Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

Boy, did Mama ever pop a blood vessel. She couldn’t understand him wasting money on high school tuition when it could have been used to help out with so many other things, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Truth be told, I think I’m one of those kids the school allows in with only a portion of the tuition paid. Either way, Daddy sends a check directly there each month, so Mama doesn’t really have a say.
    Anyway, I decide to go ahead and test my evilness factor, so I open the door to the church, step forward, and wait there for a moment. I don’t combust. I take that as a good sign.
    Just to the side of me is a font filled with holy water. That stuff singes vampires and those from the dark side, so I decide to leave it be. I walk in a little farther. Mama is up front lighting a candle. There are only a couple of other people in the church: an old woman in one of the last pews, praying to her rosary, and a Spanish-looking man with a thick red scarf looped around his neck, sitting alone crying. I see Father Randall over near the confessionals. The man is as old as dirt and nearly as blind as he is deaf. Mama walks up to him and shakes his hand; then she looks over at me, snaps her fingers, and points to one of the pews. What the hell am I, a dog? Normally, I’d be rolling my eyes and mumbling under my breath at being treated like a four-leggedcreature, but tonight, that’s the least of my problems, so I sit obediently and watch as Mama disappears into one of the wooden confessionals with the thick crimson curtain pulled across the front. I wait a few moments, then crumple up the wet newspaper I never got rid of and stuff it into one of the hymnal holders before getting up and easing in closer to the booth. Mama speaks in a low voice, so it’s hard to make out very many of her words.
    “He’s sent the papers again” is about all I’m able to hear, so I move off and go sit in another pew.
    I know she’s talking about Daddy. Who knows what’s set her off now. My mother and father are still married, even though they don’t live together, which is pretty weird if you ask me. They’ve been apart since I was eight, so it’s been a hot minute. How are you going to be apart from somebody for six years and still be married to them? Though, when I think of it, Daddy wasn’t around much when they were actually together. He was always traveling to some other city or town, playing his bass, trying to earn some money. I always wished I had one of those dads who went into the office at nine every morning and was home by six at night, sitting around the dinner table, telling stories about his horrible boss. I know if Daddy was around, Mama wouldn’t be so mean to me. And there would even be laughter and giggles in our house, instead of silence all the time. Maybe then I would have somebody to tell me they loved me. Or call me pretty—even if they were lying just a little.
    I guess I can’t blame Daddy for leaving. Mama’s just plain evil. I’d run from her too, if I could. Actually, I did tryto run—twice. Once when I was nine, just after Daddy left. Things were worse then, if you can believe that. I decided to take another shot at it when I was eleven. But I didn’t have it planned out that well. First rule of running away: don’t do it in the middle of winter while wearing your fuzzy slippers. There’s only so far you can get before everything below your knees goes numb. Second rule: go farther than the creepy basement of your building.
    Yeah, if Daddy was around, maybe I wouldn’t be as rotten as I am. But I don’t want to make it sound like I’m the cause of Mama’s stress, because I’m not. She’s the cause of mine. I think she’s the reason I’m so rotten. Then again, maybe it’s a case of which came first, the chicken or the egg. And who’s the chicken—me or Mama? I guess it doesn’t really matter.
    Mama steps out of the confessional and motions for me to come over. When I do, she just points to the