The Love Club

Prologue

For as long as I can remember, there’s always been something off about me. It took me a while to put my finger on it, nothing too apparent really happening in order for me to put a finger on it sooner. 

Growing up, I’d always been a hopeless romantic. I’d lay in bed beside my mom and she’d read me all these fairytales while I listened intently to her every word. Not the real fairytales with the gore and blood, though as I grew older I became enamored with them as well, but the cookie-cutter, glitter and sparkle childhood versions of Cinderella and Rapunzel and Snow White and the like. She’d kiss my forehead, turn off the light, and I’d lay there in the dark and close my eyes, imagining the stories I had just heard. 

What was weird about me, I guess, is that I never was one of the princesses. I never imagined myself in a ball gown, dancing through the forest with woodland creatures following me around and joining in with me in song. I realized this was different when I would show up to daycare and all the other girls would be wearing their yellow or pink tulle dresses, crowns on their heads and sceptors in hand. Sitting alone in the corner playing Barbies, I watched them from afar as they bowed to each other and giggled, gossiping about who was invited to their tea parties and so on. No, I was much more content with my Barbies, controlling a world rather than living in it.

I suppose the catalyst was my mother’s death. Maybe not the catalyst per se, but the event that really changed everything. I’m sure I would have eventually discovered what I was capable of without it, but it sped the process along immensely. 

My mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. I say this with confidence, not the way other children will say it in passing, an exaggeration of their mother’s elegance. No, if my mother had one flaw, it was that she was flawless. She was truly the ideal mother, taking care of me, always on time, waiting in the minivan outside the daycare in the optimal spot, her blonde hair piled atop her hair in a style that looked pristine but had been thrown together last minute. She would smile at me and I’d glance at the sun, not sure I could tell the difference between the two. I would hop in the passenger seat and she’d ask me about my day as she pulled out from the curb and we began our journey home. I’d tell her about the princesses and their tea parties and she’d nod and listen, promising there was nothing wrong with me, that just because I was different didn’t mean I was defective. I still carry those words around with me in my pocket, pulling them out when I begin to forget. 

If anyone ever had a doubt as to how magnificent my mother was, those doubts dissipated at her funeral. It was a full house, packed to the brim with family, close friends (of which my mother had quite a few), and people I’d never even met before. I swear, the damn grocer showed up. 

I stood stoically beside my father, my hand placed in his. We’d done our mourning already behind closed doors. I slept in the bed beside him every night before the funeral and he’d hold me while I fell asleep in his arms, both of us crying but pretending not to notice. From that point on it was just the two of us against the world.

My father loved me, does continue to love me, enough for two parents. After the loss of mom, he did everything he could to fill her shoes. All those things a girl needs a mother for, my dad wasn’t afraid to step up and take over. I was young when mom died, just seven years old, and it was a few years later when he started dating again. I wasn’t ready.

That’s when things started to escalate with me. My dad would sit me down on the couch and explain carefully that he was going to dinner with a nice lady he’d met at work, that it was just a casual thing adults did and that mom wouldn’t mind. The fact that mom didn’t mind really didn’t matter to me. I minded.

On those nights, my dad would hire a babysitter, straight to my house from the high school, and I’d sit on the floor playing Barbies as she tied up the phone line to flirt with a senior on the football team. Those nights, the Barbies were my father and his date, and I’d imagine everything going wrong that possibly could. He’d spill his drink on her and she’d be offended, but willing to give him another shot. He would tell his favorite joke and she would laugh half-heartedly before taking another drawn out sip of red wine, her eyes scanning the restaurant for an excuse to leave.