Amour Battu: Timeless Love: A series of Standalone novels Book 2

by Mj Fields

  She holds up her hand and I stop. At the counter, she opens a drawer. “Mom?”

  Holding a manila envelope in her hand, with a smile on her face, she walks toward me, sits down and hands it to me. “Go ahead, open it.”

  When I waver, she taps it. “Why are you hesitant?”

  I answer honestly, “I don’t know?”

  “Well.” She scratches behind her ear. She does that when she’s thinking. I imagine it helps jumpstart her thoughts. “Let’s talk about it.”

  I nod.

  “Last night was rough.” Her eyes squint as if it hurts her too and I know it does.

  “It’s always like that, Mom, and not just there, at school too.” I touch my lips. “I know there’s barely a scar. I know I can cover it with foundation and lipstick, but it’s there, Mom. It’s always there.”

  She takes my hands and brings them to her lap. “Natasha, you are smart, intelligent, and beautiful.”

  “But, but, but—”

  “I think I may have led you a bit astray in the past.” She pauses and then sighs, “Sixteen years.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Well, I may have implied that beauty is seamless. Maybe I caused you to believe that everything beautiful is born without difficulties. Maybe I put too much emphasis on trying to make things perfect.” She scratches behind her ear again. “I’m botching this up, aren’t I?”

  I shake my head.

  “You know my mother had issues.”

  “She was a drunk.” Her face scrunches up, and she forces a laugh.

  “I don’t know who my father was and I never had anything, except this.” She taps her head and then her heart. “And this.”

  “And this.” I take her hand and put it on my head, she laughs.

  “Exactly. And that’s all that truly matters in the world.” She scratches behind her ear again. “But other things are important too, Natasha. With the right clothes and makeup, anyone can be pretty. Being smart, educated, and talented, those things only happen with hard work and dedication to one’s own self. Few people are willing to put the work in to pursue their dreams.”

  She takes the envelope and opens it. “You are first in your class. Your drawings are so beautiful and detailed. And you, Natasha Petrov, you work tirelessly on creating beauty.” She hands me the papers. “Friday, while you were at your father’s, I met with Mademoiselle Acord, the Dean of Students at your new school. This has nothing to do with Sabrina. It has everything to do with you and your passion.”

  I look down at the pile of papers. “This is.” I stop and attempt to catch the tears from spilling onto the acceptance letter that sits on top of the other papers. “Mom, it’s...” I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “It’s too much.”

  “It’s just the beginning.”

  Two weeks before I’m to begin my new life, I stand in my closet. All but one of my school uniforms have been donated. The one remains as a memory, a reminder, a token of my time, my past.

  The rest of the closet is a dream. I’m well prepared. If I’m honest, I’m probably overly prepared. But when your mom and her best friend-slash-assistant work for the premier fashion house in the US and France, you’ve no way of reining them in.

  After pillaging de la Porte’s ‘closet’, a three-story room bigger than our Brooklyn apartment, we then hit Beacon’s Closet.

  Beacon’s Closet is a budget conscious, women’s fashion dream. Okay, it’s a thrift store, but you’d never know it. Racks upon racks of clothes discarded with little to no wear, some with tags still on them.

  Mom’s suggested list of must-have wardrobe items is expansive. White tees, gray tees, black tees, perfectly worn jeans, dark denim, a black blazer, black pants, a cashmere crewneck sweater, a boyfriend cardigan sweater, trench coat, denim jacket, little black dress, a wrap coat, a crisp white formal shirt, cotton leggings, twill leggings, khaki pants, two cashmere jumpers, a pencil skirt and two miniskirts, all hang in my closet.

  Autumn’s love of perfect accessories makes it more colorful. Silk scarves in an array of colors. Statement necklaces for dress up, daintier ones for every day. Earrings, boots… so many boots, red heels, black flats, white canvas tennis shoes, a pair of athletic Adidas, a new wallet, bags, socks, bras, and matching panties.

  When Mom nixed the thongs, Autumn insisted every girl should wear them, they make her feel more powerful, and like she has a secret, Mom caved.

  I’m not sold on thongs, but hey, if I get the urge or decide to feel powerful, or have a secret that is only mine, as doubtful as that is, they may come in handy.

  Now, standing in front of my closet, in a burgundy romper, one of the few things I chose, I spin in a circle indulging my mom and her best friend by giving them a fashion show. After all, they deserve to see the fruits of their labors.

  They have helped pull together a wardrobe fit for a future fashionista.

  “What I wouldn’t give for tits like yours,” Autumn sighs and Mom smacks her. “Oh please, tell me you don’t feel the same. Those things are so perky.”

  She pulls her bra straps up. “At sixteen, they were here.” She releases her straps. “Now at,” she pauses and giggles, “twenty-nine and holding, they’ve settled south.”

  I laugh. “Like your parents?”

  “Hush up, girl. They’re still above the Mason-Dixon line,” she pretends to scold me.

  Mom interjects, “By retirement they’ll be in Florida, so will mine.”

  “NEIGHBORS!” Autumn claps.

  Laughing, I walk in the closet and grab the next outfit they’ve hung. A white tee, black leggings, and a boyfriend cardigan.

  The boyfriend cardigan, yet another reason I love fashion. I slip it on and it feels like a warm hug. Nothing beats a nice warm hug. Nothing I have experienced anyway.

  “Girl, we aren’t getting any younger out here,” Autumn calls, snapping me out of my faux hug induced standstill.

  When I walk out Autumn says, “The gray lacy bralette goes under that white tee. Get your perky behind back in that closet and put it on.”

  “Really?” I roll my eyes because I’ve seen it a million times in ads. And it looks great, but it’s never been… me.

  “Yes, really,” they say at the same time.

  Two hours later and we’ve settled on my wardrobe for the first two weeks of school.

  At last, I emerge from the closet in my favorite PJ’s. Autumn laughs at my unicorn onesie as she pushes off the bed. “Movie and munchie time?” I nod.

  While Mom pops up some popcorn, the way we like it, on the stove, Autumn opens a bottle of wine and then a bottle of sparkling grape juice for me.

  Autumn walks over and sets down three of the four crystal champagne glasses she purchased at one of the many thrift stores we browsed today. “In the spirit of change, I’ve brought a few movies.”

  “Oh, dear lord,” Mom grumbles as she dumps the popcorn into the vast bowl.

  “Just suggestions,” Autumn says. Practically skipping toward the door, she grabs her bag and hurries back. She opens her Gucci hobo and pulls out a stack of movies. “Fifty Shades—”

  “WHAT?” Mom yells and I hide my giggle behind my hand.

  With her back to Mom, Autumn crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me. “Just joking, left that one at home.” Pleased with herself, she plops down on my left. “10 Things I Hate About You, Cruel Intentions, Step Up, and A Walk to Remember. All high school movies, Ang,” Autumn laughs as she grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Ones with real boys, not animated ones.”

  “We love Disney, don’t we, Natasha?” Mom hands me the bowl of popcorn and sits down.

  “We do,” I nod.

  “I also brought The Notebook, Dear John, The Lucky One, Definitely Maybe, Titanic, and Magic-”

  “No,” Mom interrupts her before she finishes the title Magic Mike.

  “How about we let our sixteen-year-old art student pick?” Autumn grabs a glass of wine off the coffee table and hands it to Mom.
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  “Fine,” she concedes.

  I look through the movies smiling. It isn’t like my mom keeps me from films that aren’t Disney. It’s just that, up until a couple years ago, that’s how we passed the time in waiting rooms for doctor’s appointments and hospital rooms before and after surgeries.

  All those movies seemed to help me escape while waiting for the next step in making me look ‘normal’. And normal, for me, didn’t come easy.

  Movies took me away. Earbuds stopped me from hearing most of the questions the kids in the pediatrician’s office would likely ask. For example, “What happened to you?” With earbuds in, the questions about my lip, teeth, or scar were directed to Mom. They’d ask her, “What happened to her?”

  At birth, it was severe. A bilateral cleft, which meant both sides were affected. As a toddler, more surgery to repair the palate. As an elementary student, it was still easy to see the scar. And, of course, my teeth were a mess and my speech was horrible. I was different. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until last year when I started using makeup that I stopped hearing the snickers in the hallways at school.

  “She doesn’t talk?”

  “She has a speech impediment.”

  “She used to drool.”

  And then, “Underneath all that makeup, she’s still a freak.”

  It’s always been a no-win situation. Heck, everyone pretty much grew up knowing me because of my difference. Those who didn’t, learned of it through the gossip mill.

  That’s not the way one wants to be known.

  I’d never asked to change schools, I knew money was tight. But to say changing schools, attending a place no one knew me, would be life-changing is an understatement. I feel like maybe this year I’ll be able to be me. Well, find out who I am anyway.

  Mom nudges me lightly, and I look at her. Her unspoken questions are staring me in the eyes so I answer, “Imagining.”

  “Always imagining,” she winks.

  Autumn gets up and puts a movie in. “A Walk to Remember is first up.” When she sits, she grabs a red leather journal from her bag and opens it.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  She pulls out two more, tossing one to Mom and me the other. “These are for lists.”

  “Lists?” Mom and I ask at the same time.

  “When I was younger, I made a list of characteristics and all the things I felt the man I would love forever would possess.” She takes a drink of her wine and then smirks. “We’re divorced now, so I may as well make a new one.”

  “And you expect us to do the same,” Mom sighs.

  “You’ll thank me someday.”

  3

  Seventeen years old

  My first year began with perfect clothes, my hair pulled away from my face, a forced smile hoping to pass it off as a genuine one, an eager attitude, and a hopeful heart.

  However, I find myself fighting the urge to hide. I promised myself I would try not to. So, I pushed myself to actually eat lunch in the café, at least on the first day. I sit at lunch, head down, earbuds in, still hiding; but this time, in plain sight, when a girl with bright colored clothes and red lipstick comes over to me.

  “What’s your story, Miuccia?”

  I must look confused because the fiery redhead laughs in a way that was, for once, with me, not at me. Then points to my bag. “Prada.”

  “Oh, this?” I pick up the bag Autumn had snatched up for me.

  Again, she laughs. “Yeah that. Vintage Prada? You one of the richies?” She nods to the couture crew at a table across the room.

  “More of a lucky.” I force a smile, and now she looks confused. “Beacon’s Closet find.”

  “No shit?” She grins.

  “Nope,” I shrug.

  “So, you’re here because you actually love fashion, and not because your daddy is in the business and needs to hand it down to someone?”

  “Pfft, in my dreams.”

  “You’re in my Lit and Chem class. You actually answered questions. You smart?”

  How does one answer that? I decide on a shrug.

  “Well, if you don’t mind being with the freaks, meaning those of us who are actually here because we eat and breathe this shit, we don’t mind having a geek hang with us.” She nods to a table full of eclectic looking people and the freak behind the makeup in me can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy.

  I found my people immediately, via Stella McCarty. They were the ‘freaks,’ and they needed a ‘geek’. I happily filled that spot.

  I was gladly sitting with my people, the ‘freaks and geeks’ during lunch, and not the library like in previous years at my other schools. I was enjoying a time period I’d previously dreaded when I saw him– Aaron Esposito. He was everything penned on my ever-growing list of physical traits I desired in a man in the red leather journal Autumn had given me.

  Physically, he was perfect. Zayne Malik classy long top Pillow Talk hair… but not platinum blond like the video, jet black. His eyes are crystal blue, he’s at least four inches taller than my five-foot five frame, soft yet firm features, not broad or square. His smooth shaved skin is perfect, so perfect. Aaron’s not too thin, but not a gym or jock type. His clothes, pants, khakis, not jeans, his shirts are button downs with crisp white tees beneath, not just tees with an overused slogan, and his shoes, oh good lord, his shoes… leather loafers.

  Perfection.

  So perfect, in fact, I spend the entire year using him as my muse for every masculine design I sketch, and I never drew men’s attire before… ever.

  When I wasn’t in my head, I was spending time with actual friends.

  Friends who loved shopping at the finest thrift stores New York City had to offer. The East Village became a regular after-school run. Our place to score.

  Cure Thrift Shop, Buffalo Exchange, AuH2O Thriftique were just a few of our favorites.

  Friends I attended a few movies with, plus some mandatory and some non-compulsory fashion shows. I, of course, was the quiet one.

  Friends.

  Imagining who my small group of friends would someday become was easy. Stella McCarty would be the next Betsey Johnson or Kate Spade, day dependent, of course. Betsey’s brand was ever changing and bold. She used bright colors, her aesthetic would be bold and rocker-ish. Kate was known for her modern, sleek and vibrant designs in rainbows of colors.

  My friend Tyler’s aesthetic– Jean-Paul Gaultier. Sensual yet irreverent to the specific sexes. He turned his nose up at gender roles, embracing androgyny.

  Jenny seemed almost misplaced in our group. I’d liken her to Daphne Guinness, extravagant and couture.

  Jamal was Sean Combs, the mastermind behind Sean John. And yes, he sings.

  Elijah’s design style reminded me of John Varvatos, whose inspiration comes from his love of rock and roll. Less the artists, more the concert goers.

  Me, I’m in love with so many fashion designers. Coco Chanel, Donna Karan, Donatella Versace, Valentino Garavani, just to name a few.

  Being the ‘quiet one’ has also made me the unspoken keeper of all the secrets.

  I know Stella with her jet-black hair, brown eyes, and a ton of dark makeup, but loud, colorful clothing, had a crush on Tyler. Tyler was platinum blond and wore all black; he had a crush on Jenny and Jamal. Jenny and Jamal, from what I have seen, were total couple goals. I’ve even ‘shipped them as Jemy. They both wear glasses, although I suspect it’s more a couple’s thing than a vision thing, since they also seem to coordinate clothes on the daily. Elijah is tall with dark auburn hair and striking green eyes. He acts like he’s high all the time, although I’d never seen him partake.

  Out of all the things we did together at school and outside of school, I preferred the mandatory events. During most of which we humble students played gopher to whoever’s design team owned the runway that evening. It always started out organized, and then once the show began, madness ensued. To someone like me, who thrives on organization, this should have sent me into a panic.
Oddly, it was inspirational, and I was quickly swept into the beauty I knew would come from the differences.

  The summer was full of art classes and day camps. It worked out great. Mom and I would ride in together, often have lunch together, and come home on the subway together.

  We spent most nights watching movies while making lists. More specifically, I made lists and Mom watched me write them, non-judgmentally.

  “I think these lists are magical, Mom.”

  “Aaron Esposito?”

  “If you write them, they will come.”

  Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, and her jaw just about hit the hardwood floor. I immediately palmed my face, “Not like that!”

  “Not like what?” she gasped.

  “Oh come on, Mom, I’m seventeen, close to eighteen, a senior, a virgin, who's never been kissed. But I still know how that statement could have been taken.”

  She let out a long sigh, “You’re a beautiful, smart, young woman, Natasha. Make all the lists. Imagine all the possibilities, but continue being present. And promise me you’ll take all the time needed to get to your happy ever after.”

  I don’t know why this made me emotional, but it did. It hit me when I hugged her. “Only if you do too, Mom. I have a year before I’m off to college. If I’m going to be present, you should be too.”

  She let out a silent laugh and agreed with a simple, “Okay.”

  The first week of my senior year I was again, happily sitting at the lunch table with my people, the freaks and geeks, a smile, and the new-found ability of not looking around and wondering who is judging me. I was being present.

  When Mademoiselle Acord stopped by the table, commended me on being first in my class, and asked that I take on tutoring a few students who needed extra help this year, I smiled and said, “Yes.”

  “You’ll be compensated.” Her lips, generally in a line, quirked up a bit.

  Compensated? I thought.

  Stella nudged me, “That’s awesome.”