Chapter One
It all started in a small, boring town, full of boring people and their uneventful lives. Quaint houses sat neatly in rows, each one a mirror of the last, with expensive cars gleaming in long driveways. A so-called historic town center stood at the heart of it all, indistinguishable from any other across the country. Inside one of those tidy houses, a devoted mother and father sat at a spotless kitchen table, the picture of a TV sitcom family. Nearby, a little sister with sun-bleached pigtails played with her Barbies on the floor.
An 18-year-old girl stood in front of the hall mirror. Her brunette hair was braided tightly to her slim shoulders, and a baby blue halter dress clung perfectly to her body. Nothing stood in her way, not a problem, not a worry. Life, for her, was simple. Effortless. I wish, heartily wish, I had that kind of life.
Instead, I live in a crumbling city that smells like metal and memory, with my quirky mother, my tech-savvy father, and my Abercrombie little sister. My parents met in high school and fell head over heels into the kind of passionate love they still romanticize to this day.
“Your mother moved here sophomore year,” Dad always says, his eyes lighting up like he’s still that teenage boy. “She was the most attractive girl I’d ever seen. Her hair was always up in a bun, a deep, rich red. I finally worked up the nerve to talk to her, and we just clicked. We were inseparable after that. We found out we were pregnant with you junior year.”
They always say it like a confession and a love story rolled into one. They claim I was conceived at a party, a happy accident. “We wouldn’t change it for the world,” they always tell me.
They had to grow up overnight, but they didn’t let go of their dreams. My mother is now a chief editor at a major publishing company. My father’s a computer technician who still manages to chase down his hobbies on weekends.
When I was an only child, life was sweet: summer trips out of state, all of my parents’ attention, no competition for love or time.
Then came Kari.
I was four when they announced her arrival, gleaming with joy. I was excited, too, until the screaming began. Kari cried as if it were her full-time job. The tantrums were endless. Over time, those meltdowns evolved into hot pink leggings, glitter-covered shirts, and nails so fake they clicked like claws.
I shift in front of the mirror, and the fantasy of the perfect life flickers out like an old film reel. I’m back in my reality, gritty and honest. My chocolate-brown eyes stare back at me from the reflection.
I let out a soft, contented sigh.
My pin-straight black hair falls to mid-back, framing a pale face that rarely smiles. Heavy eyeshadow and dark lipstick give me contrast, a deliberate, crafted contrast. I smooth out the front of my band tee, the fabric soft and worn. Black shorts cling to my hips, fishnets hugging my legs like second skin. My black, knee-high Doc Martens boots complete the look.
This is me. Not the girl in the halter dress. Not the fantasy. Not the sitcom daughter. Just Winter.
