Birthdays of a Princess (14 page)

Chapter
3
4

Melissa walked up the short but steep gravel driveway. The front
porch with its wooden pillars was rotting away under chipped, peeling paint, the
roof shingles were buckling. A gutter had slipped out of the drainage pipe—the
next downpour would flood the porch, might even seep into the house. She had
never noticed when she’d been a child, but now it bothered her. After all, the
house with its great location in North Vancouver would belong to her some day.

She paused to steady her breath before she knocked on the warped entrance
door. It took a while for Louise to open it, her eyes puffy from her afternoon
nap.

“Come on in,” she said. “I’ll make us coffee.”

Melissa followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the same
dining table she used to do her homework on while growing up. It was dim and
cold inside the house, nearly as cold as the early November air outside. The
walk from the bus station had left her sweating, and she pulled her cardigan
tighter to keep herself from shivering.

“You look done in.” Louise poured water into the coffee-maker. “From
that short walk? Really! You ought to—“

“I’m here because I need your help,” Melissa said. “I think they’re
on to us.”

Louise turned to her daughter and sat down across the table.

“Who?”

“Detective Macintosh. He’s pretty sharp—Harding too, for that
matter. They showed me a picture of Tiara after she’d won a pageant. They know
she was registered under the name of Rodriguez.”

“So what?” Louise got up and set out two mugs. “Since when is it a
crime to send a pretty girl to beauty pageants?”

“If they find out about Tony—”

“Find out what?”

“You can’t be that stupid. You know. And I don’t want to talk about
it.”

 Louise poured coffee into the mugs, brought them over.

“Excuse me, didn’t you say you came here for help? How am I going to
help you if you refuse to tell me the whole story? Nothing makes sense inside
my head, and I can’t give you any advice if I feel like that.”

Melissa took a scalding sip of coffee. Not enough sugar.

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“You could begin by telling me the truth. Once and for all, did you
have an affair with that creepy, greedy bastard?”

“Look at me,” Melissa whispered. “What man would want me?”

Louise wasn’t about to be thrown off track.

“Tiara was about five or six then, right? That would have been about
nine years ago. I assume you weren’t in such bad shape then, and some men—especially
southern men—like their women shapely. Heck, you did most damage to yourself in
the last three years since you came to Vancouver.”

“All
right
! Tony and I did have a relationship. It started
about a year after Gracie hired him.”

“I knew it! Why the hell did you lie to me? You said he was just a
dance teacher.”

“Do you want the truth or not?” Melissa said.

“Yes, but—”

“Then shut up and listen.”

“If I’d have known—”

“I said,
shut up
! If you’d known it wouldn’t have changed
anything. Tony betrayed me as a mother. He didn’t do what he did because he
wanted me, he did it because he was a sick and greedy bastard. You said so
yourself.”

Louise pursed her lips, then nodded.

“It went on until just before we left.” Melissa said. “We were very
careful. I wanted to tell Gracie many times, but Tony said that if she found
out he’d never get another job as a dance teacher.”

“But you told me Gracie fired him after Tiara stopped doing
pageants,” Louise said. “Why keep it a secret then?”

“He was still worried—he mostly taught rich kids, and rich husbands
don’t like to think their wives might be fucking their daughter’s dance
teacher. Tony was scared.”

“Which they’d only know if Gracie told them.”

“Trust me, she would have.”

Louise sighed and shook her head.

“So you had an affair with your daughter’s dance teacher. Not very
smart, but what’s the big deal here? What’s it got to do with Tiara?”

“Tony was poor judgment on my part, they’ll say I was a bad mother. Don’t
you get it?”

Louise gave her a hard stare.

“It was Tony, wasn’t it? Tony gave Tiara drugs? I bet it was him.”

Melissa closed her eyes. Her mother wouldn’t see the truth if it
spat in her face.

“Do you think we should tell the detectives?”

“Why?” Louise said. “It’s all in the past. The less said about that
unfortunate time, the better.”

All in the past?
On the bus home,
Melissa thought back. To the beginning. She closed her eyes and remembered the
day Gracie introduced Inez’ brother, the day she met Antonio Alvares. Tall,
lithe, hips thrust forward, legs wide—Tony asserted his superiority with every
move he made. Similar to her Mike in appearance only with that smooth dark
skin, sensuous mouth, the graceful lean body—but so different in character. Untamable,
not to be domesticated. Dangerous.

When Gracie introduced them, he took her hand—not a handshake but an
intimate clasp, his fingers slipping into her palm, sending all sorts of
sensations up her arm. By the time she sat down to watch him do a brief dance
routine, she was madly in lust.

He came by the house twice a week. She was craving those afternoons
like an addict. Just to see him, to watch him work, to listen to his voice as
he guided Tiara through the moves was enough.

And nothing happened for one whole year.

Tiara had come back from a photo session unusually upset. She had
stopped throwing tantrums some time ago, now she just came home, crept into bed
and pulled the blanket over her head.

Gracie left as soon as she dropped Tiara off—said she had some
errant to run. “Call Tony and cancel,” she said on her way out the door. The
princess was too tired for a lesson.

Melissa clutched the piece of paper with the scribbled phone number
in her hands as if it was the Holy Grail, drawing out the moment she would
speak to him. When she finally got the nerve to dial his number the call went
straight to his answering service, shortly after that her doorbell rang.

When she told him Tiara was indisposed, he looked disappointed—but
only for a moment.

“Never mind.” He smiled. “I’ll teach you instead.”

Again, he took her by the hand and dragged her into the training
room. She told him Gracie wouldn’t pay him for
today. He said, he didn’t
expect to get paid.

“I would love to dance with you. It’ll be my pleasure.”

They were alone for the first time ever. She was so self-conscious
of her bulges that she didn’t want him to touch her. She was hot with
excitement and worried over wet armpits, moist hands, glistening cheeks and
fuzzy hair. She felt clumsy, heavy and graceless.

He didn’t seem to mind her uncoordinated attempts to sway her body
with the rhythm of the music. He was pulling her strings. And at some stage, he
pulled her closer. It was the most natural movement to swing her into his arms
until there was no space between them. She had no resistance in her, would not
have wanted to, wanted only one thing, to crawl under his skin and stay there
forever. Everything around her and in her stopped, including her pounding
heart. It just stopped. Her lungs didn’t need air and her blood stopped
flowing. He kissed her on the mouth.

It was a moment she had not expected, had not imagined, had not
hoped for. Yet she accepted it totally, succumbed to it with her whole being.
She had never felt so grateful in her life.

His lips slid down her throat while he opened her blouse. Once her
breasts were fully exposed, he cupped them with his hands, took a step back and
admired them with hungry eyes. She didn’t feel self-conscious—they were his to
do what he wanted with. He kissed them tenderly first, then sucked her nipples
until she couldn’t stand it any longer. Heat shot through her loins and cramped
her vagina in her first orgasm since Mike. She doubled over with the pleasure.

The bus stopped.

Melissa checked herself quickly. The memory of that afternoon had
left her dizzy, panting. She stood up and moved toward the door, feeling the
eyes of the driver as she got off.

Chapter
3
5

After Stanley had reassured me at the last session that we had made
huge progress, I got the flu, and I got it bad. My head throbbed, my throat
constricted, my nose blocked, all my mucous membranes worked themselves into a
frenzy. I sneezed and spat and coughed and complained croakily.

For several days and nights I was too survival-oriented to even
think about why Stanley thought we’d made progress.
In my ninth year I was
full of anger and angst
was stuck in my feverish mind. Couldn’t imagine why,
could only repeat it over and over.

In my ninth year I was full of anger and angst in my ninth year I
was full of anger and angst in my ninth year I was full of anger and angst.

Now I’m better. I lie on my bed in the hospital section of the
holding tank they keep me in, drink the tea and chicken broth the overworked
nurse supplies at regular intervals and think about a suitable line for my
tenth year. What would be appropriate to sum up those twelve hectic months?

Birthday Nine—or is it Ten?

The year leading up to my tenth birthday was dominated by several
pageants. Even at home everything revolved around the contests. I had to do my
routines non-stop, and Tony poked his stick into me harder than ever to make up
for lost time. Being away from home wasn’t any better. We spent endless hours
cramped in the car, always in a rush to get to mediocre hotels with stuffy
rooms, only to hang out in the corridors in front of hotel ballrooms, forever waiting
to be called on stage.

When Mom and Gracie weren’t yelling at each other, they fussed over
me or my dress or my hair. Not my nails though. I had made a deal with her. If
I let her photographer friend take his pictures, she wouldn’t put those nails
on me ever again. I think she was glad this could be a point of negotiation. Although
Gracie didn’t give up much with that promise; she’d tricked me.

But I tricked her too. When I was on stage I always smiled, that’s
very, very important. The judges want to see how happy you are doing your
routine. For the pictures Gracie and her photographer friend made me do, I
refused to smile, no matter how often he told me to look like I’m enjoying
myself. Even the constant fear that the angels would make Gracie ill or strike
us with a terrible disaster didn’t make me smile.

It had been two years since Gracie had told me that I’d been responsible
for the destruction Katrina had brought upon my home town. If I had done what
was expected of me, Galveston would have been spared.

Stanley comes visiting and I quickly close my journal and hide it
under the covers.

“Feeling any better?”

I shake my head.

“Still angry?”

Can he read my mind?

“At you?”

“Were you angry at me?”

Oh Christ, here we go again. I don’t know what it will achieve, but
I decide to play nice.

“Yeah, I was. But I’ve been thinking. It’s not your fault for not
getting me. I don’t get me, so how could you?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The flu must have drained me. No energy left, no barriers up.

“Where do we start?”

“You were telling me about the time you were eight, when your
internal anger had started to establish itself.”

“Funny, that’s what I’ve just been writing about. Looking for a
catch phrase, a one-liner to sum up the following year.”

“And, did you come up with one?”

“I’m working on it.”

I start describing my year when I was nine. The crazy schedule, all
the pageants Gracie had booked for me after the storm and its aftermath had
passed and things had returned to normal. I tell him about the nails, and while
I’m talking, something totally shocking comes back to me. Once I was back at
the pageants, I never won! Stanley notices my perplexed pause and digs his
heels in right away.

“You didn’t win any contest?”

“Not a single one. How could I forget that?”

“But you had won just about everything before, didn’t you? That’s
what you told me.”

I nod, still confused, but already trying to sort the splinter
images piercing into my consciousness.

“Why do you think that happened? What went wrong?”

A lot went wrong that year.

I’m leaning against the wall of the auditorium of the Holiday Inn
Express Hotel in Mcallen, next to Mom who is holding my hand. I dislike this
immensely, her hand feels like a used diaper. Lately she made me wear them at
night, so I do know what that feels like.

We are waiting for the announcement.

It’s my first contest after my birthday. I now belong to the
difficult nine-year-old group. Difficult because at that age the girls are not
considered children any longer, although deep inside they still are. They don’t
know how to move, they suddenly feel awkward, develop small breasts, shoot up,
need braces. Most—like me (Gracie’s girl)—feel awkward, the few who don’t are
the winners. I was called out right away, a shock to Mom and Gracie. Got the
Miss Prettiest Smile title, crap without any prize money attached to it. I
didn’t even get a crown, and we couldn’t leave because contest rules specify
every participant has to stay for the crowning ceremony. I didn’t understand
what was happening. All those years, I had made it at least to the Supreme
titles, a few times even to the overall Grand Supreme, and once I had captured
the coveted Ultima Grand Supreme. I thought they’d call out my name later
again, but they didn’t. Mom was already crying and Gracie was too stunned to
cry. She stormed out of the room, leaving Mom and me standing against the wall.

Later, days or weeks later, I can’t quite place the memory flashes
on a timeline, Gracie and Mom are fighting.

“She lost her moves! So many months without any ballet training will
do that,” Mom said.

Gracie pulled a face. “I couldn’t justify keeping Tony when there
were no pageants. They wouldn’t have paid for him.”

“You should’ve thought about that when you booked the contests! Tony
can’t do miracles in such a short time. But you think you know everything. You’re
so full of yourself, you think the sun shines out of your ass!”

“Oh, shut up,” Gracie yelled back. “He’s lucky I’ve insisted on
taking him back. But if she keeps losing, he’s out again like a flash! Christ,
I’d give anything to see her win again.”

“Then give Tony more time with her.”

Gracie’s shoulders slumped.

“It’s not that easy. The sponsor and her guys want to see a return
on their investment! They’re tired of putting a lot of money in and getting so
little back!”

Mom’s bitter laughter made her bosom jiggle like jelly.

“Oh yeah? Those greedy bastards didn’t see enough green yet? Every
month you have her picture taken, and I never see any of that money! Oh,
forgive me, I don’t see it because it’s hidden under your mattress! Getting rid
of Tony? How ridiculous is that!”

The fight goes on, or there are several fights and I muddle them all
into one. It’s always about money. And Tony. Gracie insists that every dollar
earned has been reinvested in me and that times are harder than Mom imagines.
Mom keeps harping on about getting back on track with my pageant training—especially
those all-important dance lessons. She wants more of those. More of Tony. A lot
of it doesn’t make sense to me while I’m listening to them bickering and
bitching. I cover my ears, only to drop my hands in the hope to hear the two words
that would release me from my agony.
No more.

But neither Gracie nor Mom are saying it.

“So we got a name now,” Stanley says.

“A name?”

“Tony! You said Gracie couldn’t justify keeping Tony on the
payroll.”

Did I say that? Yes, of course I did.

“Tony. The Stick.” It’s kind of a relief to have found a name, even
if it’s an unimportant one.

“Did he ever come back to your house?”

“At the end of the year, after I lost all the contests, Gracie fired
him again.”

Stanley shifts in his chair, always a sign that he isn’t giving up.

“You’re aware that you have been brought up in an abusive
environment.”

“Nobody hurt me.”

“I believe you were emotionally abused. Correct me if I’m wrong, but
all signs point toward this. You were wetting your bed—”

“I’d appreciate it, if you could keep this out of your notes.”

“Sorry, can’t do that.”

“Who will read that crap?”

“The courts get a full report that outlines the information I have
used to reach my conclusions. A copy goes to the Crown and the defense.”

“Shit!”

“I told you that when we moved on to the comprehensive assessment. You
have committed a serious offense, and it’s my job to find out what made you do
it and how responsible you are. It’ll determine if you should be tried as a
juvenile or as an adult.”

Saying so, he uses his puppy-dog voice. Softening the blow. I
understand, he needs to establish the degree of my madness to determine how
long I should be locked up. He needs to understand me and my motive.

“Do you think you’ll ever find out why I did it?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“And to help you, I have to let you dissect my childhood like a
corpse in a morgue?”

“More like a living human being.”

“You can’t dissect a living human being. That would make you a
murderer. Like me.”

“Let me correct myself: I need to dissect—meaning to examine, not
using the literal context of cutting apart piece by piece—the childhood of a
living human being to determine if there had been a trauma.”

“A trauma that may lead to committing a crime?”

“Yes. In your case I suspect there has been more than one trauma.”

I’m getting curious. “Wouldn’t it help me remember things better or
faster if you give me a little heads up on those?”

He ponders, takes out a kerchief, cleans his glasses, puts it back
in his pocket.

“Just look at all the people who were around you when growing up.
Question their motives. You’re doing a great job piecing it together already.
It’ll all come back to you eventually.”

“How much time have I got?” Meaning how much longer before a judge
slams down his hammer on my life.

Stanley looks at me through clean glasses. “As much as I say. To a point.”

I hadn’t noticed until now that his eyes are green like a muddy
lake.
Dive in if you dare.

“Good.”

He studies his notes.

“You just told me your mom accused your aunt Gracie that she and
‘them’ made money. Who are ‘they’? I thought there was only one sponsor?”

Now that’s a good question for a change. Not having any written
notes in front of me, I study the fly on the wall. I take my time, and he lets
me.

“The people close to the sponsor, I guess. The ones that sold all
the art pictures Gracie’s photographer friend took of me.”

Stanley crosses his legs, very elegantly, and smiles at me to prove
he’s got all the time in the world. We both wait.

Suddenly, I start telling him a story I had long forgotten—or had
never been aware of until now.

Right after my disastrous loss at the Mcallen Holiday Inn, my
sponsor comes to the studio. Gracie has just finished doing me up, and I’m
sitting on a chair, trying not to move. To stop my fidgeting, Gracie gives me
something to drink. She calls it dream-juice and says, it will calm me down. My
hair is hardened by hairspray, my heavy eyelashes darken my vision. When I
blink, I can see them moving up and down. Up and down, up and down. I try to
blink the sponsor away, but she comes closer. I don’t like her. She always
talks to Gracie as if I’m not there.

“We need to do something about her,” she says in a husky voice while
standing in front of me, inspecting me. “Look at her. She’s growing out of it.
She doesn’t look like a slutty kid any more, she looks like a teenage slut
now.” She takes my face in her hand, lifts it up, turns it left and right. “She’s
still pretty.”

Gracie stares at her. “Tony’s working with her again. She’ll win the
next one, I promise.”

The sponsor drops my face.

“And for how long? Another year, maybe two?”

“But the pageants are important. Now more than ever.”

“Sure. If she wins in spectacular fashion. There’s a lot of
competition out there. She needs to be a celebrity. I can’t market her as the
fabulous Princess Tia if she isn’t a winner, so you better make sure she does.
Her pictures won’t be worth a dime if she’s just your girl next door.”