Nearly a year ago, I went to court, pouring all my efforts into gaining custody of my sister. I worked tirelessly beforehand, even taking up a third job on weekends to afford a lawyer. I applied to become Chiara’s legal guardian as soon as I turned twenty-one. I didn’t do it earlier because the court advisor told me when I was eighteen that my chances of success before I turned twenty-one were zero if there was another suitable guardian.
So I waited. But my cheap lawyer was terrible, and the judge ruled in Roberto’s favor, claiming he was the better guardian, and I was just a young woman trying to juggle college and three jobs, barely making ends meet.
“You know what? You can go by yourself and leave her here.” He sneers. “I bet she’ll be much better at bringing in money and cooking and all that stuff. And she’s a pretty thing and nice to look at. I have a few ideas of what I’d do once you’re finally out of my hair.”
My stomach churns at his words. That’s precisely why I can’t leave Chiara here alone. Not that I would have ever considered it, but I know he’s dangerous when he drinks, and he is always drunk.
“She’s only sixteen, and your niece, you piece of shit.” I snarl.
He grabs me by the throat, pushing me against the fridge. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that! You do exactly as I say, nothing more, nothing less, or I’ll show you just how little I fucking care about her being my sixteen-year-old niece,” he threatens.
I nod, unable to speak, as he releases his grip on me. Then I collapse to my knees, gasping for air, my hand clutching my throbbing throat. I don’t rise until he walks away.
My hands are trembling as I finish putting away the groceries. The cold milk carton, the softness of the fresh tomatoes, and the crinkling sound of the crisps bag give me something to focus on, something outside the turmoil within me.
When I’m done, I stand there for a second, eyeing the crisps bag. I glance over at the living room, where the television blares, and Roberto laughs at something the moderator says.
Clutching the bag to my chest, I swiftly make my way to the bathroom, locking the door behind me and sinking to the floor against it. The cold ceramic tiles feel strangely soothing against the back of my thighs.
I take a deep breath and rip the bag open—the familiar salty scent hits my senses. The first one is always the best, and the flavor comforts me instantly. But I don’t want to savor them. I need to drown in them. Handful after handful, I try to smother the feeling of emptiness and despair.
The more I eat, the more numb I feel, and the weight of the world temporarily lifts from my shoulders.
But when the last of the salty goodness is gone, reality seeps back in. The empty bag crinkles mockingly in my grip.
My stomach feels heavy, laden with the weight of greasy potatoes and regret. I stand, catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and all I can focus on are my chubby cheeks, double chin, and too-big upper arms.
A wave of self-loathing and guilt over what I just did washes over me.
Why can’t I control myself?
It’s not like I feel better after eating my feelings. It’s the fucking opposite. And instead of the good taste I savored moments ago, the only thing left in my mouth is an aftertaste of shame and regret.
FOUR
It tooka while to fall asleep because my stomach hurt from how fast I inhaled the crisps. No doubt I will feel it on my hips later.
At least it’s already November, so I can wear a black hoodie and a scarf to hide the red marks Roberto left on my throat. I only have two of those hoodies, but they are oversized and hide my tummy, and I love to wear them.
I struggle to stay awake during my Advanced Forensic Toxicology class. I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open while sitting and trying to pay attention.
When the class finally ends, I stand and prepare to leave, but my professor calls me over. “Ms. Costa, can I speak with you for a moment?”
I cringe internally. She must have noticed me almost falling asleep, and now I will probably get in trouble.
I walk up to her desk, managing not to yawn in her face. “Professor Summer.”
“Ms. Costa. I have an opportunity for you that you won’t be able to refuse,” she says.
I furrow my brow. It wasn’t what I had expected her to say. “I’m listening.”
“A friend of mine who works in the Crime Analysis Unit at the NYPD headquarters in Lower Manhattan told me that her intern suddenly quit. She asked me if I knew anyone suitable to replace him,” she says. My eyes widen. It is the best internship opportunity a forensic toxicology student could dream of. “I told her that my favorite student would definitely seize that opportunity.”
I just blink at her in disbelief. “Are you talking about me?” I ask, sounding like a complete idiot.
She laughs. “Of course, I’m talking about you, Carolina. You’re incredibly intelligent and dedicated. I’ve never seen a student as passionate about the subject as you are.”
I blush, feeling both honored and humbled. “Thank you so much. This means a lot.”
