hair and did my makeup. It wasn’t something that I usually did, unless for a performance, but I neededreaction, not “we’ll see.” A bit of cat-eye glamour and the pink lipstick Violet had given me. The color of my nails turned out eggplant, a purple dangerously close to black. It added a bit of melodrama.
After all of the administrations had been completed, I called Violet to pick me up. My parents were in the dining room when I came downstairs to wait for her.
My father looked up from his roast and potatoes but stayed silent. My mother’s eyes assessed my outfit and makeup with shrewd eyes.
My life had been predictable until the time Brando had reentered it. But she was always pushing me to get out and socialize (with her kind of people). She had her wish (except the people were not her kind of people). I knew she wouldn’t comment on my outfit or the makeup because she figured Violet’s house would be my last stop.
I had never given her reason to worry about wild behavior. That was my sister’s expertise, not mine.
“Scarlett,” she said, matter of fact. “What are your plans?” She put down her knife and fork like any proper lady would, gently, and then tapped the sides of her mouth with her white cloth napkin before placing it back in her lap.
On many occasions, I felt the urge to find the similarities between us. My hair was dark where hers was blonde. My eyes were green where hers were hazel.
My mother and sister shared more traits than I could count on one hand. The color of my hair had been passed down from my father’s side, or so most said. It had been my belief that when people looked, they found something to connect the family dots.
I never could.
Apart from the “talent” that I had been brought up to believe came from Maja Resnik, the rest of me seemed foreign to these people.
As if the thought summoned her, my Slovenian grandmother, the world-famous ballerina Maja Resnik, glided into the dining room as though she were still on the stage—life was a stage to her. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, her face moisturized for the night and still close to flawless, her pants flowing, moving with her as though she controlled the elegant dance between legs, feet, and clothes. Ethereal, most called her. Which was true, but she was also one of the most grueling teachers I had ever had in the studio. Age was nothing but a number to her.
She took me by the hand and smiled with a perfect set of teeth. “Scarlett.” She brought my hand to her lips, and then she lapsed into her native language. “This time of your life is one of the most romantic times in a young girl’s life. But we must not let this deter us from moving forward. You should never replace one love with another. You have room for both.”
These words made my mother’s ears perk. She turned to us, giving me a more thoughtful look. Another thing about Maja Resnik, she had an uncanny sense to read between the lines.
She smiled at me, her rosy skin going a shade deeper.“You have been flushed,” she continued in Slovenian, giving an explanation for her comment. “Love does us all good.”
