“Don’t be dramatic, Crystal,” he says. “I think we could all benefit from the change.”
People always whisper about the mafia, and I know my father’s name gets thrown in there, but that’s because he’s a successful, Italian-American businessman who started from nothing over in the Bronx. Not Arkansas. I’ve never heard of any childhood in the south. Dad has a Bronx accent, for god’s sake.
“Where in Arkansas?” King asks. I can see the wheels already turning in his head as he weighs the possibilities, the pros and cons, and how he can make this move easier on all of us. All my brothers are protective, but he’s the heart of us.
“Faulkner,” Daddy says. “It’s a small town. Think of it as… An opportunity.”
“An opportunity to live in a shitty little town in the south?” Royal asks with a scowl.
“An opportunity to be a big fish in a small pond.”
“We’re already big fish,” Duke points out.
“In a big pond,” Baron adds.
“Daddy, why are you doing this to us?” I blurt out. “Is this because of what happened with me and Veronica?”
Daddy’s jaw tightens, and he snaps his laptop closed. “Considering the trouble you’ve all gotten into lately, I’d think you’d be happy for a fresh start. Maybe you can think about what kind of start you want to make it.”
He gets up, sweeps his laptop off the table, and strides out of the room, leaving us standing there with uneaten bagels, looking at anything but each other. I wonder if a little thrill of possibility is running through my brothers, too.
two
A new start. How many people dream of it, and how few get it. A chance to start over, to leave your past behind. But also… Your present. This morning my father informed me we’re leaving the only home I’ve ever known. My school. My friends. My life.
My mistakes.
Everything, gone.
For the rest of the day, I walk around in a daze.
At noon, I ditch and go home, crawling into bed to write a blog post before Mom’s up to ask questions. Not that she’ll notice if I’m home. It’s only a month into sophomore year, and I’ve already skipped too many days. So far, my parents haven’t said anything, though. I’m pretty sure my brothers are intercepting the mail, and my parents aren’t really interested in my academics. But Mom will be pissed if I make her look bad, if it looks like she doesn’t know what her daughter’s up to. The other moms might talk about her behind her back, and we can’t have that. We’re Dolces, after all.
I hear my brothers get home, but when Royal sticks his head in my room, I pretend to be sleeping. I can’t deal with one more thing just now. Daddy’s words ring in my head, circling back on themselves, repeating over and over.
A new start.
We can choose who we want to be. What kind of people would we be in a small town in the south? Is this punishment? Or penance? Can I pay for my sins somewhere far from the scene of the crime?
I hear Dad get home, and I know when he tells Mom because her blood-curdling scream echoes through the brownstone. MomisNew York. Without Tiffany’s, Barney’s, and Bloomingdale’s; without her Manhattan Moms clubs, galas, and cocktails on yachts with backstabbing socialites, Mom wouldn’t know what to do with herself.
I cram my earbuds in and sink down in my bed, pulling my laptop into my lap and diving down the rabbit hole of online shoe shopping. The crash of a plate hitting the wall downstairs startles me out of my gluttony, and I yank out an earbud. Mom’s shriek of rage pierces my eardrums through the floor.
I could’ve escaped the house before the battle started like my brothers. They offered to let me go with them, but partying with my brothers is the very opposite of fun. They hover over me at parties, watching my drinks and intimidating any guy who talks to me. And it’s not like I can sneak out to a party without them. Someone will call them the second I show up. They rule our school, and that means no one wants to piss them off by helping me do something they don’t think befits a Dolce daughter.
The only reason my brothers offered is because they think if they take me out, I can forget what’s happening to our family. The problem is, they won’t let me do any of the things they do to forget. I don’t get to drink or hook up or start fights. I’m a Dolce girl. I have to behave.
“I’m tired of being your mafia wife,” Mom shrieks downstairs. I cram my earbuds back in and hit the volume button until Sia is all I hear. At last, the house goes quiet, and I drag myself out of bed and sink into a hot bath. I can’t stop thinking about the silence in the house, and how pretty soon my parents will be making a different kind of noise. Gross as it is, my parents are probably about to fuck. After they blow up at each other, they usually make up in as spectacular a fashion as they fight. Probably how they ended up with five kids. Tonight, though, the brownstone remains eerily silent.
Everything is changing.
“Crystal, sweetheart. Are you in here?” Mom trills from my room, sounding so bright and chipper I know she must have taken some extra happy pills with her evening cocktails.
“In the bath,” I call.
And because my family doesn’t know about a little thing called boundaries, Mom comes waltzing into myensuitebathroom.
“There you are,” she says. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She sinks onto my makeup stool, adjusting her flowing red dress with her free hand while holding her martini aloft with the other.