Prologue
No Prince for Snow White
Sasha Ramirez
“Iwant you to be very quiet, Sasha. Be a good girl for me.” My heart stopped, but I stayed still so that this could be over.
I remembered it vividly. I was nine when my brother, Emilio and I were found by Joe Stephenson and his wife Candice, after catching us digging through their dumpster one cold morning, rummaging for food. We were brought inside by Joe after a quiet argument with his wife, and we were fostered right after. Candice had never liked me, focusing all her affection on Emilio. Candice owned a small flower shop at the end of the block, while Joe was an antique furniture restorer who worked from his shed at the back of the house. Candice and I had never talked about more than mealtimes or chores. Joe, however—kind-faced, pleasant Joe—he would ask after my schoolwork, take me and Emilio to movies, and treat us to ice cream. Every time we are in the movies, Joe would take time to explain each scene to me, one arm wrapped around my small shoulders.
My favorite was Snow White.
There was a reason why, for 22 years of my life, I never dated. I hated men in general. I could always see through their eyes what they wanted from me. I tried to forget about those hands and the smell of Joe, but my nightmare about that awful day kept creeping up on me at night.
I had been sent home from school for slapping a girl who had called me and Emilio the “Dumpster Pair.” I came back home to find Joe, who had received a call from the school, sitting in front of the TV. I was glad it was Joe I had to face at that moment, and not Candace, who would have had me grounded. But I was so wrong.
I’d hoped Joe would just yell at me and let me go but instead he asked me to follow him up to his room. Once there, he told me how special I was to him, how he was not going to tell Candice about any of it if I let him kiss me. Innocent-eyed and naïve, I let him kiss me and didn’t protest when he led me to the bed. Joe had been so kind to me, so I was happy to do this little thing for him. When he started undressing me, I got a little alarmed but didn’t move. Joe unbuckled his pants and climbed on top of me while I closed my eyes and imagined I was lying still in a glass coffin, like Snow White, surrounded by loving dwarves and Emilio. Waiting for my prince to come and wake me up from my horrid dreams.
Every Saturday, Candice would take Emilio to keep her company at the flower shop, unknowingly enabling her husband to continue his sick pattern with me. For months and months it continued. Joe was careful not to get discovered, waiting till she was well on her way before he’d go up to me. He would buy me my favorite ice cream after that.
Three years had passed, I was familiar with the routine now. On a Saturday, I would go up to his room when I heard Candice and Emilio leave the front door. I sat on his bed waiting, watching my toes imprint circles on the burgundy rug, much like that first time with the sheets. Sometimes, when he was close to spilling that sticky wetness between my legs, he would bite down on my shoulders, trying to muffle his grunts. I wondered why he bothered. There was no one to hear him but me, and I was rarely ever mentally present. I didn’t undress while I waited; he liked to do it himself. One day, he was just about to climb on top of me when the door opened and Candice screamed in horror.
A month later, a middle-aged man with a Mexican accent claiming he was our uncle showed up to take us back to Mexico. Candice wouldn’t look at me while she hugged Emilio goodbye. I was worried about our future, but I was relieved. I knew she’d arranged this. Joe had become cold to us overnight and didn’t come out to see us off. This saddened Emilio, who couldn’t understand why we had to leave, but I just grabbed my bags and got into the taxi. On our flight home, I asked an excited Emilio, who had never flown before, a question that had plagued me for a long time.
“Emi, did she ever touch you?” I queried.
“Did who ever touch me?” Emilio responded, puzzled by the question.
“Candice. Did she ever touch, in like, a weird way or something? Like in- inappropriately --? Did Candice ever touch you inappropriately?”
Emilio looked at me with curious eyes “What do you mean by inappropriate? I don’t understand Sasha, Candice never did anything weird to me.”
I fell silent, and I never mentioned anything about this to Emilio or anyone after that.
