CHAPTER ONE
Minnie
“Minnie?”
Dad’s voice got louder and harder to ignore. The hoarse tone that had trailed me since childhood started to go up in volume, and now it was accompanied with muffled banging on my bedroom door.
Sighing, I yanked out the earbuds and set my iPad aside to face the nagging of my only parent. Sure enough, the door opened to reveal Patrick’s face, puffy and red.
But Dad is always mad at me for some reason or other. This wasn’t anything new. My eyebrows rose in response.
“What’s wrong?” came my patient tone. “What’s going on Dad? Is everything okay?”
But I already knew what was up. Dina had texted me that our grades were out, mailed home in specially sealed envelopes. And sure enough, the portly man shoved a white paper into my face.
“Explain this to me, Minnie Evans,” he rasped, face almost purple with rage. “Explain to me why you’ve been getting C’s and D’s and not straight A’s. I put you in a good school with the best teachers and this is what you do?” he roared, eyes bulging.
I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments. I hated how he always brought up my grades. Pat made it seem like I’d committed some kind of heinous crime, like murder or arson. In fact, I suffer from dyslexia, p’s turning themselves into q’s, letters literally swimming before my eyes sometimes.
So I took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry Pat. I did my best, but you know that reading can be hard for me. Even numbers are difficult, they seem to dissolve and then re-form as squiggly lines.”
The man snorted in disbelief.
“That dyslexia shit again?” he scoffed. “Please that crap is made up. Don’t tell me you have ADHD too. Just. Pay. Attention,” he barked, waving the paper around wildly again.
I’ve been through this a thousand times now. ADHD and dyslexia are real, they’re not made-up ailments pulled from thin air. Besides, how would I fake it? And why would someone do this to themselves? It’s no fun to struggle every day, looking like an idiot again and again. It’s pure torture in fact, enough to make tears spring to my eyes.
But there’s no way to get this across to my father. I’ve tried to explain again and again, only to come up against hard, unyielding concrete. So hanging my head, I went another route.
“Sorry,” was my low mumble. “Next time.”
Unfortunately, my dad continued to rage.
“These grades aren’t going to get you into any college, Minnie,” he thundered. “What then? You think I’m going to support you? You’re going to end up in the gutter!” he spat.
I sighed. We’ve been over this before. College isn’t my thing, and I’d explained it over and over again. But as always, my voice fell on deaf ears.
“Dad, please calm down okay? I tried as hard as I could. I did all my homework and turned in all my projects. I studied, but my brain can’t pull off straight A’s. This is as good as it gets, I’m sorry.”
His face pulled into a disbelieving grimace.
“Well then try harder, Minnie,” came that hoarse rasp, shaking his head. “It’s because you’re not using your potential. It’s because you’re so focused on those stupid makeovers.”
Pain lanced through my heart, swift and hot.
“It’s not stupid, Dad,” I managed in a calm voice, despite the fact that my stomach writhed with snakes inside. “It’s something I love to do.”
“Your mother loved it too, and look where that left us,” the man spat. The comment stung because my mother abandoned us long ago, running off with our next-door neighbor. The memory was painful even now, years later.
But life is life, and shit happens sometimes. After all, Dad loved Elaine, I could testify to that. And he didn’t ask for this either. I remembered how he used to randomly bring her flowers or sweets when she was working late at the beauty salon.
But I also remembered the night I found out Elaine had left us. The memory was crystal clear in my mind, filled with sharp edges and jagged shards. I’d come home from a football game, the house quiet and still.
“Mom?” I asked, peering into the dark. “Elaine?”
Maybe she’d fallen asleep early, although it was only just past nine. But as I inched closer to our living room, my foot bumped into something. An object rolled and there was a light thud. Suddenly the lights flew on overhead, blinding and harsh.
Because Pat was sitting on the couch. Bottles of beer surrounded him as he gazed my way, eyes bloodshot. He was still in his work clothes, tie hanging askew over a rumpled work shirt.
“Hey,” I began cautiously. “Where’s Mom?”
The question set off a trigger, and suddenly Pat hurled a bottle against the wall, glass shattering with green shards flying everywhere.
“Elaine? That bitch? Your fucking mom left. Ran off with that asshole next door, Thomas Markle. What the fuck does she see in a sixty-five year old troll is her goddamn business. But that good for nothing wench took half the money in our savings account.” He hurled another bottle, making me duck and wince, heart pounding. “Fucking cow!”
I was shaking and didn’t completely understand.
“She’s gone? Elaine’s gone? Just like that?”
Pat slammed another beer bottle on the coffee table. “What the hell did I do wrong? I gave her everything. Everything she wanted. That shop. Tuition money for you. Every goddamn wish was granted by me. Me! And there she was all along, sleeping with that prick of a neighbor behind my back.”
My heart clenched and I could barely breathe. “I can’t believe this.”
My father glared at the ceiling. “It’s just us now, Minnie. Just the two of us.”
I nodded slowly, a lump in my throat. Because Elaine Evans wasn’t exactly the epitome of a perfect mother. She was almost always too busy with her salon to attend to Dad or me. As much as Mom acted like she was the nurturing and caring mother figure, it wasn’t her forte. But I loved the woman just the same. I loved her for the fact that she introduced me to the world of eyeshadows and lipsticks, that she nurtured my creative soul. It was the only thing we had in common.
Because when I was young Elaine had let me play with cheap makeup from the drugstore, and I’d relished it. When most kids my age begged for dollhouses and Barbies, I asked my mother to buy me a makeup kit. And as the years rolled by, I mastered the art of transforming people through the power of cosmetics.
But what my mother had done to my father was a thing I paid for all the time. And I was paying for it the day that Pat got my report card.
“What the fuck is up with these grades?” he shouted, face purple and bloated. “You dumb shit!”
I kept my cool.
“I’m not Elaine, Dad,” were my words, voice quiet but loud enough to cut through the tension that hung in the air. “I’m not her.”
The sharp look from Dad said otherwise. My mother was a voluptuous woman. She had curves in all the right places, and the generous size of her breasts and ass always made men look twice. The fiery red hair and the seductive hazel eyes were straight out of the book of seduction. Fortunately or unfortunately, I inherited all those assets as well. Down to the Double Ds that made every shirt and blouse strain tight.
But Pat didn’t say a word. Instead, he jerked a pamphlet out from his coat jacket and threw it on the floor before leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Staring down, my eyes tried to focus on the paper. Luscious green hills and a glistening lake winked at me from the stiff paper brochure. Admittedly, it was enticing. It had its allure, that much I could say, but the content of its words told me that it was meant for students who needed discipline. Forest Hills, a reform school for troubled teens.
Except I wasn’t a troubled teen.
I just wasn’t great at school because of my learning disabilities.
That’s not a crime, is it?
But Dad hated me. He hated my love of make-up, hated how I learned how to use a brush on my face but never knew how to hit the books.
So I sat stiffly in my room, head held high, as dignified as possible. Picking up my phone, I dialed Dina’s number. Thankfully, she answered immediately.
“Hey, how’s it going?” came that chirpy voice.
I took a deep, shaky breath. Dina was my oldest friend, and she’s always been my number one fan when it comes to make-up, letting me use her as a guinea pig countless times.
I dropped the bomb on her.
“Dad wants to put me into a reform school.”
Dina’s gasp was swift and loud.
“He’s making you leave me? What about our children?”
I laughed at my bud’s corny joke.
“No, I’m serious Deen. He wants to lock me up in a reform school for troubled teens. I didn’t know that being passionate about something made you into some kind of criminal,” was my bitter reply. “It’s make-up for crying out loud. I’m not selling drugs or stealing from people.”
Dina let out a short chuckle. “Pat just wants you to get into a good college. You know, like he went to.”
I sighed.
“I don’t think any of the fancy colleges offer degrees for cosmetics,” I replied, shaking my head. “Plus, it’s surprising that Pat cares that much about my future.”
She laughed.
“Well, duh, he is your Dad.”
I scoffed. Pat has never acted like my Dad. Well, he did, earlier in life, before Elaine left. But in the last few years, there’s been crazy tension. He could barely look at me most days, like I was a leper. I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong, or why he suddenly hated me. And it’s only been getting worse. Why though? What’s changed?
Because now, the only time Pat actually acknowledges me is when something goes awry. Go figure. I was an easy target, a sitting duck in his house, waiting to be cut down.
So I took a deep breath.
“Yeah, Pat’s my dad. I get it. He wants what’s best for me,” I said through clenched teeth, not believing the line. “But why does he care? The man barely pays attention to my life. So why does it matter what grades I get or what I want to do with my future?” I asked, playing with a strand of my hair.
Dina was silent for a moment, thinking. But evidently there were no answers because my buddy merely responded with a question.
“What’s this reform school he’s sending you too?” she asked carefully.
My heart sank. Reality was here. If Pat wanted me to go somewhere, they there was no choice. I was only eighteen, and he paid the bills around the house. So my fingers flipped quickly through the pamphlet.
“It’s called Forest Hills in upstate New York,” I answered. “The brochure makes it look amazing, but I think it’s a prison. It must be a false advertising, no reform school is this beautiful. I bet they photoshopped stuff to look less jail-like.”
I could hear faint typing from Dina’s side of the line as she surfed online.
“Wow. This place does look amazing. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just a facade, but damn do they know how to market.”
I sighed.
“I don’t want to go there, Deen,” were my sad words.
“Then tell your Dad that, silly,” came her quick reply.
“Don’t you think I did that?” I closed my eyes, hopelessness washing over my frame.
“I’m sure you didn’t say it straight up,” Dina says stoutly. “Show him the pictures of the girls you did for homecoming. Margaret went from clownish to stunning! Even Renee looked good, and she never even wears make up. Tell Pat how everyone in school gushes about your talent. Hell, even the teachers do,” she reminded me.
I could tell him all those things, but let’s be real. Pat wasn’t going to listen. He never does. I’ve tried countless times.
Because there’s been nasty fight after nasty fight about my hobby, and Pat wasn’t above a knock down drag out confrontation. In fact, he wasn’t above hitting me straight up. I remembered our last scuffle, which had me covering my bruises with make-up for a week.
“Minnie! Minerva!” Dad had screamed from behind my bedroom door.
And this time when I opened it, Pat was almost unrecognizable, eyes bulging and frothing at the mouth. He waved a credit card bill in my face, the pages flapping angrily.
“Explain to me why you just decided to buy $500 worth of those stupid powders?”
“I’ll pay you back, Pat,” were my soothing words. “As soon as I get some money. I’m doing makeup tutorials on-line, and didn’t have enough to buy all the tools I needed.”
“Pay me back? PAY. ME. BACK?” he enunciated every word. The surly man glared at me harshly. “You’re stopping this whole crazy idea, Minnie. Right now.”
“No!” I argued. I had just started. I had gotten good feedback from viewers on-line. Some were already asking for my advice. I was becoming a makeup guru. Things were promising, and what made it even better were the potential opportunities.
So I had to take a stand.
“Dad please, this is something I love to do.”
“And it is something that will lead you nowhere in life, Minnie,” he raged back.
I shook my head. “You’re not stopping me from doing this. I’m not going to stop. This is something I want to do. If this is about Elaine, if you’re still bitter over the fact that Mom left you, then that’s your problem. You are not allowed to stop me from making my dream come true just because my mother had the same interests. You do not make the calls in my life, hear?”
His hand flew so fast that it was a blur. A harsh crack sounded out, and my head snapped painfully to the left. Gasping, I stared at my father. But there wasn’t an ounce of regret or remorse on his face. He didn’t care that he had just physically struck a woman, his daughter no less.
Pat merely grabbed my shirt and pulled me close, eyes glinting dangerously.
“Never mention that whore to me again,” was his harsh rasp. “That woman was a nasty slut, and I can’t believe she’s your mom.”
My heart dropped. I’d been physically harmed. So much that the taste of warm blood ran in my mouth, salty and metallic. And yet my father didn’t care. He’s never able to see past Elaine, and unfortunately, I was a constant reminder of the woman who left him. So with tears in my eyes, I turned back to my friend.
“I don’t think he’ll ever understand,” was my halfhearted murmur, tucking the memories into the back of my mind. They were painful even now, and I hated remembering them, resentment building in my chest.
“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” came Dina’s hopeful reply. “Look, I gotta go, okay Min? Call me when you’ve shown Pat the pics of the girls that you did for Homecoming. I’m sure it’ll open his eyes, and he won’t make you leave me. Ciao for now.”
Dina clicked off, and I threw my phone onto my comforter, flopping down onto the bed. Dad would never understand how much I wanted to be a beautician. Sitting up and searching for my laptop, I opened one of my tutorial videos.
My voice filled the room as I instructed the viewer on how to achieve an everyday, simple look. I scrolled downwards and looked through the comments section. Seeing all the rave reviews, a sigh escaped my lips. That was it. I wasn’t going to this Forest Hills place without one more last fight.
“Dad?” I tiptoed into his office.
Pat glanced up from his padded leather chair. His office was slightly dim, the glow of his laptop the only source of light.
“What do you want?” the sharpness in his tone made me cautious. Because after Mom left, I never saw the father who talked to me softly and reassured me that monsters didn’t live in my closet. That guy was long gone.
“Pat, I don’t want to go to Forest Hills,” came my firm voice.
He tilted his head to the side, dark eyes scanning my profile. But that low voice was smooth for once, instead of its usual anguished howl.
“If you can give me a good reason, Minnie, then I might listen.” This was a dangerous bargain. Because there were no good reasons when it came to Pat Evans. His word was the law in our household. But still, I had to try.
Taking a deep breath, the words came out in a tumble.
“I’m your daughter and I just happen to want to be a beautician, but it’s not because I want to be like Mom. Her only part in this dream was introducing me into that world, but it’s my choice. Do you hear me? My choice.”
The flabby man made a grumbling sound before picking up a bottle of beer. “Your choice,” he grunted.
Ignoring him, I went on.
“And I’m really good at it, Dad.” I pulled out my cellphone and showed him the pictures of the girls whose makeup I had done for homecoming. “Ten girls wanted me to help them get ready for a formal event, Dad. More than just ten girls wanted me, to be honest, but I couldn’t cater to all of them. Plus, I put up this tutorial video on Youtube and look at these comments. I’ve earned a lot more praises from strangers than insults from bashers. It’s more than just layering someone’s face with powder. It’s about finding the right shade of color for their eyes and making them pop. It’s about looking for the perfect lipstick that doesn’t clash with an outfit. It’s art.”
I was momentarily brought back to the first moment I held a makeup brush, the first moment I layered my mother’s face with powder. The memories were bittersweet.
“Here, hon, this is the perfect shade for me.” Mom pointed at the rose color on the palette. She handed me her brush and then gestured to her perfectly angled cheekbones, motioning to the side of her head with a warm smile. “That’s how you put the right blush on someone. Follow their natural bone structure. Never in a circular motion, it’ll make them look like a clown.”
“Lemme try, Mom!” I was so excited as I dipped my brush hastily on the palette and then placed the tip on my mother’s perfectly sculpted cheeks and lightly brushed it on, grinning when it was done. “You look pretty now, Mom!”
Elaine laughed when she caught her reflection in the mirror. “It’s too dark, hon. But I like your style. Perfect, sweetheart, just perfect.”
But this was no time for memories. So putting Elaine out of my head, I focused on getting Pat to see my side of things.
“It’s what I love to do, Dad. And in school, they’re always talking about doing something you’re passionate about. Follow your passion because then it’ll never feel like work for you.” My father’s expression remained neutral but I forged on. “It’s what I want to do with my life, Dad. It really is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
He didn’t say anything, instead slowly standing up. I couldn’t help but hope that my speech moved him and he’d tell me Forest Hills was off. But the look on his face spoke otherwise.
“No.”
That one word made my heart sink. When I looked at my dad again, there was anger in his eyes. The paunchy man was livid.
“With all you’ve said, you’ve just made it clear to me that I do have to send you to that school, Minnie. Being a beautician won’t get you anywhere.”
“But Dad, Forest Hills is for troubled girls! I don’t belong there!” was my protest. Desperation bubbled up inside, making my chest go tight. “Dad, I do everything that you want me to. What else do you want?” was my plaintive cry.
He pinched his brow, glaring.
“You didn’t get good grades, Minnie,” came that dead voice. “Cs and Ds mostly.”
But he was missing the point.
“Dad, I’m not meant for college,” I told him slowly, my voice cracking. “Some people just aren’t. I’m not meant for an office job. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
But his reply was fast and furious.
“Because your head is too wrapped up in that stupid dream of becoming a beautician. Hell, that’s not even a dream, Minnie! Who wants that these days? Art? Please,” he scoffed. “It’s just another way of saying ‘on the dole.’”
The mean words took my breath away. Art doesn’t pay well, but that didn’t mean I was going to be on welfare. His judgment was harsh and totally undeserved.
“Dad, please, don’t do this,” came my pleading voice. At this point, there wasn’t another route. I was willing to do anything to avoid reform school. “I’m not even troubled. How can you send your only daughter to a military school for truant teens when I don’t have those problems? I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink. I’ve never committed a crime. What did I do to deserve this?”
But Pat’s judgment was harsh.
“You’re worse,” he snarled angrily. “You don’t have a dream. You just have a hobby that you think will pay the bills one day,” he spat.
And my heart broke with his words. Becoming a professional aesthetician was the only dream I ever had, but the man didn’t care.
“You’re wrong about that. I could make a name for myself. I’ll prove you wrong,” was my soft reply.
Pat snorted derisively.
“You can’t even get a B in class. Your report card just shows me that you’re turning out to be just like your mother. You know she didn’t even finish high school.” He shook his head.
Silence for a moment.
“I will prove you wrong,” was my slow promise. “I’ll make something of myself. I’m not like Mom.”
But it was no use. Pat laughed mirthlessly, his lips turning up at the corners. But there was no corresponding sparkle in those cold blue eyes. And then it happened. The man whipped out his phone and made the call right in front of me.
“Ah, Headmaster Thorn! Remember that talk we had earlier. About my daughter, yes. Yes. I’m sending her in tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
What?
I wasn’t ready!
This wasn’t fair!
But there was no choice. I’m a teen girl, a senior in high school and totally dependent on Pat Evans. My dream of being an aesthetician was a long ways off, and frankly, the man was right. At this stage, it was just a dream. So reform school was my future for now … and there was nothing I could do but try my best to survive.