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O.W.L (OUR WRIT LIT)

Lucki Cooper (jcooper2@oswego.edu) Hannah McNamara (hmcnamar@oswego.edu) Jacqueline Porreca (jporreca@oswego.edu)

Kevin Son (kson@oswego.edu)

If any writers want to be included, submit

your work to one of the editors above.

BORN INTO THIS LIFE BY JOHN BORRINO

I'm scared. I shouldn't be here. This life isn't for me; I don't know why I'm here. Why

would God let me be born into this? It doesn't make any sense. It doesn't fit my character to be known as a "killer," to be associated with thugs and criminals. It isn't me, but I'm here now and I've got to do this. It's either this Joe Blow nobody's life, or it's mine. I've got to do this, my finger's on the trigger, but it won't move, it isn't stuck or anything, it just won't move. The gun shakes, but it isn't the pistol that’s moving erratically, it's my arm. I can't do this, I won't do this, I have to do this.

The funny thing is, I always loved the mafia movies. I must have seen The Godfather and Goodfellas about 50 times a piece. A part of me always wanted their lives. I remember sitting in my room, staring at my ceiling, picturing what it would be like, what it would be like to have everyone in the neighborhood looking up to you, to have everyone love you. Most importantly, what came along with this lifestyle were the incredibly beautiful Italian women; I think out of everything I wanted them the most. I’m not going to say I was the most attractive man growing up; in fact I was probably at the very bottom of the totem pole. Picture this: a short, stocky, badly dressed, acne­faced teenager. In fact as far back as I can remember, I’ve always had acne. I think right when I was born the doctor sent my mother home with a pack of diapers and a bottle of Proactive. Being in this lifestyle though, it wouldn’t matter how I looked. I knew the ugliest of men who threw on suits and ties and suddenly they turned into kings, suddenly women were all over them. But women weren’t the only ones all over them.

Police were always all over these men, and always gave them a hard time. See, when I was a kid I didn’t realize the true ins and outs of this lifestyle. Essentially people did seem to admire them, but in the long run, these men were criminals. That’s another thing that didn’t fit my character. You had to be tough; I was the furthest thing from that. Before the age of 14 I had been given six black eyes, five of which were given to me by girls. The sixth black eye would’ve been given to me by a girl too, except before she could I swung my fist as hard as I could, and instead of hitting her it somehow ended up landing straight onto my left eye. She thought I was so pathetic I’m guessing she just went home. Let me tell you kids can be cruel. For the next few months people just knew me as that retarded kid who gave himself the black eye. By the next few months I mean that story still follows me up until this day.

So I was clumsy. What can I say; I was a goofy guy, and a bit of a social outcast. But, I could just imagine being in the lifestyle and everything going great for me. These mafia movies were a safe place for me, as sick as that might sound. When I had a bad day I threw them on and put myself right into the movie. I didn’t really like the endings of mafia movies, because most of the people would always end up dead or in jail, or at least my favorite characters would. In my head I always changed the endings multiple times. I usually ended it with me in bed with five or six women, having a cigarette and counting my money. I figured this was what being in the mob

truly was like­ the directors only ended the movies in a bad way for the drama, and most people wanted to see these characters end up dead or incarcerated any way.

As you probably already figured out, yes, I am Italian. In the Italian culture the mafia is a lifestyle rarely ever spoken of. It’s on very quiet terms. Italians swear it’s a myth, that it never existed. I was even scolded every time I brought up the topic. What can I say, I was curious, we were Italian. In my mind we must have some kind of connection, some kind of link to these people. I mean, look at my family­ it had a lot of overweight men, who walked around in beautiful suits, and drove the shiniest, most expensive cars I had ever seen. Now I am not saying every Italian man who’s well off is doing something of an illegal nature, but when you have all of these nice things, and never even heard of paying taxes, anyone with a normal mind might get a little suspicious. I always had my suspicions, but kept them in the back of my mind. It was just a story, I’d like to imagine, a story I would picture in my free time when I was really bored, just a stupid made up story, nothing more.

Everything I had ever known completely changed one day when I was seventeen years old. I had just gotten home from school. There was a certain kind of vibe, the kind of vibe where you know something is wrong, but just don’t know what yet. I’m not calling myself psychic, but it was the type of vibe that takes over your mind and gives you knots in your stomach until you want to let your insides fall out through your mouth. I felt it as soon as I got home and the door was unlocked.

My mother was always nervous and scared. The type of mother who let you walk to school alone for the first time, yet followed you in her car all the way there. So for the door to be unlocked in our home, well, it was unheard of. The thing is, it wasn’t just unlocked, the lock was completely broken. I knew I was about to get the type of news that I’d always dreaded. I walked in and didn’t see anyone.

“Ma!” I yelled. No answer. I heard something coming from the bathroom. It sounded like sobbing. I was right. It was my mother sitting on the cold tile floor, her head in between her knees. I kept asking what was wrong, over and over again, and her cries just got louder and louder. She was saying something, but I could not make it out. But I eventually put it together, “Franco” she was saying. Franco, my father. I decided to try and walk toward the bedroom, my mother wouldn’t allow it. She pulled me back, pulling me close to her. Her grip was tight, tighter than I’ve ever felt it before. It made me think, all those times I’ve mouthed off to her; she could’ve probably snapped my neck within a millisecond. I know that wasn’t the time or place to think about that, but that was a hell of a scary thought. After I’d escaped the grip of something I still wasn’t sure was completely human, I went toward the bedroom.

There are certain things in life we wish we’d never seen. There are certain things that we just think are a dream, that we’ll wake up from any minute, but unfortunately we never do. As I walked into that bedroom, I saw my father, face up, lying on the ground, beaten and bloody, his face barely recognizable. The people that did this to him, they also left two bullet holes in his chest. It was not enough to beat him senseless, they had to shoot him as well. That means one of

two things: these people were heartless animals, or my father had put up one hell of a fight. The man who had taught me everything I knew, the man who had taught me to be a man, gone in the blink of an eye. I dropped to my knees, and there I noticed something.

A gun. A gun gripped tightly in my father’s hand, holding onto it for dear life. My father and a gun? Why would my father ever need to own a gun? My father, the sweetest man alive, a guy who attended church every Sunday, and volunteered with the elderly every Wednesday, this guy owning a gun? My head spun; I didn’t know what to believe. Neither he nor my mother had ever even mentioned a gun. I mean, I was a nosy kid; I went through every drawer, every crack and corner, and never once found a gun. I’d never once been told to stay out of a certain drawer for my safety. Something didn’t add up. My father must have had the gun in his hand as he was being murdered, so maybe he’d kept it in his jacket or even his waistband. And if he did keep it on his person, why would he? Why would he feel the need to walk with a weapon? Did he know that these people were coming for him? Were they going to come back? How did my mother manage to escape? Did they not care about my mother being alive or dead? Why my father…why?

It’s funny. Everyone says that there is this higher power out there, this God of some sort, but then why would he let people of such innocence be killed in such a way? Why would he let an innocent man, such as my father, die a death he did not deserve? I’m not saying I don’t believe, I’m just saying some things don’t add up in this world.

All of those pictures of my dad, happy and alive, the walls felt like they were going to crush my spine at any second. I got up and ran, ran as fast as I could. Before I got out of the house, I was caught by that grip once more. What did this lady have a secret gym in the basement? She looked me in the face with such pain, I didn’t want to leave, but I could not stay in that house much longer.

All she could mutter out was, “Be careful Giovanni, please be careful.” I had to be strong, I hugged her, and that was a mistake. I swore that my spine must have cracked in at least three places. Ever hear of mothers that love too hard? Well, put it this way, I’m surprised I made it through my childhood being rocked and held by her every day as I grew up.

My mother did not want to let me go, but she realized I needed alone time. This was how I always cleared my head and being in that house was not going to help me whatsoever. I walked out this time, and to be honest I probably couldn’t have run for a while due to the recent trauma that my spine had endured. I didn’t even know where I was or where I was going, but I needed to be as far away from that house as possible.

I’ve always hated when cars slowed down right by me as I was walking, especially black cars. I think most people would’ve said I’ve seen one too many movies in my day. I see a car pull right beside me and I get a little nervous. One now pulled up ahead of me and the door swung open. At this point I listened to the feeling deep down in my stomach and ran. I ran and ran until I came to an alley where the only way over was to climb the fence. I started to climb; I was almost over when someone grabbed my leg.

“Giovanni!” I heard a deep­ voiced man scream. How could they possibly know my name? What did I do? Why did they want me? I didn’t do anything! I was a good kid. I’d just lost my father, was I about to lose my own life? A hand yanked me down off the fence and onto the floor. It was my Uncle Nino.

“So this is how you greet me after all the years of socks and books for Christmas? You even gave me a dictionary once! What’s next wanna pick me up and throw me back over the fence? You really know how to treat your nephew Unc’.”

“Let’s go, into the car,” he said. I did as instructed. Maybe this time he’ll upgrade my gift to a tee­shirt. I did need some new pairs of boxers; this ride could’ve worked out in my favor. For about half a mile we sat in silence. It looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t get it out. As if he wanted to tell me something deep and secretive. Oh my God, I’ve figured it out, finally name brand socks! If only all those girls who had picked on me as a kid could have seen me now. Giovanni and his brand new polo socks, I was living the life.

However, something deeper than socks was on his mind, and I really wanted to know what. Could it have to do with my father’s murder? I needed to find out. Finally my uncle broke the silence. He said the words that a part of me always wished that I would hear at one point in time.

“Kid, you come from a family of mobsters.” I couldn’t believe it, I was in shock. I was scared, excited, sad, thrilled, and curious; I just couldn’t hold it together. Did this mean I would get to live out my fantasies? I could smell the money and the fumes from the cigars as my mind processed this. I could even smell the girls, some better than others. Some needed a serious inspection, maybe a trip to the gynecologist was in order.

I mean I wasn’t going to lie to myself. Yes, in a way I had always wanted this, but I didn’t want it this way. I didn’t want my father to die for me to find out.

“So you’re…? So I’m..?” I couldn’t get the words out, but he knew exactly what I wanted to know and just nodded his head. We’d been driving for close to thirty minutes. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I was a mobster, I guess this meant I had to buy a pinky ring and eat a lot of pasta. Well I already ate a lot of pasta, I was half way there. Finally the car stopped, he looked at me, handed me a gun and pointed to three men standing over by a white Cadillac.

“Revenge,” he stated. One word, simple as that, no more, no less. “Revenge?” I asked. “You come from mobsters; you are a mobster, kid. We was gunna tell you eventually, I

ain’t never pictured it would be this way. We was gunna drop the news on you on your 18th birthday, and let it sink in a bit. Now with these circumstances, you gotta be ready. You gotta be ready to kill. You gotta grow up fast, no more computer games, and all that other kiddy shit. You’re grown now boy. Those men over there killed your dad, my brother; we gotta take them out now. You know how to use one of those things,” he asked as he pointed toward the gun in my hand.

“I mean, I guess. How hard can it be?” Little did I know pulling the trigger wasn’t as easy a task as it is in Grand Theft Auto.

“Listen here, I’m gunna pull around. As soon as I slow the car down, start shooting. Get them all if you can, but if you only get one that’s okay. This is your first time out, we’ll get the rest later. Ready?”

“Ready.” Why did I say I was ready? I was in no way ready and I knew that too. I knew I couldn’t kill anyone, but I had to. They’d killed my father. I couldn’t let anyone get away with that. I had a chance to take revenge. I was ready. We pulled up slowly.

“Roll down your window and start shooting,” my uncle said. Even though he had probably done this before I could hear his voice crack, just a little bit. He was scared. Well that didn’t help me. As I was about to roll down my window, I wondered if he could smell the sweat that poured down my arm pits. Why didn’t I put on deodorant? Well I never exactly expected to kill a man that day. It wasn’t exactly at the top of my to­do list, along with waking up and taking my morning piss.

It was time. As I tried not to draw attention to ourselves, I rolled down the window, cocked the gun back, and stuck my arm out. I had to do this. I thought to myself, I was in the movies. I was in Grand Theft Auto. I could do this.

I don’t know what came over me, but I stuck my body halfway out of the window and started to fire.

“WHAT NOW BITCHES?” I screamed as I was basically blind firing. I pulled the trigger over and over again, and the light from the gun basically blinded my eyes. I can admit, this wasn’t my best strategy, or my proudest moment in life.

I missed every single one. On the bright side however, I hit two cats, and the stop sign on the corner will never be the same. Honestly, I thought just hitting one cat would have been fine, but two cats? I have to admit, I felt pretty bad ass.

My uncle didn’t feel the same way unfortunately. He started to yell at the top of his lungs.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! YOU WASTED ALL YOUR AMMO! WE’RE NOT IN YOUR LITTLE VIDEO GAME, WE DON’T HAVE THREE LIVES! YOU LITTLE DIPSHIT YOU’RE GUNNA GET US KILLED!”

I felt ashamed. I wasn’t going to prove myself as a disappointment yet again. I thought I could do this, therefore I knew I could. As my uncle was speeding off I grabbed his gun out of his waistband. I started to fire again.

Good news. Hit a dog this time. You see if a person has any sort of common sense, they would know that people who were being shot at would not just stand around. They were already gone as I fired. I would have known that if my eyes were open that time around.

My uncle had this look on his face, the same look I used to get all the time as a kid. The same look that my mother gave me when I was caught wearing her bras or the same look that my

father gave me as he walked in on me…let’s just say exploring my body. It was a look I was far too familiar with, it was the look of disappointment.

“I’m sorry Unc’, I just wanted to make you proud.” “It’s alright kid, you got heart. You proved that today, but on the other hand you can’t

shoot for shit. I should’ve known not to give you the gun. After hearing about you wearing your mom’s bras…well I can’t exactly expect a guy like you to be a marksman. You know what I mean kid?”

“Yeah I know what you mean.” I did know what he meant, but I wasn’t happy about it. He meant that I wasn’t like other guys; he meant I was a fuck­up. I was used to being treated like I couldn’t do anything, but when your family points it out, it hurts. It hurts.

He pulled up to the drive­way of my house. “Sorry,” I said. I didn’t want to even look him in his eyes, I had my chance to prove

myself and I didn’t. I knew he was disappointed in me, even if he didn’t say anything. “We’ll be in touch, don’t worry ‘bout it kid.” And he drove off for what I thought was the

last time. A week later I got a phone call. It was my uncle. He wanted to talk in person and said to

be outside at 9PM sharp. I did as I was told and at 9 PM sharp his car pulled up and I got into the passenger seat.

“Hey, nice night out,” I said as I got in. Nice night out? Was I that nervous? Did I not realize I was talking to a mobster, not on some first date trying to make small talk with some little­waist, air­headed girl who might let me get to third base before we even left my car?

“We found them, the men who killed your dad. The ones that we uhh…missed on our last little mission out.” Was it really that easy to track people down so quickly? Secondly, because of what happened last time, would my uncle really want to take me out again?

“Where are they?” “We’ve got them tied up, in a warehouse over in Bay Ridge. We figured there’s no one

better to end their pathetic lives than the one they hurt the most.” I couldn’t believe I got a second chance. What made him think I wouldn’t mess up that time? I couldn’t mess up this time, I had to prove myself. I was a part of this lifestyle now, this was who my family was, and therefore this was who I was. The men who caused my father so much pain and fear won’t be allowed to breathe the same air that I do. The men that caused my mother so much pain in her heart won’t be allowed to walk the same earth that I walk upon. I was now getting angry thinking about all the agony they caused my family, and I was ready.

As we drove along, I noticed a familiar car driving behind us. I started to worry, but in all truth I was probably just paranoid, it was probably nothing. I shrugged it off.

Our car pulled up to the warehouse. I was no longer the confident pit­bull off his leash, but a little bunny rabbit that didn’t know what to do with himself. My uncle and I both stepped out of the car and walked around back. He knocked in a pattern three times and the man on the other side of the door let him in. As soon as we walked in, there they were, lying on three

separate tables. They were all duct taped and unable to move. It was a bit scary seeing them defenseless, not knowing what was coming next. Their eyes darted from side to side; they were scared, but couldn’t say anything. They knew they were breathing their last few breaths of air, and what surrounded them? The last thing they will ever see are seven men with mean looks on their faces, and me. I was not a man, I was still a boy and I must have been the only one without a mean look on my face, I had the same expression those men lying on the table had, fear.

But at that moment I realized that these guys were not men. They were boys, just like me. They were cowards. Seven men duct taping men to a table? A man wouldn’t continue this violence in society. A man would take care of his family and make money the legal way, I realized that now. But it was too late, I was in this moment and had to go through with whatever came next.

The biggest heftiest man there handed me a gun. “Do we really wanna give this kid a gun after last time?” my uncle jokingly said. “They’re taped up, not moving, he can’t miss this time,” the big man said with a smirk on

his face. So there we were, back to the beginning of this story, the gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, unable to move, and shaking erratically.

The door was suddenly kicked open. I thought this was it, either the police or the rival mafia. Either way whoever was behind that door was going to put me one of two places: Behind bars, or six feet under. I wasn’t too fond of either option. I never cared for small spaces or sharing toilets, so both a coffin and jail cell wouldn’t fit me too well.

“I’m too young to die!” I screamed out before I even saw who kicked open the door. I was in shock the next word out of my mouth was, “Ma?” It all made sense. It was her car that I noticed following us! I couldn’t believe it there was my mother. Standing 5 feet tall with a tiny hand gun pressed against her fingers. But after I noticed the look on her face, something told me I had rather it be the cops. Even our rivals would throw out less torture than my mother; they might finish me off one shot to the head, nice and easy. My mother on the other hand, well let’s not forget about her inhuman grip.

“Giovanni! Over here now!” I didn’t even think twice, I ran over to my mother. “Anybody who touches this boy has to answer to me, got it?”

“Who the fuck is this broad? We’re here to handle business, why dontcha’ get back in the kitchen and cook the kid some nice ravioli for when he gets back home?” The look my mother then put on her face scared every single man standing tall in that room.

“Did you just call me a broad?” “Easy Angelina, just put the gun down,” my Uncle Nino said calmly. “You heard me! Ti ammazzo fica!” Now at this point I knew things were serious, any

time an Italian speaks in their native language when they’re this angry, you do one of two things: leave the room, or fire your weapon, and my mom was not going to leave the room. At that moment I needed to stop being a coward. I couldn’t hide behind my mother any longer; I needed

to defend my mother. I stepped in front of her, and before I could even get any words out one shot was fired.

I’m…I’m awake. Where am I? I’m looking around the room and the walls are a pale blue. I hear a beeping sound. Wires? Why are wires attached to me? Then it all comes back to me, I was shot. I was shot? Someone attempted to kill me, and I’m still alive. This pretty much establishes who I am. I’m the guy who can’t kill a man, and out of all things, can’t even die right. Then just at that moment, I look over. I see a familiar face, my mother.

“The mafia?! Are you fucking stupid boy? This is how I raised you? To be a criminal? You wanna be a criminal? Good luck with that when you’re not allowed to leave the house! You’re seventeen and you’re out holding guns and trying to kill men? I just let you start walking to school by yourself last year! If only I knew better! If only your father could see this, where did I go wrong? My son in the mafia! What am I going to tell people? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Your aunt called…..” Just then the pain medication began to kick in and my eyelids slowly dropped….

Untitled BY RAEANN MARIELLA

Forty­seven freckles and three moles.

Dreams to travel the world but no motivation to get out of bed. Sexual intercourse with the boy across the hall who’s birthday she can’t remember, but no love is being made to boyfriend number one who tells her she is beautiful.

The wine by her bedside sparks ideas

and the picture of brother reminds her of who she is. Kiss the lips of the man who beat this skin,

but do not say hello to the old best friend who kissed the bruises. He is no longer a friend at all.

A voice emerging from the dirt roads.

An irreplaceable imagination with a new thought a second. A dreamer who was not afraid of who she used to be.

Birds of a Feather BY KEVIN SON

Island feelings the winds are breathing

Chill, blissful, oh so sweet

Sing me a melody of a once beautiful time

Keep in mind we can’t let this last

You say my name but I don’t hear you

You have no mouth and you can’t speak

To me, let me know its ending

Don’t ever let this hold you back

You’re so shy yet cunning

Tell me you’re not humming

A siren’s whisper that just leaves blisters

Tap tap tapping, keep on snapping

Stumble free, carry on without a care

Let the music take you on a joy ride to the sky

Slice through the clouds, keep your cheerful smile

Eventually though, you’ll have to come down

CINDA BY LUCKI COOPER

Cherish the warmth that caresses the body, Heat placed from her kiss to your lukewarm skin, but was she the one who made the path to you rocky? The chip seal would stretch. Forever vast in length probably, the weight of pain resembled tons of tin, Cherish the warmth that caresses the body. Matrimony says job! Relationship says hobby! Surely Mom, could’ve found a road with a short end was she the one who made the path to you rocky? She continues down this road without shoes in sheer folly. I lob her some Uggs, to me she’s more than best friend Cherish the warmth that caresses the body. It could’ve been Sinatra, she could’ve met Gotti. To I you were given, original sin, was she the one who made the path to you rocky?

This road that cracks under his will, I drill at sloppy She doesn’t find another, her money she still spends Cherish the warmth that caresses the body, was she the one who made the path to you rocky?

America BY ED DeMATTIA

Foetid Phrases of Prejudice

Rend the air

Like flying splinters of glass

Shredding attempts at Resolution.

Lies propelled by Bigotry

Self- serving challenges to Witnesses

Disable discourse,

Twist the Truth,

Leaving any Opportunity for Healing

Lying Bloodied in the grimy Street

For Hours,

A corpse cut down by Fear.

Silver Lining BY HANNAH MCNAMARA

Your face was a different shade of pink that day Cheeks glossed of rose petals leaving a trail across my body

You could see the nerves crawling on my skin. Eating away at my flesh revealing too much.

Controlling my words, mimicking my

gestures. How could someone consume so much pain and still be so flawless. Staring at your perfect particles put together into a

mannequin. Your shadow steeply outlined with a silver lining.

The naked eye could only take in your mask, but I knew. Your body was a map but when you traveled inside cobwebs

had already made their home. An abandoned mansion

that was once an elegant ballroom where love waltzed through narrow halls. I wanted to break a window and crawl inside

but every time I got too close you padlocked your doors and hid behind curtains.

A Splash of Courage Ingrid Johansen

The absolute most irrelevant detail about today is that the Olympics are on. I can hear the living room TV from upstairs. Bob Costas echoes off the walls of the apartment, exclaiming about some swimmer that everyone seems to care about.

A few stray threads of sunlight sneak through the closed blinds in the window, and the staircase shines softly in the half­light. On sunny days, the blinds are always closed. Otherwise the rays would throw a glare on the TV screen, and my stepdad would not stand for that. I turn the left corner at the bottom of the stairs and step onto the cold linoleum in our kitchen, greeted by the room’s eerie glow. The sterility of our apartment – the white carpet, white cabinets, off­white Formica – offers no personality. The only color in the whole place is the pale, wispy green vines of Steve’s spider plants.

The nickname is fitting for the scraggly things that seem to grow legs rather than leaves. “Spider plant” isn’t a term that my eighth­grader­self coined, but is in fact the popular label for Chlorophytum, one of the world’s most common trailing houseplants. It’s the only plant that I know by name. And it’s the only plant that I hate. The gangly limbs creep around every fucking corner of every fucking white wall in my colorless prison. I know a lot of big words as a fourteen­year­old.

Chlorophytum. Fucking. Steve and Barbara’s stiff chuckles follow me through the open door. Although it’s forced,

I envy that my stepdad and his mom are laughing together. I rarely witness either of them laughing. When Barbara hobbles slowly into the kitchen, I have my head in the fridge, looking for something to eat.

“I’m going to dish up some coffee cake for Steven and me. It’s cinnamon, and if you have it with a little milk I bet you’ll really like it.” She smiles, like all old ladies do, with that look in her eye that says: Eat my coffee cake, precious, or I’ll bake you into my next one.

I amicably accept her offer, and help her portion out cake for the three of us. I follow her into the living room and set down her plate in front of her, and Steve’s in front of him. Like a fucking servant. I walk back into the kitchen, open the fridge, and pour myself a glass of milk. I’m halfway out of the room when my heart races. Abruptly turning on my heels, I rush back to the counter. I had forgotten to put the milk away. While most eighth­grade girls fear spiders or boys, my biggest fear is leaving food out. Steve refuses to throw anything away unless it’s past the expiration date. If something happens to turn bad before that, my brother and I have to eat it anyway. I recall the last time I drank sour milk. I shudder, remembering when I threw it up. Steve calls it “teaching frugality.” My mom calls it one of his “less endearing habits.” I call it “controlling.”

Having corrected my mistake, I carry my snack into the living room and set it on the coffee table. I slide my fork into the cake. Although the TV is still playing, all the sound in the room suddenly goes quiet, the same ringing a tuning fork makes when you strike it. My face flushes hot; I can feel Steve’s glare from across the table. Despite knowing what’s coming, I take the first bite. Only after I swallow can I look up.

“What makes you think you can eat that in here?” he demands. Don’t smile. I tell myself. It will betray your embarrassment. I take a short breath. My

voice warbles: “You guys are eating in here –” I can hardly finish my sentence before Steve snaps at me. “Take that back into the nook.” I take another breath. I try again. “But it’s the same carpet in both rooms.” “You know the rules. You don’t eat in the living room. You don’t eat on my couches.” I take a third breath, this one the pause I need to keep from crying. “Fine.” I get up, collect my meal, and steadily walk back to the nook. The nook that’s covered in

the same white carpet as the living room. With the same fucking white cabinets. And the same fucking spider plants lurking all over the place. Now I’m walking so fast that the blinds are blowing everywhere, making clicking noises as they hit each other, shooting slanted rays of light across the room like little angry laserbeams.

I slam myself down in a chair and toss my food on the table. At first I consider throwing the cake away, but I decide against it, reasoning that would be giving up too easily. Instead, I will make myself eat the whole piece, each bite followed with a sip of milk. I pace myself like this to prevent getting the hiccups. It would be so embarrassing to get the hiccups in such a serious situation. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But I see through my own lie. I know the slow, rhythmic movement is simply intended to keep me from crying.

Crying makes you weak. Knock it off. I scold myself. Why the fuck are you crying, anyway? I know exactly why. The man who is supposed to treat me like a daughter doesn’t love me like one. What more do I have to do for him to accept me? I know exactly what. “Be patient and make an effort.” At least, that’s what my therapist is always telling me I should do. I’m good at pretending I listen to her. I pat myself on the back and wonder where my gold star is for my textbook­perfect answer.

For a split­second, I feel guilty about my disdain for the work of my therapist. It would break my mom’s heart if she could hear my internal negativity. Her faith in individual counseling is far less depressing than her belief that family counseling is a beneficial use of time. My family and I go once a week to meet with Kathy, a warm female therapist who seems convinced that God will be able to help us through “this tough adjustment,” as she likes to call it. I often wonder how long an “adjustment” festers before it obtains “ongoing conflict” status. Apparently, this time frame is upwards of five and a half years – or at least, ours is. Among the issues with Kathy’s theory is that neither in this world (nor beyond it) does there exist a God who has the

patience to put up with Steve Hayter. Blood still boiling, I wonder what my mom’s reaction would be if she were home from work already. Would she regurgitate Kathy’s obnoxious proverbs, or would she stand up for me against her tyrant husband? An irrelevant musing, as my mother spends more time on the Microsoft campus than in our dysfunctional ice­castle.

Vaguely, I can hear Steve and Barbara in the living room – her shrill voice contradicts his booming one. Then I hear his slow, heavy footsteps. Seven years later, I will still know the measure and weight of those steps. My whole body throbs with my pulse, and I can see my chest bouncing with each beat of my heart.

Nonchalantly, he states: “You can come in and eat with us.” He might be looking at me, but I stare at the “Titleist” logo on his hat. Even indoors on a sunny day, he always wears a hat.

I humor yet another piece of advice Kathy gave me. She told me that when I’m mad, I should count to three before I talk. Supposedly this will stop me from saying something stupid. So I count:

One. At any point in my life before this one, I would get up and follow him. He hurt my

feelings, but this is his way of apologizing. Offering me what I asked for is basically like apologizing, right? “Step” relationships are always difficult – though he isn’t my father, Steve is constantly trying to replace my daddy. He means well. My mom always assures me that he means well, though she may be trying to sell that idea more to herself than to me. Kathy tells me I hold grudges too harshly. It will prove that I can forgive people if I go with him. A second gold star for me.

Two. He didn’t actually say he was sorry. But I’m sure he is. He must be. And even if he isn’t,

I really don’t want to argue with him. I will surely die if I have to listen to the bass of his voice echoing in my head ever again. I get so sick of listening to him belt out commands all day. He’s always telling me what to do. He’s so demanding. Not in a parental way either. He’s such a control freak.

Three. I have to do something. I can follow him into the living room and submit to his fickle

affection, or I can yield to my own rage. Suddenly this whole counting­to­three thing doesn’t seem so stupid, because it allows me

to arrive at a grand realization. I have options. Option one: I can go sit in the living room with Steve and Barbara. Or, option two: I can eat alone in the nook. I can refuse his offer. I can say “no” to Steve Hayter. Me, fourteen­year­old Ingrid, a child, but not his child, I can say “no.” I don’t have the ability to drive or vote, but today I learn that I am capable of saying no to this man. I feel strong. It starts in my chest, a tingling sensation that wraps around my veins and traces them across my entire body. My heart slows down, each beat harder than the last. This is what power feels like.

In this moment, I become honest with myself. It’s less realization than admittance.

I hate him more than I hate his fucking spider plants. What comes out of my mouth doesn’t surprise me as much as it surprises me that I’m

able to make eye contact with him when I say it. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never noticed that he had blue eyes.

“I don’t want to.” My voice is shockingly hard. “I think I’ll just finish it here.” Steve rolls his eyes and scoffs. He mutters sharply as those heavy, even steps walk him

right out of the kitchen and back to the fallen throne that is his couch. I sit for a moment, nonmoving, nonreactive. The gravity of what I’ve done settles in my

gut. Warmth rises from my stomach to my chest and then to my face, and I smile. I am proud of myself.

I do my dishes and wander up the stairs, studying my ugly house. White walls surround me. It’s worse than an insane asylum because I’m the only person fighting to get out. The trim, the blinds, the window sills... the carpet, the cabinets, the appliances. Everything. Everything around me is white. Impersonal, cold, uninviting. I can’t wait to leave this place.

I imagine the house I will have when I’m older. I want it to look like a castle on the outside. It will have turrets and Tudor­style accents and a long driveway that goes over a moat. Yeah, I’m going to have a fucking moat. The house will be mostly windows, so there will be a ton of natural light. A massive spiral staircase will wind up from the entry way. I want to paint every room a different color, and each room will have a theme. I want one room for my salon (with French pronunciation) that will be for my couture items; a giant painting of a gaudy hat, ottomans fringed with crystal, wildly intricate light fixtures. The home theater will be Star Wars themed. The seats will be levitated with hooks and invisible rope, and the floor will be lit with fake light sabers. I’ll also have a studio where I can practice ballet, complete with Marley flooring and wooden barres. I’ll even have my own private indoor jungle, just like at the zoo.

I might live in a monochromatic prison, but my imagination cannot and will not be straightjacketed.

I walk precisely toward my room, avoiding the creaky sections of the dilapidated hallway. I continue mulling over possible themes for the chambers of my future mansion. I envision pools, bedrooms, dining rooms. Ornately carved wood designs fill my mind. I float back to the real world and I wonder if I’ll ever actually have a house big enough to accommodate such a fantasy. I mentally go through the list to see which rooms I could live without, but I am unwilling to relinquish a single chamber of my dream home. Child or not, I realize that I will have to, so I pause outside my bedroom door and let the blankness of it fill my mind. I ponder my priorities and weight the possible losses.

I finally recognize what I can sacrifice. I laugh, satisfied with my decision. I feign lament as I realize I won’t have space for a room where Steve can eat.

An excerpt from

“Growing Up With Older Sisters”

By: Jacqueline Porreca

Being a younger sister meant that I had it easier with my parents and harder with my

sisters. I could get away with almost anything. My older sister Katie is six years older than I, and

Elise is two years older. Elise basically paved the road for me, I got to stay out later with my

friends and I got to take the car whenever I needed to. But because of this paved road with my

parents, I had a very bumpy one with my sisters. It all started when I was a baby. Every time I

watch the home video of my homecoming, one of my sisters always says, “How come Jacquie

was the only one to get a sign when she was a baby?”

“Because they like me better,” grinning as I say back to them.

That was strike one. Then, later in the video, when everyone came over to our house to

see me, no one was paying attention to Elise. That was strike two. And finally, they all tell me,

Katie got mad at Elise because she got to hold me first. That was strike three.

My first encounter with Elise wasn’t so bad, but that’s only because I was asleep in my

crib, cuddling with my white baby blankey. My mom was taking me for a haircut and Elise

needed to come because there wasn’t a babysitter available.

“Elise, sweetie you have to come with mommy tomorrow to get Jacqueline’s hair cut.”

“No!” Elise screamed and ran away.

This did not sit well with her. She was so stubborn about going. She didn’t want to go

that bad, that she waited for my mom to go to sleep, snuck down the hallway to the kitchen and

grabbed a pair of scissors. She snuck back into my room, climbed up my wooden crib and cut my

hair in hopes of making the trip an unnecessary one. Well, turns out she did the exact opposite;

the right side was completely shorter than my left. I’m sure that if she could have figured out

how to turn me over, she would have cut my left side to even it out, but she didn’t. Instead, my

mom found out.

“Elise Danielle Porreca, are you kidding me?” she yelled.

“What’d you have to have that stupid baby for anyway?” Elise yelled right back at her.

All because she didn’t want to go get a haircut with me and there I was, this poor defenseless

baby with lopsided hair.