Vandella, p.1
Vandella, page 1
Vandella
Copyright © 2021 by M. Ch. Landa
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Landa Publishings LLC.
www.landapublishings.com
ISBN eBook 978-1-955601-00-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by William Boggess and Julie Tibbott.
Proofread by Lara Kennedy.
Cover art based on an artwork by Ernesto Barba.
For my late father,
my example of fortitude and selflessness
CHAPTER 1
“YOU LOOK HORRIBLE,” I said to the person inside the mirror.
She remained unmoved—she already knew that.
The bags below her eyes had bulged and darkened after weeks of restless dreams. Her forehead and nose were oily, with pores clogged by a swarm of blackheads. Her teeth were discolored and uneven, even after two years of torturous braces. Her lips, pale and dry. The crooked grooves of her frown separated poorly populated brows.
“I don’t hate you,” I said with brutal honesty. “But you and I… we had a pact.” I gulped. “A-and you—do you want to look cadaveric and bald again?” I struggled to contain my tears.
I swung my auburn hair to the side and saw the bump on my neck, just below my ear. The bump was the size of a walnut, firm and rubbery. I pressed it, squeezed it, and kneaded it. Painless.
“Just one more day…”
I will not spend another seven hundred seventeen days and one morning wishing this thing gone. Not anymore. I’ve had enough suffering for a lifetime.
“I’m not sick. That’s the only truth,” I declared.
The swelling was just a sequel of the flu I’d suffered a few days ago, or maybe an ear infection, as suggested by a webpage when I Googled the symptoms.
“I’m not sick and never will be… again.”
My hands clung to the washbasin, and I inhaled deeply, glancing through my collection of fashion magazine clippings pasted around the mirror, dreaming about having the pictures’ perfect smile, in a perfect face, attached to a perfect body, living a perfect life.
“Why does life have to be so unfair?”
I carefully arranged my hair to conceal the bump. And finally, I rehearsed my smile until I found a more pleasing expression.
“Maia, dear, are you ok?” my grandmother shouted, knocking at my door. “It’s getting late.”
“I know, I know! Sorry, I’m coming.”
I unlocked and opened the door.
“Maia, do you feel ok?” My gran peeped into the bedroom with wide eyes, magnified by her bifocals.
“Yes.” I continued combing my hair to ensure the bump remained hidden. “Just tired,” I said, displaying my rehearsed grin.
“How can you be so tired if you got home so early last night?” My gran’s sense of irony always rose before the sun.
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, I was at Shelly’s. I lost track of time.”
“You have to stop walking alone at night—it scares me.”
“It’s just two blocks away!” Never mind that the blocks were almost a quarter mile each.
“I don’t care if you’re next door, to me it feels like China.” Even tempered by her ear-to-ear grin, her words made me feel guilty. “Well, hurry up! You may be late to school, but you will never miss breakfast.” She squinted at me over her glasses, wobbling her cane before leaving.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I answered with feigned enthusiasm.
I dressed in a flash. I picked up my school things on my way downstairs and followed the smell of omelets and toast.
“I warmed your milk, Ruddy Bear, it’s freezing out there,” my gran said.
“You don’t have to do that.” Her coddling only made me feel worse.
“It’s the only thing I have to do.” She sat at the table, funneling her weight on her cane.
“You have a million things to do besides worrying about me.” I disliked the idea of her doing dull chores and attending to her granddaughter instead of resting in some kind of old lady paradise. She had turned reclusive since the passing of her best friend, Mrs. Thompson, less than a year ago. Since then, she seldom left the house beyond doing her errands. “When are you going to get that cottage at the beach?”
“Someday.” She stirred her coffee and took a slight sip.
“Oh, right, I forgot. Someday.” She always said that.
“Someday…” she repeated and gave me a know-it-all smile, “you will manage to meet your curfew.”
I frowned at her. “You know I’m responsible.” I hated to be treated like a child, like I wasn’t seventeen.
“Responsibility is about fulfilling promises.”
“We were having fun,” I grumbled. “I bet you did the same at my age, didn’t you?” After a long silence, a mischievous grin popped up on her face, and I cut into my mushroom omelet.
I heard Shelly honk twice out on the street.
“I have to go.” I drank the warm milk in a gulp and grabbed my things on my way out, leaving the omelet steaming on the table.
“Where do you think you’re going, Ruddy Bear?”
I rushed back and kissed her creased forehead—our old custom. “I’ll see you later.”
Shelly was immersed in her phone when I hopped in her car.
“Ready?” Shelly grinned.
My gran swung out of the house to say goodbye to us. With each passing day, I sensed it took a greater effort for her to make it to the porch, but she never missed a morning farewell and always managed to draw a smile out of me.
The streets were shades of gray, absent of greenery and sunshine. The frosted windshield of the white Corolla predicted the first snow was right around the corner.
“How did last night end?” I asked.
“You know, the usual. Jase came by.”
I had goosebumps just hearing his name. Jase.
“But Rick said Jase wasn’t coming.”
“Well, whatever, he made it.”
“What did he say?” I was afraid of the answer.
“Guess.”
He loves me? I shook that reflexive, hopeful, stupid thought out of my head. “He asked you to convince me to team up for the research project?”
“Yeah, he mentioned that…” I crashed back to reality. Jase was passing biology thanks to me—I’d happily pulled an all-nighter writing his part of our last team project. “But first he asked where you were,” Shelly added.
“Ugh, like he cares. He just wants to get out of studying cellular respiration.” I rolled my eyes, trying to seem like I was brushing it off.
“Maia, I promise. He really, really likes you. Maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but he does.”
“And I would really, really believe that if he’d done a single thing to show it.”
“Maia.” She frowned. “C’mon.”
How many times had I heard that? Shelly always lectured me about self-confidence, arguing that I was prettier than her, but I knew she was being patronizing. After all, it was her jaguar-print leggings that the guys’ gazes followed. I was just a miniskirt-over-tights kind of girl. I guess I wasn’t mad at her for trying to pump her best friend up a little.
“Don’t worry, Rick told me Jase is done with Samantha.”
Shelly’s boyfriend, Rick, was Jase’s best friend and football teammate. But even with Shelly pulling strings behind the scenes, we hadn’t crossed over from being acquaintances to potential love interests. It felt as if we were Quasimodo and Esmeralda—but I was the hunchback.
Jase was the quarterback of the school football team. And he wasn’t just any ordinary QB; he was being hailed by scouts as the next Tom Brady, which was reason enough to be besieged by women, even while he was dating Samantha—a slim girl a year older who surprised everybody when she chose to go to Penn State over moving to New York to become a model. Like all long-distance relationships, things must have been difficult, putting Jase back on the market—and into every schoolgirl’s delusions, including mine.
“You just need to be brave and open yourself—”
“And break through a thousand rows of fan girls,” I interrupted.
“I have a hunch he’s going to ask you to the prom.”
My jaw hit the floor. “Did Rick tell you that?” I shook Shelly’s shoulder, risking a car crash, but it didn’t matter.
“No, I’m just guessing.” I knew I should not have high hopes, but I was starting to tingle a little. “But Jase did say he wanted to hang out with you,” Shelly said with a sassy smile.
“No way.” The tingles exploded through to my fingertips. “When? Where?”
“He said maybe tonight, but that’s all I know.” Shelly winked and exploded with laughter, driving through the school parking lot like a crazy cabbie. If we slammed into a school bus, I would die satisfied, knowing he wanted to see me.
Shelly parked, and I walked after her, besotted, absent
A car honked so we’d get out of the way before getting run over. Lisa—our third musketeer and Skrillex impersonator—leaned out the window, showing her new tongue piercing that matched her gauged ears. She parked and joined us just a minute later.
“What’s new?”
“Maia and Jase might have a date tonight,” Shelly said, proud of her accomplishment.
“I’ll believe it when I see you two making out like fools,” Lisa said.
“Me too.” I sighed.
“You need to make a clear statement of interest if you want to make it out of the Friend Zone,” Lisa said matter-of-factly.
“How many times have we discussed this?” Shelly rebuked. “She only needs to be herself. Men love confidence, and Maia can keep Jase interested.” Great advice, considering how well being myself had paid off in the past.
We joined the river of students flowing through the school hallway.
“Hey! How you doing?” Rachel—our fourth musketeer, lover of argyle sweaters, cuffed jeans, and cats—adhered to us with her signature braced grin, always on the edge between happiness and torture.
“Great, Rachel,” we answered in unison.
The crowd parted as Rick and Jase made their triumphant entrance, accompanied by their entourage, making every girl sigh as they headed our way. Oh, my God.
Shelly hooked my arm and whispered, “Just work your magic.”
My field of vision fastened on Jase in his football jacket, tightened around his stout torso, with his fine-featured face that I would kill to kiss. His luminous eyes aimed at me, and I realized how much trouble I was in. I was slobbering, spellbound by his charm. Don’t ruin it this time, I urged my inner self, but my heartbeat drowned everything out.
We charged, tribal armies clashing in Braveheart. Shelly went straight to Rick, slashing a kiss. Lisa handled John, and Rachel grinned.
“Hi,” Jase said, and my confidence collapsed. I was only able to stare at him intermittently.
“Hi-i, how are you?” I said gingerly.
“Great, and you?”
“Fine, and you?” I blundered. Retreat, retreat! Before the casualties become catastrophic! I looked around for an open locker to vanish into Narnia for life but instead caught a glimpse of three smug witches gossiping about me: Barbara, Sophie, and Marie-Anne. There was no need to hear their words—gossip was so natural to them that their venom flowed through their movements and gestures. Their beauty and glamor were matched only by their devotion and resourcefulness to destroy, and I was in the crosshairs.
“I didn’t see you yesterday,” Jase said with what appeared to be concern.
Wait! Don’t retreat, don’t retreat! “I had to leave earlier.”
“I heard that. Are you sick?”
“What?” I babbled. “No, I’m just tired, that’s all.” I ran my fingers down through my hair, feeling the bump below my ear, making sure to keep it covered.
“Too tired to partner with me for the biology project?”
“Yes!” I answered, overexcited. “I mean, no, I’m not that tired—”
“Hi, Jase,” the witch Marie-Anne interrupted us with her honeyed voice. “How are you?” She stood between us, turning her back to me.
“Hey, Marie-Anne,” Jase chuckled, and I became invisible.
“Jase.” Marie-Anne fondled her hair like a cat grooming herself. “My car was making a weird noise on my way here…” Yeah, sure, your brand-new Mustang was making any sound. I could not avoid rolling my eyes at the spoiled-brat-in-distress act. “…and I was wondering if you could be so kind and help me check it out after practice?” She fluttered her mascara-saturated eyelashes. Marie-Anne had joined the cheerleading squad after Jase’s breakup with Samantha with the sole ambition of getting close to him.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” And Jase, like all men, fell for a pretty girl’s trap.
“Cool, I’ll see you later.” Marie-Anne peered at me over her shoulder scornfully with a pretend smile before departing. My blood was boiling and my jaw twitching, but before I could stammer anything out, the bell rang.
“Let’s go.” Rick tapped Jase’s shoulder.
“See you tonight, then?” Jase asked.
“Yes.”
“Ok, I’ll text you.”
Jase winked at me before Rick hustled him away. That gesture converted my tribulations into fluttering butterflies like a magic trick—the power of l’amour. I was astonished at my spoils of victory: he’d invited me out, even if it was just for the project, and hopefully our meetup would even be outside of school instead of at the crowded library, like last time. It was an epic win, even if I was the underdog to Marie-Anne. The smug witches spied me from a distance, plotting retaliation. I could not afford to show frailty, so I chinned up and walked tall.
“How was it?” Shelly pulled me to her.
“It was one small step for humanity, but a giant leap for me.”
“Really?” She grinned. “Are you going to see him?”
I nodded, grinning stupidly.
“Great, Maia.” Shelly’s grin turned to a frown. “But please do me a favor and cut all the nerd crap tonight, will you?”
“Ok.” Great, so I should just be myself, but also not be myself.
“What the hell was Marie-Anne doing?” Shelly asked.
“Being Marie-Anne.”
We arrived at Mr. Mankell’s history class, but while listening to a recount of the lives of Roman Emperors Tiberius, Claudius, and Caligula, I absconded from reality, thinking of nothing else besides Jase. I imagined the scene that night countless times, mentally changing the outcome each time. Finally, I constructed the perfect scene, in which I was glamorous, confident, and appealing and he invited me to prom in front of everybody. I accepted, confessing my feelings, and he drew me in close. But when we were about to kiss, Marie-Anne always invaded my fantasies, sliding her boastful smile between us. In my daydreams, I was brave enough to slap her.
But by the end of the school day, I had dragged myself back to reality. I knew that Marie-Anne was going to date Jase, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I had to go to work, so I boarded the bus downtown, hoping a torrential rain would flood the field, ruining their practice.
It never hurt to hope.
Bahiti’s Cabinet of Musical Curiosities was set up in a classy Victorian row house with a terracotta brick facade and tall, arched windows displaying a broad array of instruments. The annoying electronic doorbell welcomed me, playing Johann Strauss II’s “Egyptian March”—it was the first piece I learned when came to work here last summer, because it was a favorite of the owner, an Egyptian composer named Fred Bahiti.
“Fred is working again,” Griselda, my coworker and partner in misery, said as she snuck out for a coffee break. Mr. Bahiti had been composing his first sonata for the past fifteen years. Some “connoisseurs”—as he referred to his friends—considered him a perfectionist, but I had a feeling he was just short on talent. He blamed everybody and everything, from a passing plane to a fly, for disturbing his zen environment. Griselda and I were the victims of his constant gripes.
“Maia!” Mr. Bahiti shouted.
“Yes, I’m here.” I crossed the maze of instruments: cellos, violins, lutes, zithers, harpsichords, and some weird antique stuff worthy of being displayed in a museum. Most people visited the store to admire rather than buy. Charging an entrance fee of one dollar might help to recoup the two hundred bucks Mr. Bahiti had paid the technician to put Strauss in as the doorbell tone, but my suggestion was not well-received by management. “That would be prostitution!” Fred had declared.
He was at the end of the room, seated at a Steinway piano with his wild hair and wearing chained glasses that hardly fit on his cob nose.
“Bring me a coffee,” he said, browsing through the mess of scores plaguing the piano. He lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Did I speak in Arabic?”
“No, sorry.” I rushed to the kitchen. He always dressed in white gallebayas, a long tunic that looked like old pajamas. According to Griselda, his family belonged to a tiny Egyptian minority who had been exiled because of cult persecutions.
