it's nothing you've done
i wanna hurt you
just for fun
Five years ago, when Ria was 12, today would have been a fairytale day. Mom would have made a huge strawberry cake, because the whole family mutually agreed that strawberry was the best flavor; not only was it low in fat but it also tasted delicious. Her sister would have put up big blue streamers in the living room, and covered the beat-up leather couch in them. She would have made a birthday card with the cardboard from the many moving boxes that littered their garage and colored it in every single hue you could imagine. Dad would have been so pleased, and they'd all have gone out for lunch on the beach, eaten pineapple pizza and watched the sunset while making the biggest sandcastle they could manage to build.
Five years ago, Pietro Cari was still alive, albeit hiding his cancer from his family, and he was happy. Ria remembers his lovely, warm, chocolate eyes and his freckly skin that she inherited, and the curly black sideburns next to his ears. It's amazing to think that only a few months after that final birthday, he was on his deathbed, bald and pale, but still with the same lovely personality that his wife had fallen in love with. The most horrible moment in her life that Ria could think of was the moment the doctors told her mother, Jane, that her husband wasn't going to survive. It was as if the small blonde woman had just crumpled in the hospital room, and her sobs had echoed around like a sad symphony in an amphitheatre.
Today, Ria sits at the kitchen table, pretending to read the newspaper and drink her coffee. Her mother sits opposite her, holding her hand softly, slowly eating a bowl of unappetizing porridge. Both of them are silent, because they know if they open their mouths, tears are going to stream down and they aren't going to stop, and Ria had school to go to today. Ria runs her tongue over her naked teeth, still getting used to the feeling of not having a retainer in them (she had gotten her retainer taken off a week ago.) Pushing her hair out of her face and tying it into a loose ponytail, Ria lets go of her mother's hand and stands up, pushing her barely-touched toast far away from her.
Jane frowns at her youngest daughter, her lip wobbling. "What's wrong, sweetie? Don't you like the toast?" Ria shakes her head and makes a gesture indicating that she's full. Understandingly, Jane nods and sets off to eat the toast herself. Ria looks at the small, weak figure of her mother, with curlers in her blonde hair and a the arms of a shockingly pink bathrobe wrapped around her barely-plump belly. Feeling a shared sense of pity, she embraces her mother, taking in the comforting scent of cake and flowery perfume and wondering if that is how all mothers smell like. "I love you, Ri," Jane firmly says with a smile, trying not to let her tears show.
"I love you too, Mom," Ria replies quickly, giving her a kiss and grabbing her tattered backpack (an Alexandra hand-me-down). She climbs down the front steps of their house and puts her headphones on, drowning out the sound of the abhorrent traffic with heavy trance music, as usual, which works just as well to get her on a natural high enough that she can survive eight hours of school.
Then, a thought occurs to Ria. She doesn't have to go to school today; she can always call in sick. Her mom isn't going to be home during homeroom, when they would usually call the house -- so nobody's going to find out. Yet, Jane Thaffold-Cari has always been a purveyor of education and would be extremely disappointed to find out that her youngest daughter was planning to skive off school. Ria contemplates calling a friend to skip along with her, but none of them are fun and she doesn't want to be around people she actually knows today; it's a day where she can just forget, for a few hours, her cares in the world.
Holding on to her headphones, Ria sets off on the normal path she uses to go to school -- one street left, two streets right -- and then makes a detour on the block before her high school, heading off to the nearest convenience store. Hiding the school I. D. located on the edge of her backpack, Ria walks in as casually as she can, and after a few minutes of wading through aisles of processed food, fizzy drinks and trashy magazines, Ria lays a slushy on the counter and takes her headphones off to hear clearly. "A pack of Marlboro lights, please."
