Just like I suspected he would. And yet, even with that small voice telling me that, indeed, a man like Enzo would never look at someone like me, I'd chosen to ignore it.
For once in my life, someone had been kind to me, and like a stray dog, I'd become enamored of the hand that fed me.
I really am pathetic, aren't I?
28
ENZO
Letme make you feel good, Enzo.
The words keep replaying in my head, and no matter how much I try, I can't seem to make them stop.
Why did she have to say those exact words… Why? It had triggered something in me that I'd managed to keep bottled for years now.
I'd snapped. And the words had flowed out of my mouth. I'd wanted to hurt her, reach deep inside her, and make her hate me—forever.
But her face—so full of desolation—probably hurt me more than it did her.
Reaching my room, I lock the door behind me, promptly taking refuge in the bottle of whiskey I keep in my drawer.
My only hope is to escape, but as I drink more and more, the memories becomeclearer than ever.
AGE NINE
“Aren’t you handsome in your little suit?" The lady in front of me coos, her eyes roaming greedily over my face and body. I tilt my head to the side, but I don't say anything. When I don't respond to her obvious attempt at getting a subservient answer out of me, she slaps me across the face.
"Rotten child, you think you're so much better than everyone, don't you?" Her lips pull into a thin line.
I don't fight it. I've learned to never fight it. It's not the first time she's tried to get a reaction out of me with violence.
"Get out of my sight! I've had enough of you for today." She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I don't linger.
Mrs. Woods is not a kind woman, for all she'd like people to believe otherwise. Everyone at school loves her because they only see her charming side. But when someone crosses her, she stops being nice.
It had all started when I'd been indifferent to her compliments. When she'd seen that I hadn't batted an eye, hadn't said thank you, or returned the compliment, she'd proceeded to insult me. It's become customary for her to comment on my looks, still waiting for me to be all smiles around her, before ending it with a put-down, just like she did just now.
I sigh as I go to the back of the row.
It's not like I do it purposefully, but I've learned to differentiate when people are genuinely nice to me or when they try to get something. And Mrs. Woods would like nothing more than to be in my parents' good graces.
All of my classmates are in a line as we prepare to go onstage, our end-of-year play ready to begin.
Since I'd beenrudeto her once before, I'd been offered the role with the fewest lines. But I'm not complaining since I would rather not have done the play at all. Ihateit when thespotlight falls on me, and everyone starts complimenting my face.
It's like they canneversee anythingbutmy face.
I'm the top student in my class, but I've heard the rumors—my parents paid for it, or teachers favor me. It's never because of my own achievements.
The play goes well, just as we'd rehearsed. But it's at the end when we bow to the audience that I hear the ever-familiar words.
"Wow, what a beautiful child. He'll be such a handsome man when he grows up."
"Did you see his eyes? I've never seen that shade before."
"He sure hit the genetic lottery."
More and more comments of that kind, and then there's my mother, sitting in the first row with a satisfied smile on her face.
