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I know what you’re thinking. Sixteen and already pregnant; automatically some sort of whore, right? Unless I was raped, but then I’m a slut because I was probably doing something to attract that person’s attention, because rapists don’t rape you for nothing, right? But no, I was not raped, but nor am I a whore. Actually, at one time, I used to pride myself on my values. I went to church every Sunday, I prayed at every meal, my midriff wasn’t ever seen unless my shirt had accidentally slipped up and I didn’t have a single tattoo or piercing on my body. (No, not even my ears were pierced.) And you know what? I don’t even know what happened; where I went wrong. It just sort of… happened. Like some inevitable disease you can’t avoid.
I guess you could say it started the day my dad walked out on us. With four brothers and sisters, and my mum on leave, money was beyond tight. We literally had nothing to our name. I can honestly tell you that it was not a fun experience. Being the oldest puts a lot of pressure on you, and the fact that my mother refused to get a job didn’t help matters at all. At twelve, I started my first part-time job while the only thing my mother ever did to earn money was pick up welfare checks. I know, you aren’t allowed to work at twelve, but you can if no one questions your age and you’re working for a family friend.
I became the deli’s only floor sweeper. I’d come in at five o’clock in the morning and sweep the floor before the shop opened, then I’d come in again around noon and do it again.
At school, I wasn’t popular – being the only Latin/American around, racism was pretty much directed at me, and me alone (my siblings were ‘home-schooled’), it’s just part of the culture, and because I didn’t have ‘cool’ clothes. Kids can be cruel, and their parents aren’t much better. “Oh, that little Latina girl over there…” was pretty much what I was referred to by parents, and even some of the teachers. No matter the fact that I tried my best in class and worked hard. By thirteen, I learned to study hard and keep my head down in class, talk to and trust no one and I’d be fine; I’d survive school that way. My one friend, Raef, was my very beat up bunny – the last thing my father had ever given me.
Why am I telling you this, really? Because I don’t want to be remembered as ‘that Latina girl that got knocked up’, no I want to be remembered as the girl who tried. Little Isabella who’d try to brighten up your day, even when she couldn’t brighten up her own. Because everybody deserves a second chance; because everybody deserves a first chance. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?
The little girl ran up to her father, black ringlettes bouncing with every step. The man stooped to pick her up, throwing her in the air slightly, making her giggle. “Nowhere, baby, I’ll be back later.”
“Can I come with you, daddy? I promise I’ll be good.” She smiled up at him, a dimple in one cheek, her little baby voice, not quite gone at six years of age, made him chuckle slightly.
“No, I’m sorry, Bella. Not this time. But here,” He set her down and rummaged through a bulging bag that lay at his side, “Take him. You take good care of him, you hear?” The man pulled out a stuffed, white rabbit and handed it to his daughter.
“Oh, daddy, he’s beautiful! What’s his name?” She bounced, grinning widely at her father, hazel eyes darting between the new present and the man in front of her.
The man laughed at this, “He’s whoever you want him to be, baby.”
“Then he can be Raef. Raef Chucklefanny.” She grinned, “Because he’s gonna laugh a lot, but don’t worry,” she nodded solemnly, “I won’t call him that in public,” her voice dropped down to a whisper, “because he’ll get embarrassed.”
Her father ruffled her hair and bent down to kiss her forehead, “You be good, Bella. And take good care of your brothers and sisters; it’s up to you now. Raef will keep you company.”
Bella laughed and crossed her eyes at her father, tongue sticking out. “You make it sound like you’ll be gone a long time, daddy. You sure I can’t come with you? I’ll be really, really good. I won’t even spill my milk at dinner, or pick on Jose because his hair sticks up.” She smiled up at him, “Really, I’ll be good!”
Frowning slightly, he shook his head, “Sorry, Bella, not this time. Just remember that I love you and I always will.”
“Silly, daddy! Always so serious!” She laughed, “I love you too, Papi.”
Grunting, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, checking that her watch read the ungodly hour of four thirty in the morning. “I’m up, I’m up!” ‘Don’t have a cow, already!’ She thought, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, revealing herself to be dressed in only an old and ratty tee.
At twelve years old, Isabella was currently the only ‘breadwinner’ of the family, and one of the two sources of income for the household; herself and the welfare checks that her mother got every month. She worked at a respectable Deli that was run by an old friend of her fathers who decided to give her a break when he left. Her mother, who was still quite healthy physically, suffered from Munchhausen syndrome, using that as an excuse to be a stay-at-home mother when really her children needed her to be out, working, earning money.
Isabella slipped into her customary torn jeans and black, baggy tee before heading outside, grabbing a quick toast on the way. Raef hung limply at her side from where she tucked his head through a belt loop; his usual resting place. “Ola, Mr. Reese.” She greeted the neighbourhood homeless man, to whom he just nodded and returned to lounging on a doorstep; he seldom talked, but when he did, everyone listened. Proof that you didn’t need to be covered in fancy clothes and sweet smelling perfume to get people’s attention and respect.
As she walked, Isabella dreamt of what life would be like if her father hadn’t left; if he’d stayed and tried to make things work. She’d long ago given up trying to figure out why he’d actually abandoned his family, and just took all the snide comments people made in stride; if she didn’t know, how could others, who hadn’t even met her father, know? How could anyone be the judge of her family?
If he’d stayed, she imagined a happy family. Her mother wouldn’t cry in the bathroom every morning. Her brothers and sisters wouldn’t fight, or go hungry. And she could have toys and friends, lots and lots of friends that laughed at her jokes and played with her at break. Her father would come home every night around six, just like Meredith Holycross’ dad; he’d pick her up, swing her around and call her his little Bella, just like he used to, before he left.
Unos… Dos… tres… quatros…
She counted the cracks in the tiles, wanting to keep the picture of a happy family in her mind for as long as she could, for who knew when next she’d be able to imagine again?
Some ghetto children have this phrase, ‘reality bites’. I don’t know if other people say it too, but I’ve heard it around my neighbourhood, and I have to say that it’s true. Reality does ‘bite’ and for some, fantasy is just so much better.
And that’s where I spent my childhood; living in my own little fantasy world with my happy family, abundance of store-bought toys and friends. Because sometimes, you just need your own little world to retreat to, you just need a place where you can escape it all, even if you are only twelve. Even if you are just that little Latina girl that got knocked up by some rich, white man.
And that's the first chapter. I'm not sure how great this is, so if anyone's reading this, can you just let me know if I should continue? Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I know it's short, and trust me when I say this: chapters will get longer.. I just want to know if I should even bother, because I'm not sure.
In my mind it sounded fine, but what do you think? Is Isabella a Mary Sue? Is the plotline crap? Let me know, please!
xox Caramel
