Sasha Grace - an excerpt

I was not an extraordinary child. My mother used to tell me that I made Plain Jane look fancy. My mother used to tell me a lot of things, but that one always stuck to me like needles. My looks were average: brown hair cropped at my shoulders, light brown eyes, fair skin. My full lips made my face look a little small for me. I was a little shorter than most girls my age. At eleven, I fit in best with the eight and nine year old's. My mother didn't seem to complain much about my height though, she’d always say it just meant I could wear the same clothes longer.

When I was eight years old, I remember my mother telling me it was time to become a lady - even though she didn't think I had enough grace. She took me to a small parlor in town and I got my ears pierced. I remember staring into the mirror afterwards. My eyes swollen from tears I couldn't hold back and my bottom lip had an imprint of my teeth from holding back the sounds. I was entranced by the small white dots that now christened my earlobes. My mother had picked out pen sized pearls on gold posts. She said a woman’s first pair of earrings should be discreet but fabulous. I would steal moments throughout my day to stare at the shiny new stones. I never once took them out. My mother bought me countless new pairs of earrings but I never loved any of them the way I loved my pearls.

My mother was a strange woman. She was from a different time. Her grace and composure seemed implanted from a completely different generation. She was always concerned with how a lady would be, how her hair should look, the clothes she wore. It got ridiculous sometimes. Most of our money went to my mothers upkeep, which brings me to my father.

My father was the best kind of man. The kind that you learn about in heroic tales, you know? Except he wasn’t a hero to anyone but me. He was completely devoted to my mother, even though it took everything he had. He worked such long days that we would have late night rendezvous’ to tell each other about our days. He would come home, make two tiny banana splits for us – sometimes just ice cream, and sometimes, just an empty bowl. We didn’t always have the money for ice cream, but he always met me at the table the same. He would let me tell him all about the girls in my school, my adventures in my imagination, my dreams for the future. I would end up with half my body leaned over the table, swinging my spoon around. He let my grandeur explode, and while I painted dreams on our kitchen table, he would settle into his chair, cross his arms and smile. He lived for my mother and me. It was as simple as that.