5. Luna
The shout of my name from downstairs startles me midapplication of my lipstick, and a line of it jumps past my lips.
Dang it.
I reach across the sink’s sleek granite for my makeup wipes, my elbow knocking my latest library book into the basin.
Ugh, Luna.
I roll my eyes at myself and pick the book out of the bowl. Then, letting out a breath, I open my bathroom door to hear my mamma better. She refuses to come upstairs to talk to us. When she needs something, she shouts.
“Get your sister and be downstairs in twenty minutes!”
Today’s the day. I’m picking out my wedding dress. It’s the day most little girls dream about while dressing up their dolls, with the Dream House Castle in the background. Prince Charming waiting at the end of the aisle.
I only ever had that dream once.
When I was seventeen, Alessio, a young guard of my father’s caught my eye. He was handsome and alluring, stealing glances at me whenever he was around. His attention, along with the forbidden aspect of it all, had me seeking him out.
We’d meet late at night, talking about the day or the world outside the estate. He was older than me—twenty-one—and I will never forget how intriguing he was. His lingering looks and stolen touches in the shadows. A mafia guard taking an interest in me was thrilling and I succumbed to my infatuation, giving him a piece of me I’ll never get back. I thought he loved me. Wanted only me.
It wasn’t long after we began that my father found out and promptly put a stop to it—with a bullet to his head.
Alessio was a choice my father killed, and with this arranged marriage, he’s now managed to kill again.
The thought of trying on wedding dresses with my mother in the same room—a shudder runs through my body. I’m not overweight, but I’ve always had curves, and my full hips and chest always seem to bother her. Comments about my figure are bound to happen today, and I’m not in the mood.
But despite all that, excitement is running through me, because today we’re going to the city. New York is two hours away, and I’ve only been there a couple of times when I was younger. Keeping my sister and I hidden away on the estate was my father’s way of keeping us from Antonio’s restaurants and his dealings.
If I can make quick work of trying on dresses, then after lunch I have plans to visit the largest bookstore in the city.
I choose a simple floral knee-length dress and a bright yellow cardigan, and decide to leave my hair down. I stare at myself in the bedroom mirror. The light in my eyes is dull. Not reflective of my outfit at all.
Just get through today, I tell myself before running back into the bathroom to grab my book and marching down the hallway to my sister’s room. I knock, but there’s no answer.
“Bella,” I call out, “Mom wants us downstairs.”
Still nothing.
I open the door to peek inside.
Isabella’s room is starkly different from mine. It looks like Lisa Frank threw up in here. The walls are light pink, and clothes are flung all over the floor. Her bed is one of those large canopy beds, the duvet a soft yellow with pink and orange throw pillows. Two nightstands flank each side, both with lamps, but only the left side is lit.
I sigh and turn, figuring she must be downstairs already, but a noise stops me in my tracks. Retching sounds, followed by some coughing, come from her ensuite bathroom. I take a few steps into the room, stopping when I hear her again. A concerned pang in my chest has me moving faster toward the door.
I knock. “Bella?” I whisper. “You all right?”
There’s no answer, but the toilet flushes, and the sink turns on. More coughing prompts me to open the door, and I gasp.
Bella is leaning against the vanity counter, half laying over the running sink. Thick mascara bleeds down under her bloodshot eyes, painting the bluish skin around them black, and tears run through smudged makeup. Her bustier pushes her breasts up; I follow it down to her pierced belly button and the tight leather leggings hugging her teenage curves. One foot is still in a red stiletto, the other bare and dirty.
“Don’t judge me, Luna,” my sister’s voice croaks, disrupting my perusal of her disheveled state. I lean closer, noticing the smell of alcohol-laced vomit mixed with a note of something earthy and herbal.
“Damn it, Bella, have you been smoking again?”
She winces and grabs her head. “Not so loud, Lu,” she says. The use of my nickname softens my anger. She hasn’t called me that in forever. Of all the days.
“Where did you go last night, Bella? You’re only seventeen. You can’t be doing this again.” Fear grips my insides. If our father finds out?—
I know from firsthand experience that anyone he deems a bad influence will be eliminated. But more than that, this is not how I want my sister to be living. She’s young, with a full life ahead of her. She should be focusing on school and uplifting friendships, not this.
“I went out with some friends and a few men we were introduced to last week. Honestly, Luna, it wasn’t a big deal. I just had a bit too much.”
Already the attitude is falling into place and her nose is figuratively rising into the air. We haven’t been close in years, but it still breaks my heart to see the beautiful girl I used to know, who would light up over butterflies and giggle during church mass, have nights like these.
“Okay,” I say, my voice hushed. “Mom is waiting for us downstairs.”
Turning off the sink, I grab a washcloth from the cabinet. I offer it with a soft smile while her eyes glare at me. I sigh and turn to the door.
A hand grips my elbow, pulling at me. Bella’s face has gone pale, and her hard eyes have become pleading.
“Don’t tell Dad,” she begs. “Please.”
I place a hand on hers, giving it a small squeeze in silent communication.
My mother is waiting at the bottom of the staircase, tapping her foot with impatience. She’s wearing a cream jumpsuit with nude pumps, giving her petite frame some height. Her face is perfect, makeup done with precision. It’s early in the morning—the early rise is needed if we are going to spend a full day in the city. My mother always enjoys getting out, so hopefully her demeanor will change for the better.
“Where is your sister?” she asks, her tone clipped and irritated.
“She’s coming.”
I peek at her. Her gaze is pinned on my floral dress. This isn’t something she would pick, and in the sea of neutrals in my closet, this was the one dress that allowed me to rebel—in my own way.
Ten minutes later, my sister bounds down the stairs in a beautiful black dress and kitten heels. Her once tangled hair, snarled around her face and caught in her hoop earrings, has now been pulled back into a slick bun. Her earrings have been replaced with pearl studs. My mother looks over her outfit and smiles. “Very good, let’s go. These dresses won’t try on themselves.”
The revolving door to the wedding dress boutique slams to a halt right before I make it all the way through. I push and pull, garnishing attention from both sides of the door. People look as they pass on the sidewalk and my family all stare back at me like I’m a monkey in a zoo. Finally, the door begins to move again, and for a moment I’m relieved to be inside. That is, until I remember where I am.
La Belle Robe Blanche, the name of the boutique, is scripted in glimmering gold leaf above a water wall feature. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the soft, muted creams and golds of the boutique’s palette. Gowns are displayed on mannequins in the glass window cases, and many more are woven throughout the spacious showroom floor. There’s plush seating spread out surrounding small platforms where brides are trying on their dresses.
The wedding planner told my mom this boutique is known for its exclusivity and exceptional service. Consultants rush around refining the bridal attire and catering to each bride’s vision for their special day. Many of the brides’ guests have champagne flutes in their hands and refreshments in their seating areas. I’m overwhelmed, and I’ve only just walked in.
An older woman, around my mother’s age, approaches our party. “Ah, the Buscetta party, how are you? My name is Lisa, and I’ll be working with you today.” She smiles, clapping her hands together. “Where is the lovely bride?”
My sister betrays me by gesturing in my direction. I peek out from behind my two aunts—my mother’s sisters, who also married into the Cosa Nostra—to offer a small wave, then wipe my hands on my thighs. My throat feels too tight to swallow.
“I have a list of all the dresses we want to try on,” my mother speaks up, shuffling through her purse. “Yes, here they are.”
Beaming, she hands her phone to the consultant. They exchange a few words, going over the list of dresses I haven’t even seen myself before Lisa ushers us over to our private area.
Before I know it, I’m dumped into a fitting room adorned with full-length mirrors and luxurious furnishings. Lisa arranges for the six dresses on my mom’s list to be brought in, along with some options should we choose a custom design. However, with the timeline for the wedding, my mother informed me custom is not an option. Figures.
Each dress has been meticulously crafted, and they are all beautiful. Luxury fabrics, delicate lace work, intricate beading, and other small details show each designer’s artistry. But though I’m surrounded by beauty, I can’t help but feel ugly deep down. This show of trying on dresses is just that—all a show.
Lisa helps me into the first dress. It’s a strapless ball-gown style. The full, voluminous skirt flares dramatically and buries any sign of my curved hips. The top has some light beadwork, and a lace tie wraps around the middle. I look like I’m drowning in fabric, but it’s at the top of my mom’s list. I have no choice but to try it on.
Lisa helps me out the door and leads me to the private area where everyone is seated. They’re all laughing, enjoying petit four cakes and glasses of champagne. Once on the platform, I turn to the large mirrors, all propped in a semicircle to get the best angle, and flush at the sight of myself in a wedding gown for the first time.
Chatter erupts all around me. My mother and aunts circle the platform, pulling fabric and pointing out things to the consultant. My sister sits cross-legged on a tufted, circular settee, typing on her phone and stealing sips of drink while everyone is preoccupied.
“No, she looks like a marshmallow.” My mom’s voice cuts through the air, and I lower my head to pick at my nails.
“She needs something plunging. We can’t let Sal make her a nun,” my aunt says from in front of me.
“Yes, I agree,” my mom says. “Lisa, put her in the A-line.”
The consultant dips her head in a nod and pulls me off the platform.
Back in the dressing room, she helps me out of the ball gown, and I temporarily enjoy the freedom from the strangling silk before another dress is shoved over my head. This one is flattering on my figure, flaring from the bodice, but still offering a relaxed fit in my hips and thighs. I’m paraded out, once again, in front of everyone. After some argument over this option, I’m ripped back again and doused with another dress. It repeats over and over.
I can’t even process what Lisa says next; my head feels like it’s underwater.
“—like it?” she says, grasping my shoulders from behind and looking at me in the mirror’s reflection.
“What?” I ask.
“Do you like this one? It suits your shape and complexion. I wish I had your tan skin.”
She smiles at me as she gathers up the back of the dress, then opens the door to lead me out. This time when I step onto the platform, I do a double take at myself in the mirror.
The dress is boho style with a lace sweetheart bodice, and it’s decorated with crystal beadwork. A plunging neckline comes to just above my belly button, and free-flowing lace and tulle fabric grant me a free-spirited vibe. With my brown hair spilling around my shoulders and a light glow in my cheeks, this outing suddenly goes from innocent try on to reality. I suck in air; it catches in my lungs as I try to breathe.
“This is perfect,” my mother squeals, and my aunts applaud in unison. “We’ll do this one. Get this tailored, and make it a rush priority.” She walks around the platform, eyeing the dress. She has yet to look at me.
I glance in the mirror; not disappointed in the dress, but devastated at my circumstances.
Lisa calls in another lady who begins taking measurements and pinning the dress to me. I continue to stare straight ahead. Lips trained in a thin line, I watch the hustle and bustle around me like I’m looking in from another world. It isn’t me standing here, but a stranger.
The roaring in my ears filters out the noise around me. Despite the cold air wafting through the boutique, the atmosphere is stifling. I’m sweating, beads clinging to my upper lip. A prickling sensation stabs at me from behind my eyes as I realize I’m dying—conforming to someone who isn’t me. Any future for myself has been sold off.
Did you ever have one, though?
Back in the fitting room, Lisa helps take the dress off, and I’m left standing in my underwear, topless and alone. All the dresses have been removed. The only fabric left is my floral dress, which, in retrospect, was a pathetic attempt to assert myself.
I wrap my arms around my middle, tears trickling down my cheeks. My mouth hangs open in a silent scream. I’m begging someone, anyone—I don’t want this.
My legs start to shake and I lose feeling in my feet, collapsing to the ground. I tuck myself into a ball and bury my head in my knees. Soundlessly, I cry out until my mind is ringing and a headache blooms.
No one hears me.