Year’s Eve soiree in New York City . Mom’s wearing an indigo dress and Dad has on a navy suit with a big collar. Dad has his arm firmly planted around Mom like he’s her protector.
Bianca. I can imagine Dad saying her name, exaggerating each syllable. Bee-aaan-caw . When Graham says my name, it’s like he’s rushing and all the letters stick together. It comes out like see-ya . That always makes a girl feel good. Now why couldn’t my parents have named me Olive Juice. If Graham said that nice and slow, I’d melt.
I run my fingers through the underneath of my licorice do. It’s still soft, even with the dye job. I wonder if my mom, Bianca, would’ve approved. “You like, Mom?” I whisper.
I want to know what her name means, so I do a Google search and find a baby name site. Bianca is Italian, meaning white and pure. I push away from my computer and stare in to the mirror. Then I remember something Dad always says when he’s discussing color. Something very elementary. White reveals. Black conceals. I stare at the black hair of the girl in the mirror. What is she hiding?
the anti-color
It’s eleven p.m. when Dad gets home. I’m sprawled out on the sofa reading Of Mice and Men and he’s laughing hysterically on his cell. The same cell he couldn’t answer when I tried to call earlier.
“Oh, Cassia’s here,” he says to the person on the phone. Not to me.
Was I not supposed to be here?
Dad tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. “Lucien says good night.”
He’s talking to Lucien, phew . I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good night, Lucien,” I say loudly, hoping he can hear.
Dad gets off the phone and joins me on the couch. “What did you do tonight?”
Hmmm, I guess my hair isn’t enough of a clue. “I hung out with Liz.”
“Did you have fun at the beach?”
“Yeah. Where were you tonight?”
“I didn’t tell you?” He cocks his head to the side.
“No, that’s why I’m asking.”
“I had dinner with Helga. She was at the gallery the other night. Sporty, short blond hair … ”
“Helga? Is that her real name?”
Dad throws his hands back. “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because I didn’t think people were really named Helga.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “Yeah, I rememb er her.” She had her hands all over you. “Was it a date?”
“Oh, no.” Dad tugs his earlobe. “She’s an art history professor at University of Miami. Fascinating lady.”
“I bet.”
Dad grabs my chin. “Sorry, ma cherie . I thought I told you I was going out.” Still holding my chin, he turns my head to the side. “You look different.”
No shit. And he, being an artist, is supposed to have a keen eye. “Yeah, I went to the hairdresser tonight.”
“Let me get a better look.” Dad turns on the table lamp. One of the few pieces left that Mom bought. It’s clear glass and she filled it with shells collected from the beach. I hope it lasts forever. “Black. It’s nice. Is that what all your friends are doing?”
“No.” I shake my head, thoroughly annoyed. “Just me.”
“No tattoos, okay?” Dad laughs.
“Whatever,” I mumble. He doesn’t even say anything about Mom. About how I look like her now.
“I’m off to bed, cherie . I’m going to try and get to the studio early tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of paintings to finish.”
He’s behind me now, so I give him the backwards wave. “’Night, Dad.”
–––––
I don’t feel like going with Dad to the gallery today. I’m not in the mood to see Graham after he made the comment about not getting between a girl and her dad. Maybe if he doesn’t associate me with my dad, I might stand a chance. Changing my last name and getting emancipated is not an option, however.
Anyway, we have a game in the afternoon and I need to put all my concentration into that. I can’t mess up today. After Monday’s disaster, I have to play really well in order to regain my rep. Not that I had much of one before,
Bianca. I can imagine Dad saying her name, exaggerating each syllable. Bee-aaan-caw . When Graham says my name, it’s like he’s rushing and all the letters stick together. It comes out like see-ya . That always makes a girl feel good. Now why couldn’t my parents have named me Olive Juice. If Graham said that nice and slow, I’d melt.
I run my fingers through the underneath of my licorice do. It’s still soft, even with the dye job. I wonder if my mom, Bianca, would’ve approved. “You like, Mom?” I whisper.
I want to know what her name means, so I do a Google search and find a baby name site. Bianca is Italian, meaning white and pure. I push away from my computer and stare in to the mirror. Then I remember something Dad always says when he’s discussing color. Something very elementary. White reveals. Black conceals. I stare at the black hair of the girl in the mirror. What is she hiding?
the anti-color
It’s eleven p.m. when Dad gets home. I’m sprawled out on the sofa reading Of Mice and Men and he’s laughing hysterically on his cell. The same cell he couldn’t answer when I tried to call earlier.
“Oh, Cassia’s here,” he says to the person on the phone. Not to me.
Was I not supposed to be here?
Dad tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. “Lucien says good night.”
He’s talking to Lucien, phew . I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good night, Lucien,” I say loudly, hoping he can hear.
Dad gets off the phone and joins me on the couch. “What did you do tonight?”
Hmmm, I guess my hair isn’t enough of a clue. “I hung out with Liz.”
“Did you have fun at the beach?”
“Yeah. Where were you tonight?”
“I didn’t tell you?” He cocks his head to the side.
“No, that’s why I’m asking.”
“I had dinner with Helga. She was at the gallery the other night. Sporty, short blond hair … ”
“Helga? Is that her real name?”
Dad throws his hands back. “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because I didn’t think people were really named Helga.” I put my feet up on the coffee table. “Yeah, I rememb er her.” She had her hands all over you. “Was it a date?”
“Oh, no.” Dad tugs his earlobe. “She’s an art history professor at University of Miami. Fascinating lady.”
“I bet.”
Dad grabs my chin. “Sorry, ma cherie . I thought I told you I was going out.” Still holding my chin, he turns my head to the side. “You look different.”
No shit. And he, being an artist, is supposed to have a keen eye. “Yeah, I went to the hairdresser tonight.”
“Let me get a better look.” Dad turns on the table lamp. One of the few pieces left that Mom bought. It’s clear glass and she filled it with shells collected from the beach. I hope it lasts forever. “Black. It’s nice. Is that what all your friends are doing?”
“No.” I shake my head, thoroughly annoyed. “Just me.”
“No tattoos, okay?” Dad laughs.
“Whatever,” I mumble. He doesn’t even say anything about Mom. About how I look like her now.
“I’m off to bed, cherie . I’m going to try and get to the studio early tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of paintings to finish.”
He’s behind me now, so I give him the backwards wave. “’Night, Dad.”
–––––
I don’t feel like going with Dad to the gallery today. I’m not in the mood to see Graham after he made the comment about not getting between a girl and her dad. Maybe if he doesn’t associate me with my dad, I might stand a chance. Changing my last name and getting emancipated is not an option, however.
Anyway, we have a game in the afternoon and I need to put all my concentration into that. I can’t mess up today. After Monday’s disaster, I have to play really well in order to regain my rep. Not that I had much of one before,
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