Chapter One

A Chapter by Someday

When it rains, it pours. Rois had always thought she knew what it meant, but needless to say, she didn’t have a clue. Honestly, she had never really thought about what it was it meant, until just now. This moment, this exact moment, sitting on top of a Tracker Mower, cutting her father’s grass for the first, and very possibly the last time in her eighteen years.

For a moment, she wasn't fully in her skin. She was miles away. It was not the grassy fields or the forested hill where she was. In Rois’s mind, I was trotting up the paved walk of her suburban home. Just back from the gym, she was keen on going to sleep, still limping on her one bad leg. After almost three months, she was beginning to think that her knee surgery had permanently screwed up the muscles, but had made a feat today and straightened it out completely. With a sigh, she thought and dreaded logging onto her email. She thought the worst of her problems were cyber bullies.
She thought wrong.

It was mid-February, so there was still a chill in the air, one that would remain with her even many years after.

"Rois," her mother called. She had just pulled up in her car, but wasn't staying, which was evident because she never fully parked or shut off the ignition. "Rois, your sister was called in by the police."

Rois sighed. "For what? Did they finally catch Kit with weed?"

"Your sister does not smoke weed," she insisted but dropped it and continued. "Someone brought allegations against your father."

Rois found it particularly strange mom ought to be giving her updates on her father. They had been divorced nearly all of her short lifetime. "Allegations of what?" She flung her gym bag over her shoulder.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask your sister later."

"Where is dad?" The words came out in a frantic puff of breath.

"I don't know, but I'm late for bingo. I'll be home later."

In a frenzy, Rois limped into the house and dialed her father’s number. There was no answer The machine picked up and she heard her father’s voice, “Hello, this is Tony Falduto, leave your message please. Thank you.” No...no please...she thought to myself. After ringing it three times she gave up, hoping that he was just sleeping, which was likely. He’s seventy, she told herself. Old people take naps. The two had just gone out for dinner the night before. What could someone say that he has done? Her brother’s girlfriend, Rebacca, had been living there, but she moved out a few days ago. It wouldn't hurt to call her and see if she had talked to dad, would it?In the end, I decided against it. Something told me, something in Rois’s mind told her Becky would not be of assistance here. After living there for six months, she had left her impression on Rois, who was usually a fair judge of character. She had taken advantage of her father’s age and kindness and acted like a saint whenever Isaiah, Rois’s brother, was home. Her sudden moving out was the cause for her celebration dinner with her father.

For dinner Rois made frozen macaroni and cheese, a cup of tea, and a hotdog, then collapsed onto the couch. She flicked on the news and sighed. Cracking her fingers, she continued to worry about her dad, hoping that whatever this was, would blow over quickly. A laptop at Rois’s feet was waiting for her. Knowing that she had actual homework to use it for, she put it on the table next to her food.

She ran her fingers across the smooth surface for several minutes with her eyes closed tightly before she finally opened the lid. On tumblr, there were ten new messages, which she did not open, five new one star reviews on amazon, which she did not read, and just one, lonely email from user TopDogLMK. With a deep breath, Rois opened the email first. For three weeks, there had been a sudden influx of negative feedback on her first novel. At sixteen, she had decided to publish that first novel, which was…less than perfect, to say the least, but in the last month, it had been discovered by a community of online savages. They spent excessive time and energy on making her life hell and ruining my name. Every day she logged on to messages of hatred, negativity, and battery. The email read:

*let’s not lets.

*they’re not theyre.

*Critic not critic.

Looks like you’re still an impertinent little b***h who doesn’t know her grammar rules. You act like you’re a savant. I’m a much better writer than you. I really sincerely hope you never write another work ever. You’re literally nothing but a failure.

and she made a promise to herself that she would not reply at all, would not give her that satisfaction, knowing full well that in a few hours she would break down and fly off the hook at LMK again, just like always. Until three weeks ago, Rois didn’t realize that people were this vicious. That people were just going to not want her to succeed. It was hard to make herself believe it was jealousy or their insecurities when they seemed so confidant and full of themselves.

After eating she limped through the kitchen into the bathroom, even though the leg didn’t really hurt anymore. There was a numbness to the muscles that remained and unnerved Rois. A twang of electric would shoot through her leg every time she tried to out stretch it, so she still left it slightly bent. Post food consumption made her feel extra sluggish and fat and she moaned as I had to take off her gym clothes. In the mirror she caught a glimpse of herelf.

She stood up straight and stared at her body. In her eyes, she saw a deformed hourglass shape, thinking her breasts were just alright, waist was flabby and not to trim, and her thighs were thick. Her dad always called her thunder-thighs when she wore shorts. Upon closer inspection, Rois could see the imperfections of her face. The less than smooth surface of her skin, the blemishes, the abnormal size and shape of her nose, the way one eye was just a little bit lazy. Teeth that were not quite straight, or white, or together. All set into a face that was round and fat-ish. These were the things that Rois saw.

She released her still semi wet hair from its bun and let it stiffly fall down over her shoulders. Staring into the mirror for several more minutes, Rois tried to find something she liked about herself. My eyes are sort of a nice shade of s**t, she noted. My ears aren’t horribly strange looking. Finally she was forced to admit defeat and completely stripped to get into the shower.

For a few moments she just sat in the bottom of the shower with no water running. Her toes were frigid as she sat, hugging her knees. When she finally turned the hot water on, it scalded her skin and she quickly rushed to turn on the cold water. Under the soothing water, she slowly reached over and squeezed the shampoo bottle, watching the liquid ooze out into her hand. Closing the lid against her leg, she scrubbed her scalp vigorously. Rois rinsed it under the shower head without standing up and then using three times the conditioner the that amount of shampoo she had needed, she attempted to smooth and detangle three and a half feet of beautiful dark brown hair.

It was hard for Rois to see that she really was an attractive girl. All Rois could see was a fat, unworthy, awkward child that could never amount to anything.

Rois’s writing career, which she hoped to be jumpstarted with her debut novel, “Immortal Eyes” was spiraling downward and her only outlet was becoming the greatest source of her pain and anxiety. She dunked her head under the water and swished the conditioner out of her hair. For a moment, she rested under the water, longer than she needed to be there, thinking maybe she could just…stay. As usual she sat up and inhaled deeply, smelling the soft herbal fragrance of her shampoo.

Briefly, she considered shaving, but decided it was too cold to wear shorts or a dress tomorrow and it could wait. She reached over for the towel and dried her body then wrapped it around her head. In her fuzzy pink robe, she went out into her small, long kitchen and pulled a cup down and started to make herself a pot of coffee. Sitting at the table, she sighed and rubbed her head. The migraines plaguing the better part of her life, have gotten progressively worse in the last three years.

Her eyes were very heavy and her limbs felt sluggish. It was not so much the excursion from the gym but the mental tribunals she put herself through daily. She rested her head on the table and waited to hear the click of the pot. Maybe, she silently pondered maybe I could tell her that if she was a little nicer, I wouldn’t have to be such an impertinent b***h. I’m just trying after all. Just starting. And where does she get off judging me as if she were God? She’s only nineteen for heaven’s sake. I mean, really. What are her creds? She had a short story published in an anthropology. Kids I went to school with had things published in anthologies in ninth grade. I didn’t enter, or mine probably would have been too. She’s just full of it. Full of herself.

At this point, Rois shot up and went into the other room and wrote a fiery email back to LMK.

You know what, you could have approached this completely different, but you didn’t. You came into it acting like you were so much better than me when you’re just over a year older than me. You are nothing special. Is there really nothing better to do in New Zealand? You and your little band of creeps and stalkers and harassers are lifeless, unsuccessful want-to-be writers.

Get. Out. Of. My. Life.

-Rois Betty Falduto

That was if for her night. Rois threw her computer down and ran into the bedroom, turning off the living room television and threw her robe off, opening a drawer and hoping there was something easy to put on. She rested on a giant t-shirt and her favorite leggings. Her dog, Peaches came waddling in, snorting and huffing so Rois took her out to pee an then the two went to bed. It was a kings sized Temperpedic bed. The room with one large window had two entry way’s. One on the left and one on the right, each slightly obscured by the sliding door closets.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning and Rois had gotten none of her homework done and she didn’t feel any better about herself than usual. Her bedside phone rang. Lazily she reached over and picked it up.

“Lo?” She mumbled.

“Rois, did I wake you up?” Her grandmother Dakota, calling from work. Rois had lived with her grandmother primarily most of her life, and her mother lived with them in the apartment above on and off most of the time. Even though it might seem odd, the two shared the large bed. It was not so much for necessity, or security. Rois had always slept in the bed with her grandmother, whom she loved dearly, and had never thought to have her own room or even bed.

“Not really,” she replied.

“How do you spell threw?”

“Which kind?” Rois replied.

“Like someone threw a ball.”

She spelled it out on the celling as she replied “T-h-e-r-w.”

“Okay, I’ll be home in a little while,” she told Rois. Dakota worked at a womans shelter from four in the afternoon until two in the morning Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. “Will you be asleep?”

“Probably,” Rois told her.

“Then I guess I’ll see you…”

“Probably tomorrow after school. I don’t have anything right after school. Tomorrow is Wednesday. So, night.”

“Night,” her grandmother replied.

“Love you,” Rois prompted.

“Love you too,” the pair hung up and Rois rolled back over and pulled her fat, stubborn pug up to her. “I love you too, Peaches. Do you love me?” The dog snorted and wriggled out of Rois’s grip to go down to the bottom of the bed.

Rois sighed, and tried to fall asleep in the dark or the room. She ended up getting out of bed several times, to pee, make sure her alarm was set, get a drink of milk, check her email, glance at her undone homework, brush her teeth again, get a snack, wash her face, and brush her hair in that order. It was not her first restless night, but she finally laid down with a pillow under and over her head to keep all lights and sounds out. All she wanted was not to have to wake up in the morning.