ANNASOPHIA
Impossible to believe the girl standing under steaming water, eyes closed, mascara running down her cheeks, scrubbing between her legs is my child. The same child who had—long ago, regularly—showered with Anastaysa, Magnus, and me. She’d even laughed and shrieked and sprayed us with abandon.
Two years ago when her body showed the first signs of puberty, she started using her own bathroom. What better place to daydream about our cool Swiss chef? Often before bed, she shared with me whispered descriptions of his gentle voice, his warm eyes, his curly hair. Her father picked up on her blushes and the frequency of her kitchen visits and fired Stefan without warning. Remembering Alexandra’s stunned silence at the announcement, I hug my waist.
Emergency … Sick sister. Michael’s straight face dared any of us to challenge his lie. He didn’t give a damn that we knew Stefan was an only child.
Goddamn you, Michael. I hope you got assigned the hottest spot in Hell.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to wipe them away. What does Alexandra mean, she’ll deny anything I say about Maverick to the police? God, how long have they been having sex? She can’t think she’s in love with him. She adores Nicholas. Have they had sex? When did she lose her virginity?
Not tonight …
The water pounding my ears like Niagara Falls stops.
Silver drops stream off Alexandra. She reaches for the thick, white terrycloth robe hanging outside the shower. She pulls on the robe, wraps a towel around her hair, and flips her turban and face toward the ceiling. The robe she leaves open. No embarrassment about her scrubbed-pink breasts or damp pubic hair. She steps onto the bath mat. The circlet of stones in her breast twinkles like stars. Stunned, I can’t find the words to demand the obvious.
What is that?
“I’m not your little girl any longer, Mother.” She sashays toward the lavatory as if my silence is acceptance versus censure.
“Believe me, I understand that, Alexandra.” My mind veers back to her pierced breast. When? How?
“So why hang out here and watch me as if I’m a baby duckling about to drown?”
My heart jitters. “Maybe because you’re barely treading water.”
“In your opinion.”
“In my opinion.” My stomach clenches. I am losing this verbal game like the battles about curfew. Clothes. Body piercing. Absolutely not, Alexandra. No more discussion.
“As if your opinion matters.” She leans toward the mirror and peers at her reflection. “I plan to live my life the way I want.”
My chest tightens as if my heart has grown too large for its cavity. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself?”
She swipes condensation from the mirror, leans closer to her reflection, and traces her index finger along the ridge of her eyebrow. “Who else should I care about?”
Her father’s sentiments. “Are you doing drugs? Marijuana? Amphetamines?”
She glances at me without turning from the mirror. “Don’t you wish?”
Feeling as if I’m Alice sliding down the hole, I soften my voice and answer her question. “I don’t wish. I want to understand. Get you help—”
She turns and plants her hands on her waist, sparkling stone and mons pubis on exhibit. “Newsflash, Mother. I don’t need help. I don’t want help. I need space. To do what I want to do. Live my life. Pierce any part of my bod I want. Fuck whoever I want. Whenever I want. I think I’ve earned that right.”
Arteries in my neck thicken. My breath clogs my throat, but I can’t let her outrageous statement go unchallenged. “You’re not old enough to do whatever you want.”
“That depends on who you talk to, AnnaSophia.” Her slow tone of condescension rings with the arrogance of her dead father.
My stomach churns. “Unless you’ve checked with an attorney—”
“I do know an excellent attorney, but everything I need to know about emancipation I learned on the internet.” She draws a comb through her wet hair, smoothing the follicles, watching me in the mirror, smirking.
“Emancipation?” I repeat the word like a parrot learning new vocabulary instead of picking up on the attorney she knows. Have they met again? I pinch the bridge of my nose and concentrate on the here and now. “Did you learn I have to give my consent?”
“Not if I can show a good reason.” She lets the comment hang, but not long enough for me to grasp what good reason she may have. “I don’t have to live in a home that’s abusive.”
I lunge across the room, shake her arm, and slap the comb into the sink. “What are you talking about? You’re abusing your body with that obscene nipple ring.”
She twists her arm two, three times and then breaks my hold. Eyes blazing, she shows me her arm—imprinted with my fingerprints. “Stupid move, AnnaSophia.”