“I just fell, Ma,” she sat on the closed toilet seat, already knowing her mother would clean the little wound. As she thought, her mother quickly took out the box and got on her knees, putting Amara’s feet on her lap.
“Does it hurt, Mumu?” her ma asked her quietly. It did hurt. Amara shook her head. After her father left them, she had become her mother’s whole world. Any pain of hers, any happiness of hers, anything she felt, Ma felt. She was her other best friend.
“Ma?” Amara broke the silence as her mother put ointment on her wound, wondering if she should voice her question.
“Hmm?” her mother started putting the box away.
“You know Mr. Maroni’s son?” she asked finally, feeling her face heat oddly.
Her mother’s green eyes, so like her own, came to her. “Little Damien?”
Amara shook her head. “No, the older one.”
“Dante?”
Amara nodded, her heart thumping. Hopping down from the seat, she walked out to her bedroom as her mother followed, turning down the lights behind her. Amara walked to her closet and picked out her nightdress. She didn’t like to wear shorts or pants. Even for school, she preferred skirts and flowing dresses.
“Of course I know him,” her mother said. “Why?”
She sat on her bed as Amara stripped to her underwear with the pretty blue flowers and put on the simple cotton nightdress.
“I just saw him today, that’s all,” Amara tried to be casual as she climbed on her bed and sat in front of her mother. “You never speak of him.”
Feeling her mother’s hands in her long hair, Amara tilted her head back as the nightly braiding started. Braiding the hair at night, her mother always told her, made it more beautiful and healthy in the morning. For as long as she could remember, her mother had been braiding her hair every night, and every morning they were wavy and pretty.
“He’s a good boy, that one,” her mother told her, her hands moving.
Amara had seen him from a distance for as long as she’d lived. He had always been there, but she had never focused on how soft his hair looked or how tall he already was. She felt a little flutter in her belly and rubbed it to shoo it away.
“How old is he?” she asked, tugging at the hem of her nightdress.
“Fifteen,” her mother replied. “Poor boy lost his ma so young. He’s taken care of his brother since then. And Mr. Maroni is… a very strict man.”
Amara stared at the chest of drawers across from her, imagining how not having a mother must feel to him. Not very nice, she supposed. Kids should always have mothers like she did. Well, she could share hers.
“You should make him some sweets, Ma,” Amara commented, feeling the wisdom in her idea. “Cookies. The chocolate ones. Yes, he’d like that I think.”
Finished with the hair, her mother moved off the bed, letting Amara climb in. Pulling the covers over her, tucking them around her just as she liked, her mother smiled softly. It put a little dimple on her cheek that Amara wished she had. Vin told her she’d get one if she poked her finger into her cheek. So far, it hadn’t worked.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mumu,” she stroked her cheek softly. “I’ll do that tomorrow.”
Amara smiled, taking a hold of her ma’s right hand. It was rough and slender and not too big. She loved it. “Make me some too.”
Chuckling, her mother dropped a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t ever lose your heart, my baby.”
Amara didn’t really understand what that meant. How could someone lose their heart? Wouldn’t they die? It was such a strange thing to say. But she just smiled as her mother left the room, feeling happy and safe and loved.
Staring up at the ceiling, she blinked, remembering the kiss she’d seen. It had looked icky, but maybe doing it was more fun. Maybe that was why they had just kept kissing. Why would people kiss if it was boring, right? She must have been missing something.
The room was quiet, only the little melody of her nightlight beside her. Amara settled in and closed her eyes, deciding to read more about kissing to understand why people enjoyed it. Then, maybe one day, when she grew up and looked beautiful, she could ask Mr. Maroni’s son to give her one. He was very handsome. Maybe, he’d be nice and kiss her, after she became pretty enough to match his handsomeness.
His name was handsome too. Could names be handsome? In that quiet of the room, in that dark of the night, Amara giggled at the thought and tasted his name for the first time on her lips.
Yes, she decided. He would be her first kiss.
Fuck, he hated this little fucker.
Dante cracked his jaw, keeping his eyes on the fourteen-year-old kid with the biggest chip on his shoulder. Deliberately keeping a little smirk on his face that hurt his bruised cheek, Dante pulled back his fist and punched the boy on his side.