the Devil and the Sea

6| A little secret

"What happened Vicki?" My dad asks, looking at the plaster on my eyelid.

I hate the nickname "Vicki", I just like "Vic."

We sit at the dinner table and have breakfast: me, my younger brother Joan and my father. Mom stayed in bed - a migraine attack. And Ricky went for a run an hour ago and still hasn't come back.

"Combat injury." I answer, and I eat a piece of sandwich while I drink green tea, making it clear that I am not going to go into details.

"Who did you quarrel with this time?" My dad insists, not taking his eyes off his MacBook.

"Don't worry, it won't bother you." I wave, and he looks up and catches mine.

"You shouldn't fight, girls don't act like that."

My grin echoes throughout the room. Joan freezes and looks at me warily.

We live in a modern house on the south side of Sitges. In Spanish, we call these "Primera Línea", which means "first row". These houses are right on the waterfront so you can enjoy unobstructed sea views. Of course, these are the most expensive houses. We have a large modern house built in the 90s: straight lines, rational layout. Being into real estate, my father bought land at a very good price from a friend a few years ago and built a custom house for us. Large sliding glass windows separate the lovely front side porch with grass and teak furniture from the spacious living room, where Mediterranean sunlight comes in and plays with the furniture in all sorts of hues and reflections and we get a really nice sea breeze. And we need that breeze: Sitges can get incredibly hot during summer.

My dad didn't ask how the beach game went yesterday, he didn't try to find out how much better I play football than the rest, he didn't want to find out if I managed to score a goal beautifully. He just asked an obvious question, the answer to which he most likely does not even care about.

"I was just playing football with the boys." I look up at my dad.

Dark skin, expressive eyebrows, dark hair and a deep look. I'm grateful that I inherited my father's looks. My father could have been a good competitor to Antonio Banderas for the hottie spot when he was young. And win.

My father owns a chain of five-star hotels in Sitges, is happily married and lives in a heavenly place. I would say - a fairy tale, not life. The only thing he screwed up was his relationship with his once beloved daughter.

The fact is, my father is a big fan of football in general, and Johan Cruyff in particular. All his life he dreamed of having a son, but he and my mum couldn't conceive a child for a long time. After a year of trying, I somehow held onto life and was born nine months later. They thought I was a miracle. My mother loves my father so much that she allowed him to choose a name for me - Victoria. However, a year later, another miracle happened, and my father got his cherished dream - Joan was born, my younger brother, who was named after Cruyff.

My father taught me football every day from the age of three. Naturally, when Joan grew up, my father stopped noticing me and directed all his love towards Joan. I thought my dad was disappointed when I entered the Royal Catalan Academy of Fine Arts of Sant Jordi. I graduated this year, and he never asked why I did not try to become a professional football player.

"Are you ready to go to practice?" My father asks, getting up from the table and ignoring me.

I sigh in annoyance, but my father doesn't care. I would kiss my father goodbye before he leaves for work, but that's not how we do it. He rarely hugs me, only on my birthdays.

"Good luck with your training, Joan." I stride loudly up the stairs to the second floor and into my room.

I take out a blank sheet of paper and graphic pencils, I sit down on the bed, and my hand begins to draw lines on the sheet. This is one of my ways to calm down. The second way is to simply write down my thoughts and feelings in a diary on my laptop.

I am starting to paint the shadows when my cell phone bursts into a loud ringtone. I put the sheet aside and reluctantly reach for the bedside table. I pick up the phone - the name Jesus Delgado glows on the screen.

A stream of warm wind enters through the window, breaks into my bedroom and blows the drawing off the bed.

Jesus is my casual friend, the truest heart I've ever broken. He is every girl's dream and my former toy.

If Mark Ferrer is the progenitor of my vices, then Jesus Delgado is the leader of my demons.

Don't ask - it's a long story.

As usual, Jesus wants to take me out to a party. If I go out drinking with him, I might run into trouble. I put my phone under my pillow and lay down on top. If I don't want anything to disrupt the established boring rhythm of my life, then Jesus is enemy number one.

Trying to keep drawing... trying.

Devil! One call and everything in my head is alarmed. I would like to go out with Jesus and my old crew, but I remind myself that lately I try to play the role of a good girl.

I am trying!

I reach for the piece of paper on the floor, then strain my eyes and relax my hand as I continue to draw lines and blend shadows.

I look at the finished drawing, which flaunts a mysterious stranger in a black cap, whom I met last night. Of course I can't stand him: he pointed out the worst part of me and laughed at me, but inspiration is inspiration.

I close my eyelids, remembering his lips, lowering my eyes to the drawing - I managed to depict an exact copy.

"It came out nice, who is him?" I hear Ricky's voice above my head, and I flinch like a caught criminal.