A. C. Meyer
The right kind of wrong girl
Translated by Francine Ozaki
© 2019 - A.C. Meyer
Published by Tektime
The right kind of the wrong girl
The girls – Book 1
A.C. Meyer
Synopsis
Can love itself be stronger than the fear of loving?
Malu lives life at its fullest, as if each day were her last. Nothing seems to cause her courage or determination to falter. The only way she reveals fragility and sensitivity is through her delicate and intense art, as well as in the arms of Rafael – her best friend and safe place. This friendship brings up strong but, at the same time, frightening feelings – which both are unwilling to explore.
When desire overcomes reason, Malu and Rafa allow themselves to live a relationship with no restraints, but, at the same time, intense and passionate, which leads them through a roller coaster of emotions. Until the day fate sets a cruel trap ahead of them, so Malu must make a fatal and painful decision to protect the ones she loves.
The right kind of wrong girl
Copyright © 2019 by A. C. Meyer
Cover by: Luizyana Poletto
Translation: Francine Ozaki
All rights reserved and protected by Law 9.610 of 19/02/1998.
No part of this book, without the author's prior written permission, may be reproduced or transmitted whatever the means used: electronic, mechanical, photographic, recording or any other, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. Fonts used with Microsoft's permission.
Copyright infringement is a crime established by Law No. 9,610/98 and punished by Article 184 of the Penal Code.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination and fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or establishments is purely coincidental.
“In the end, everything will be alright, and if it’s not, that’s because it’s not the end yet.”
Fernando Sabino
To Sebastião Cantarino (in memoriam).
You left so quickly… and all that was left was longing.
Chapter one
“The wrong person must appear to everybody, because life is not right, nothing here is right.”
Luís Fernando Veríssimo
Malu
This is not the story about a princess who lived in a castle until, one day, she found prince charming, fell in love with him, and both lived happily ever, walking towards the sunset in a white horse. I’m not a princess, never was. That doesn’t mean that life hasn’t provided me with opportunities to be a little princess, on the contrary. I was born in a ‘conventional family’, so to speak. Conservative parents, traditional school. But I’ve always been the black sheep in this family, the one with colored hair and a shocking attitude. The one who smokes, drinks, swears and enjoys a bohemian life. The right kind of wrong girl. That girl mothers would never want as a daughter-in-law and boys don’t usually take home to introduce to their parents. That fun girl in the gang who is always ready for the next adventure.
Until that day when life knocked me down and made me realize that everything can change in a heartbeat.
It’s four o’clock on a Friday morning and I’m here, lying on this hospital bed. I look around and there’s Rafa, sitting on a chair right beside my bed, his eyes closed, immersed in a restless sleep. I can see his eyes surrounded by small dark circles, his unshaved hint of beard starting to show, his coat on the armrest. I watch him carefully: his brown hair, messed by fingers running through so many times; those expression lines on his eyes, which cause his eyes and lips to smile together, and on his cheeks, marking irresistible dimples. While I look at him, I realize how much his presence is important in my life and the only reason that I’m here, on this hospital bed, with all these things attached to me, is because of him.
Everything I wanted was taking that trip, at peace with whatever life prepared for me, but Rafa wouldn’t allow it. The only thing I needed to reconsider this decision was a shred of hope and that was exactly what I received.
To help you understand how things came to this point, we must go back about eight years in the past. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the first time I stepped into my college building. It was an extremely hot summer day, and the sun was burning. My neighbor and beer buddy Beto gave me a ride. Yes, I was only seventeen but already very fond of a night out. My friends used to say that I had an old, wise, and bohemian soul. I was in town for a bit more three months to study, guess what, Law. That was my last attempt to please my parents, who wouldn’t even consider the possibility of me not following the family career, since my father, uncles and grandparents worked in different Law fields.
Beto was a Social Communication student, a couple of semesters ahead of me, who lived in the apartment downstairs. He was the personification of every woman’s surfer boy dream, almost a walking cliché: sun-kissed and almost always messy blond hair; tanned skin; a dragon tattoo on his arm; an honest smile, and flip-flops on his feet. No matter where we went, he never wore shoes or sneakers: he used to say they hurt his feet. And, honestly, it was all part of his natural charm.
We left the car in a parking lot next to our campus. Beto’s old car clashed with most of the new ones from the playboys, as he used to call them, but he didn’t mind. He was in college as a promise to his mother, who died when he was fifteen. The only thing that really mattered to him, besides honoring his promises, was how good the waves were.
We headed to the majestic campus, which comprised five huge buildings and a whole world of people.
“Babe, that’s probably your building.” Beto showed me the construction a bit far ahead. “Mine is this first one. Are you okay?” he asked me, apparently worried, as if I was his little sister. Beto had always treated me as if I needed protection. That was just way he was, no romance from his behalf or anything like that.
“That’s ok, Beto. I’ll check the schedule I’ve printed. I’m sure the classroom numbers are written there.”
“Rad! See you after class then. If you have any problem, call me.”
“Cool,” I replied before heading to the building he showed me. After hanging out with him almost every day, I was sort of learning his surf slang and incorporating some things on my daily routine. I reached for my headphones in my pocket, and I put them on before walking through the campus, listening to rock music, and watching everybody around. There seemed to be all sorts of people: frat boys, bimbos, rockers, skaters and so on, which was good, because that made me feel less “different”, considering my unusual look.
My dark hair was asymmetrically cut, right above my shoulders, with purple tips. I was wearing jeans shorts, a black T-shirt showing the Brazilian rock band Legião Urbana and the drawing of a white guitar, sneakers and a backpack. I was sure that, if my mother could see me at that exact moment, she’d say I looked homeless. Overreacting much?
I reached for the printed piece of paper in my backpack. I was comparing the written classroom number and building name to the ones on the sign hanging from the building entrance, when a deep voice resonated behind me, which made all the hair in my body suddenly curl.
“Need help?”
I turned around to a vision that took my breath away. I wasn’t the type of girl who fell in love. I was more into hook-ups or, even better, single but not alone. I didn’t even believe in love, happily ever after or any of this shit. All I wanted to do was drinking, dancing and French-kissing. I still hadn’t had any sexual experience purely for lack of opportunity. The reason for that was simply the fact that the guys I used to date had never made me want to go any further, and not because I believed I had to save myself for the great love of my life, which I knew for a fact that was a likely story. But that guy standing in front of me was not like the other boys I knew. He was a man, in every sense of the word. His long hair was tied in a man-bun. His eyes were a shade of grey I’d never seen in my life. His brown skin, sun-tanned, contrasted with his bearded face and white-toothed smile. He was wearing a white T-shirt which hugged his body and washed-out jeans. Despite the bearded look and long hair, he didn’t seem sloppy, on the contrary. I shook my head, trying to organize my words.
“I was making sure my classroom is here.”
When he smiled, his expressions lines made his smile go all the up to his eyes.
“What is your course? Fashion design?” he asked me, looking at me from the bottom up. What a cliché!
“Law.” My answer came right away, which made him laugh.
“Another rebel! Welcome to the family!” he laughed and pointed out to the building. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”
I nodded, feeling thankful, but suddenly realizing that I’d lost the ability to speak merely by standing next to that handsome stranger. He walked me to the building, craning his neck to look at my piece of paper to read the classes I was going to take.
“Constitutional Law! Your classroom is right over there.” He pointed to classroom 101.
“Thanks,” I replied, and he smiled back at me.
“Rafael.” He introduced himself and offered his hand.
“Malu,” I replied taking his hand.
“I’ll see you around, Malu.” He smiled one more time and winked at me before he disappeared in hallway heading for another classroom.
And that was the place, at the first day of boring Law school, that I met the man who stole the heart that I didn’t even know I had.
Chapter two
“Silvering the horizon, rivers and fountains shine, in a cascade of light.”
Lulu Santos
Rafa
I keep walking straight ahead through the boardwalk, feeling the breeze coming from the sea. Starry night and warm weather: perfect for today’s plans. Almost ten o’clock on a Friday night. I’m a bit tired after hours on court watching hearings to complete my credits. Even though I’m dying to stay in bed after a hard-working week, missing Malu’s birthday party is not an option. She’s the youngest in our group, but by far the most fun. By the age of nineteen, Malu is the life of our parties and no deal is the same if she’s not there.
Beto has arranged a luau at the beach near my house and the celebration has no time to end. I’m pretty close to the meeting point when my phone rings.
“Yes?”
“Rafaaaa! Where are you?” Malu asks me right away with music playing in the background.
“I’m on my way, Malu. Almost there.” The sound of her laughter is enough to make me numb.
At the same time Malu makes me feel overprotective, due to her fearlessness and sometimes even rashness, some aspects of her personality fascinate me. Her sexy laughter, the way she looks at me when she is not sure about what I’m talking about, her skin as white as moonlight contrasting to her hair, which is always dyed in a different fashion. From time to time, she changes her look to one that is suitable to only her and no one else: her hair tips have already been purple, green and blue. By the two years we’ve known each other, her hair, originally black, has already been colored red, brown and even blond. She looks like a small chameleon, changing colors according to her “state of mind”, as she usually says herself, even though I’d prefer her natural dark hair. Deep inside, I believe all those changes has something to do with her artistic spirit, as our friends usually say.
“Okay, I’m waiting for you.” she says and then hangs up.
She’s a sophomore student at Law school, and I know how unhappy she feels. She’s in college to please her family, who couldn’t care less about her, instead of pursuing her passion and studying what she really loves: art.
When I arrive at the kiosk we settled as our meeting point, I can see people swarming around at the luau. There are about thirty people at the beach, chatting or eating snacks offered by the kiosk on an improvised table. Even from afar, I can see Malu next to Beto and Merreca, a college friend who got this nickname for always being broke and having almost no money in his pockets, as he usually claims – merreca means very little money in Portuguese. She’s wearing a loose white dress, with her bare feet touching the sand, dancing to a ballad someone’s playing on a guitar.
Her hair is waved, not her usual straight fashion, running loose through her back. I’ve never seen her hair as long as it is right now. It makes her look innocent, something that doesn’t suit her exuberant personality.
There’s only friendship going on between us. Since I first met her, looking lost in front of our college building on her first day of classes, I kind of adopted her and introduced her to my gang. We’re just friends, because I believe she’s too young for my twenty-two years of age. I’m at my senior year, preparing for my Bar examination and, even though she may arouse some reactions in my body, she’s too young.
I step on the sand and feel cold grains touching my feet. I quickly take off my flip-flops and leave them next to other guests who are gathered in a corner. I greet some people and head towards the birthday girl. As if she can feel my presence, she turns around and smiles at my sight. Her eyes are shining bright, her lips are red, and there’s a cigarette in her hand.
“Hey, young lady! Smoking already?” I come closer to see a sour expression on her face while she stretches her arms to hug me.
“When you talk like that, you make me look like I’m fourteen, instead of nineteen. I’m a woman, Rafa, not a young lady,” she replies frowning her forehead but then she laughs and presses her body against mine. Is it just me or she’s been showing some curves lately?
“Happy birthday, woman.” I tease her, making her laugh even more while she gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, handsome,” she replies winking an eye at me, while her hands caress my face where my beard used to be. “I miss your beard.”
I sigh at the memory of having my hair cut the year before because of work. I had it cut, but not much, only enough to look suitable for my career, even though I can still feel some wild locks of hair near my neck.
“Me too.” I smile and let go of her body, which was still against mine. I reach for her cigarette when something on her wrist catches my attention. After putting the cigarette in my mouth, I hold her inner wrist up high so I can look at it. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” she asks me while I look at the tattoo in her arm. An infinity symbol intertwined with a sentence from a Beatles’ song: You may say I’m a dreamer. “Oh! I had it done today. Do you like it?”
My eyes move from the drawing to her pretty face before I smile at her.
“It suits you.” She smiles back at me watching me take a drag on her cigarette. I don’t usually smoke, only when I go out to drink or when I’m feeling nervous. That day, I’m a bit of both. I’m certainly going to drink, but I also feel strangely restless feeling her body so close to me. She takes the cigarette out of my hands. “I’m going to talk to the guys and catch a beer,” I say, to which she nodded in agreement.
I say hello to the guitar guys and move away, heading to other friends who were already there. After I talk to everybody, I take a beer followed by Leo, my best friend.
“I don’t know how much further you’re going to resist this,” he says. I look at him curiously.
“Resist what?”
“This Lolita of yours,” he says laughing and looking at Malu, who’s dancing again.
“There’s nothing between us, dude.” I protest feeling downhearted. “We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh, I know… it’s crystal clear that she’s hitting on you and you’re into her.”
“She may turn me on, but she’s still growing up” I reply feeling my body react to the smooth swings of her hips as she dances. “But you know I don’t do dating nor want any of this shit.”
“Neither does she” Leo replies, making me nod in agreement. His words make me remember a conversation we’ve had, a couple of months before, when she told me about her parents’ fake marriage and her own lack of faith in love. “But that doesn’t mean you guys can’t hook up once in a while.”
Those words have an impact on me, stimulating a series of mental images that I have no idea where they came from. Our lips together on an urgent kiss, her naked body against mine. I shake my head trying to erase them from my mind. Bad idea, Rafael.
We change the subject when Cesar, a friend from the beach, arrives. The party is still going as the evening progresses. Malu spends the night going from group to group, talking to everybody, making everyone laugh and interact to each other. However, from time to time, as usual, we exchange looks, strokes, caresses. I can’t deny we have a strong connection. It’s like a magnetic field is always bringing us together.
By the end of the evening, I take her home, as I usually do when we go out together. I don’t like letting her go back by herself, especially at night. Malu’s absent-minded and always this close to let something happen to her because she’s not paying attention to any prospect of danger. We are pretty high on beers and capirinhas – a Brazilian national drink. Lucky us we live close to the beach, so we can walk home.
We walk through the neighborhood streets, holding hands, laughing and talking. Halfway through, she let go of my hand and hold me by the waist. Her soft and warm body makes her even more desirable to me.
“You didn’t even give me a gift, Rafa,” she says making a funny face.
“Your gift is at my place. I wouldn’t take it to the beach so you could lose after drinking too much, would I?” I reply, making her laugh even more.
“I’d never lose anything that came from you.”
We enter her building and take a lift to the seventh floor. There, I watch her while she gets down in front of her door, holds the doormat up, and takes a key from beneath it.
“What the hell?”
“What? My key…”
“Under the doormat? Fuck, Malu! Someone can find this key and get inside!”
“Better than taking it to the beach and losing it. Where was I supposed to keep it if I didn’t take any purse?”
“At the same place you kept your phone?” For the first time, I realize she doesn’t have any purse and her cellphone isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe she lost it? “Where’s your phone?”
“Right here.” She sticks her hand in her cleavage and pulls out her phone, which was hidden between her breasts. That vision wakes up my whole body and makes my breath even heavier.
“I don’t want you keeping your key down there anymore. You must take it with you. If you don’t have any purse, hold it in your hand until I get there. I’ll keep it in my pocket for you. Or ask anyone else you trust.”
“You’re too bossy. You don’t even kiss me but want to give me orders?” I can’t tell if it’s her daring tone, her raised eyebrow or the vision of her in that white dress. Maybe it’s mixture of all of that with a lot of caipirinhas that impels me take her by the waist, hold her in my arms and press her against the wall, stealing a passionate kiss from those red lips.
Waiting for no permission, my tongue invades her mouth, provoking, punishing and arousing her desire. I can feel her pressing her body against mine even more, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing me back.
I can’t tell how long we stayed there, lost on each other’s lips, until a low moan coming from her throat tells me it was time to stop what we’re doing. The next step would be going to bed and I know Malu has no experience. She told me that herself and I’m the right person for anybody’s first time. I move my lips away from hers and realize that I was holding her hair really tight and that her body completely pressed against mine.
“Don’t you ever leave your fucking key under the doormat again, Malu. Do you hear me?” My voice sounds low, irritable by the fact she’s not worried about her own safety, and hoarse by all the excitement from that kiss. She smiles and nods in agreement. I let go of her and take the key from her hands. When I open the door, I push her inside, handing the damn key back, strongly recommending her to close the door and lock it after I leave.
“Bye, Rafa.” She says good-bye leaning against the door, her lips swollen by that kiss.
“Happy birthday, nut-head.”
Chapter three
“My life used to be whisky, tears and cigarettes.”
Pink
Malu
When I arrive home, slamming the door after passing, I see my eyes on the mirror, surrounded by mascara smudges and puffy for crying so hard. That is the last time I shed tears for them. This bond is definitively broken after what happened today.
Going back home is always extremely hard. I don’t even know if I can call going to the house of those who brought me into the world as going home, since that big house has never been a real home for me. The Honorable Judge Eduardo Figueiroa Bragança and socialite Mrs. Lucia Bragança, a.k.a. my parents, are not the definition of real parents. They’ve been married for many years in a sort of family agreement, once they’re belong to the elite of our small hometown high society.
My parents’ house is a mansion that, for me, feels more like a dungeon. Impeccably arranged with everything exactly in the right place, that house is extremely oppressing for a free spirit like myself. My parents are cold, indifferent, distant. The only kisses and hugs I remember came from the nannies or housekeepers who, surreptitiously, tried their best to give me a normal childhood. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m so physically needy nowadays. I’m a tactile person, someone who likes taking, touching, holding, speaking through my hands and very fond of human affection.
When my brother, who’s two years younger than me, was born, I believed that finally I’d have someone to whom I could give all those things exploding in my chest. I figured he’d be someone to share feelings with me and be my friend. My mistake.
Eduardo Jr. – God forbid calling him Du, Dudu, Edu or any other nickname, which would mean the end of the world for him – is almost a small replica of my parents. He used to study very hard and, by the age of fifteen, he was admitted in one of the most applied to colleges in the country. All he wants is being a judge like my father, while I hate law and dream of studying and living from my art. Obviously, the perfect couple wouldn’t allow that. I had to come to Law school, with grades barely making through the semester and skipping more classes than watching. I feel trapped like a convict on the death row, who can’t catch a glimpse of solution to that problem.
In big city, I live in one of my parents’ properties and, obviously, they support me financially so I can graduate and, in the future, follow a career they’ve chosen for me.
Concurrently, I paint. As no one pays me a visit, I turned one of the bedrooms in an atelier where I spend hours and hours of my day finding happiness. I paint faces, landscapes, abstractions which come to mind while I sleep. As I must report my expanses and my parents would never allow me to spend money with dyes, canvases or brushes, I work at a bar in the evenings, waiting tables from Thursdays to Sundays, using the rest of the week to paint or, when I managed to get up early, to go to classes. I earn good money with tips, which allows me to invest in my art materials.
For obvious reasons, after some time with this busy life, my body has started to complain, as does my heart. I spend more time depressed than feeling good about myself, but I try my best to hide all the things that make my soul ache. Cigarettes are my major daily companion, and canvases, where I pour my heart in. However, for everyone else, I make a point of always expressing joy and not letting anyone see my pain.
The only one who knows me too well to let my feelings to pass overseen is Rafa. We’ve already been friends for four years, but he knows me better than I know myself. He hates my job at the bar, because he thinks the guys may take advantage of me, as if I were a fragile flower, something I’m not. I’m more of a Maleficent than a Snow White.
He knows about my love for the arts and my hatred for Law school. After some conversations about it, I managed to gather the courage to tell my parents that I’m changing majors in college. Rafa has already graduated and, without him there to support me, I know I can’t go through with Law school.
I wander around the house and go to my bedroom. Looking at a large mirror hanging in the wardrobe door, I see through that gloomy track of dark tears on my face, a purple bruise on my cheek. When I take off my checked long-sleeved shirt, I can see my pale skin ornated with tattoos, as well as the finger marks left by a tight grip. I also take off my jeans, standing only in my underwear in front of the mirror, to see the belt marks on my legs.
I close my eyes, but I can still hear their cries and curses. Tramp, bum, whore, those were some of the names he used to refer to me. I look at myself in the mirror, not recognizing that painful image standing in front of me. Tasting the blood in my mouth, I promise myself that this is the last time he mistreats me like this. I’ll never let him hit me again, physically or verbally.
Then, I go to the bathroom, seeking comfort in a hot shower, knowing that this is what I need to gather strength to act. I take about thirty minutes in the shower, allowing water to run through my long-dyed hair while I think about what I’m going to do next.
I get off the shower and call Tito, the manager at the bar where I work.
“Hi, Malu,” he says picking up.
“Hi, Tito. Sorry for the short notice, but I can’t make it tonight.”
“Are you still at your parents’?” he asks me, sounding truly worried.
“No, sweetie, I’m back already. But I’m not feeling well. I’m going to take a painkiller and lie down. Maybe I’m just tired after a long trip.” I reply hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions. I hate lies and I’d never be able to hide anything from him. Tito is probably fifty-something but sounds like a sixteen-year-old boy. Surfer, jokester and a good company, he’s a wonderful person and always treats me with the utmost respect. He gave me a job even though he knew I had no experience in bars besides drinking.
“So, rest, Little Malu. I’ll take care of everything here.”
I thank him and hang up, promising to take care of myself. After drying body and hair, I untangle my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. My hair is now platinum blond with dark roots, and long as never before. Before I have the chance to think, I take some scissors and cut them at neck length, pouring all my frustration on those long locks. I look back at my own reflection and realize that now my hair is uneven. My eyes, puffy and red for all the crying, added an even sadder look to my appearance. Damn.
Then, I go to the living room wrapped in my towel. I grab a whiskey bottle and I pour a generous dose on a glass, lighting a cigarette right after. Turning on some music, I sit down on the balcony chaise.
Amy Winehouse’s melancholy voice gets me lost in my thoughts until I’m brought back by the noise of the front door being opened and of someone calling my name.
“Where are you, Malu?” Rafa is the only one, besides me, who has the key to the apartment. I gave him a spare key when he started complaining about me shutting down from everything else when I paint, and he was left outside ringing the doorbell without being heard.
“Balcony,” I replied taking the glass to my lips and making no mention of getting up. I watch him carefully, realizing he’s even more handsome today than he ever was. Almost twenty-four years of age and working for a large Law firm, he barely resembles the boy I met on my first day of college. He is a man now. His body is stronger, improved by a blue shirt and jeans pants. His short hair and shaved face make him look all grown-up. The only things that haven’t changed are his intoxicating perfume and tanned skin. Rafa loved being outside and outdoor activities.
“I went to the bar and Tito said you were not working today. How did the conversation with your parents go?” He asks turning on the balcony lights while I take a drag from my half-finished cigarette.
“I need to move out,” I say without facing him. I don’t want to move a muscle, because my whole body hurts.
“Holy shit, Malu! What’s that on your face? What happened to your hair?” he asks clearly sounding alarmed. I reach for my uneven locks of hair while a single tear escapes from my eyes.
“I also need a hairdresser,” I reply turning my eyes back to the balcony skyline view. He comes closer, sitting right next to me. After he takes the empty glass out of my hands and puts out my cigarette, he holds me in his arms and lifts me up.
“Come on, I’ll take care of you,” he says in a low voice, taking me back inside the apartment. I snuggle up against his chest, allowing myself the relief of knowing that I’m not alone. Not completely.
Chapter four
“What defines us is how we rise after falling.”
John Hughes
Rafa
Finding Malu in that state feels like a punch to the gut. She is a complete mess: unevenly cut hair, swollen face, puffy eyes and a considerable purple bruise on her cheek.
I take her to her room, which looks like it was struck by a tornado: clothes everywhere, a suitcase thrown in a corner, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. I take her to bed, help her wear a T-shirt from her closet, taking off the wet towel she was wrapped in. She lies down curled in a fetal position and I cover her with a comforter. While she rests, I pick up her stuff from the floor, hang the wet towel and sweep off the hair from the bathroom floor. When everything is finally organized, I take off my shoes and lie down next to her on the bed, holding her in my arms.
Beyond desire, Malu brings up tenderness in me in a way nobody else can. Deep inside that strong and vibrant woman, there’s a little girl hidden, who hardly ever shows up.
Just the thought of what may have happened makes my heart bleed. She left home to visit her parents with no bruises on her face or anywhere on her body. Unfortunately, I must wait until tomorrow to find out.
I let my hand walk through her left arm, the one she uses to paint, caressing it lightly. When I reach her thin wrist, what I see brings a smile to my lips. There, pending on her hand, is my gift for her nineteenth birthday, which she hasn’t taken off since. Touching her wrist, I feel the cold metal from the bracelet from which two pendants hang. The first one is a silver paint palette with a small golden brush to remind her of never giving up on the art she loves so much. The second one is a joke of the fact she doesn’t believe in love: an adorable silver frog wearing a tiny golden crown representing what she usually says about men: there’s no prince charming – all men are frogs in disguise. I smile at the thought of, year after year, she hasn’t taken that bracelet off. That’s something representing our bond, which may be something beyond friendship… we’re almost a family, even if it’s a dysfunctional one.
Little by little, the sound of her breath becomes constant, indicating that Malu has fallen asleep. I get lost on the strawberry perfume on her hair, the soft touch of her small body close to mine and the constant movements of my thumb on her wrist. In a couple of minutes, I fall into a deep sleep.
****
Both the sunlight and a smell of coffee wake me up. I open my eyes to realize that I’m not on my own bed, but on Malu’s. I get up in a sudden jump, wear my pants, which was lying on an armchair, and follow that wonderful smell.
I expect to find Malu still a bit down, with tears in her eyes, but the woman who greets me in the kitchen is totally different. Her hair, cut in a complete uneven fashion, was wavy to hide the bad cut. Her face, wearing heavy makeup, doesn’t show any sadness or bruises. She’s wearing a short sleeved blue dress which let part of her arm tattoo exposed, as well as the black rose covering her left ankle and feet.
“Morning, honey.” She greets me with a peck on my lips, as she usually does, and a coffee mug.
“Morning,” I say, taking a sip. “How are you doing?”
She takes a deep breath and turns around to face me with a smile. I know she’s playing strong and I’m proud of her for not letting that event take her down.
“I’m doing fine. I need your help…” she begins walking towards the living room, follow by me.
“I wanna know what happened, Malu. And don’t even begin by saying it was nothing.”
She lets her head down, takes a deep breath and nods in agreement.
“I did everything as planned. I went there, explained that I’m not happy so I want to change majors, that there’s no way I can get through this shitty course they want me to take.” She begins her narrative, and I don’t interrupt her. “First, the Judge yelled at me. He said his money doesn’t grow on trees and I’m going to finish to course one way or another. When I said I wouldn’t, he jumped over me saying he wouldn’t take it.”
“Did he hit you?”
“Yeap. He gave me thirty days to find an apartment I can afford with my own money, since I’d never be able to afford a place like this. He suspended my allowance, my tuition and everything else. Oh, and he also said I’m a whore who doesn’t belong to that family anymore.”
“You’re not a whore” I replied feeling irritated.
“The first virgin whore in history” she says laughing and I help but laughing of her sense of humor. “If you had had sex with me, at least there would have been some truth in it.”
“You deserve more than some guy with relationship issues.”
“Save it, Rafa. Who says I even want a relationship? I’ve told you already that I don’t believe in any of this eternal love shit.” She shakes her frog bracelet to remind me of where she stands.
“If you didn’t believe in it, you wouldn’t still be a virgin.”
“I must stop hanging out with you. All the guys who want to bang me are afraid of being punched by you.” I can’t help but laughing of what she’s saying. “I don’t know of one single relationship that has worked out or of a love story that has lasted forever. This is soap opera material – or movies, for that matter. Love is a son of a bitch invented for delusional fools.”
“What should I do with you, Malu?” She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met.
“How about helping me figure out my life? I don’t know what to do. After my life is settled down again, I’ll find some hot cutie to take me to bed and solve this inconvenient issue.”
“Damn it, Malu.”
“Damn you what? I’m sick and tired of this shit. I know you hold your horses because of that. You think I don’t feel your little buddy all agitated when I’m around? This way, when one of us is need of a more intimate care, we may turn to each other as we already do when we need someone to talk. You won’t have to search for skanks on the streets anymore.”
“Foul mouth.”
“Stubborn.” She smiles and I can’t help thinking about everything she just said. “Well, but before pleasure, I must decide what to do. I have to move out from this apartment.” She looks around with sadness. I know how much she likes this place, where she’s been living for so long.
“You can stay at my place…”
“No way” she doesn’t even let me finish.
“But Malu…”
“Rafa, no. You have your own life. I don’t earn a lot at the bar, but I can always ask Tito to let me work more hours.”
My face shows how unpleased I am at the same time I try to think of a way of finding her another job. Suddenly, an idea emerges.
“Let me take a look at your atelier.”
“What? Why?”
“Just because. Come on, move this pretty ass and open the mystery room door. I want to check it out.”
She unwillingly leads me to the bedroom she keeps locked out, as if she’s hiding a big secret there. When she opens the door, the smell of paint and thinner hits us. She walks in and opens the curtains, while I wander around surprised at what I see.
I thought there would be average paintings. For what Malu has told me, she’s never taken art classes and everything she knows, she’s taught herself or learned by watching videos on the internet. She uses her sixth sense to lay on canvas what’s on her imagination. However, to my surprise, her work seems really good. Of course, I’m no art expert, but to the best of my little knowledge, I could see great potential. I head to a pile of paintings in a corner: landscapes, people, a boy on a surfboard trying a maneuver, half the face of a sad woman with black tears running through her cheek. Those paintings bring up different feelings for me. I immediately reach for my phone in my pocket and call Hellen.
Hellen’s a friend of my parents who owns an art gallery. By the age of fifty, she possesses an incomparable sincerity. She’d be able to take a look at Malu’s production and evaluate if we could get anything for it.
“Have you ever shown anyone these paintings? Like, selling or something like that?” I ask Malu while I wait in line.
“No, never” she replies, to which I shake my head turning my attention to the phone.
“Hi, Hellen. Rafael Monteiro here. How are you? I’m great. Sorry for bothering you so early, but I need your professional opinion. A friend of mine has some paintings and today she’s finally agreed to show me. I’m no expert, but I thought them quite good. Could you take a look and give us an expert opinion? She has to decide if she’s still going to pursue a career in arts and we’d really appreciate an evaluation from a professional. Sure, I’ll text you the address right away. Looking forward to hearing from you. Thank you.”
“What was that?” she asks looking confused.
“Hellen owns an art gallery. She’s stopping by in a couple of minutes. Apparently, she’s been looking for a new artist to exhibit in her gallery for about months now, since the one who was booked decided to leave everything behind and move to Paris.
“Exhibit?” Malu sounds strangely scared.
“What? Isn’t that the goal when someone paints?
“Oh… I don’t know.” She looks at me apparently lost. I pull her closer to hug her.
“What about this? Hellen stops by to take a look at your paintings and tell us if you have a chance of turning this into a career. Then, we’ll see what to do about the house situation. When your grandparents died, haven’t they left you and your brother some sort of trust fund?
“I suppose so, but the Judge has always told me I could only get access to it by the age of twenty-seven.”
“Do you have any paper attesting that?”
