Athea jolted upright in her bed, eyes wide open, the beating of anticipation in her chest even louder than yesterday. Today was the day. It had actually come. She turned over to her bedside table to check the time: 7 a.m. She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to get more sleep even if she tried.
She hopped her way over to downstairs, not able to contain her excitement. Once she reached the kitchen, her father was having a moment under the spotlight, singing Michael Bublé's "It's a Beautiful Day" at the top of his lungs as it played on the radio whilst making coffee. He spun on his feet, jamming his way to the small, three-chair table they used for their general meals when he spotted his daughter. He was startled so badly, he took a few steps back and had his voice crack at the end of a high-note, almost dropping the coffee bottle.
"A-Athea!" He stuttered, cleaning his throat. "You're up. Early. Very." He cleaned his throat again, turning off the radio. "Uhm. I wasn't expecting you to be up so soon." He tried to look like a stern, responsible dad, placing the coffee by the mugs and plates already set on the table and crossing his arms over his chest. She just couldn't hold back a laugh.
"Yeah." She muffled back the laughter as Patrick started to turn red through his serious gaze. "Me neither."
"Ookay! Well, since you're up..." He seemed to recover himself – despite the fact his face was still tomato-red –, rubbing his hands together ferociously. "It's Saturday. You know what that means!" He pointed at Athea, who was already seated at the table.
"It's Papacake Day!" They shouted in unison, Athea throwing her hands in the air.
"Hoo-ray!" He shoved his fist up. "Let's do this!" He turned back to the stove and started working on his special apple pancakes.
"Need help?" Athea offered but he denied, saying today was 'her special day'. The girl laughed, letting out a long sigh after the memories of Saturday's past overcame her. She looked across the table to the empty chairs and could almost see Brie and her mom talking over their coffee mugs about Brie's plans for the weekend with Dante.
Dante. That name lingered in her head for a while. Mom and dad never approved. They tolerated, to be honest, but only because Brie was so head-over-heels in love with him. He was reckless, and never really proved himself trustworthy. More than once had her sister come home crying after an overheated fight and another breakup. They got back together the next day, as it was usual (neither one of them could stay apart from the other for too long), but his carelessness put her in far too many uncomfortable situations – such as taking her own money to pay his fine after Dante was held up for bar brawls, party fights, drunk-driving, and many others. He was impulsive, careless, and temperamental – dreamy, as she would say.
Once, Athea had asked her why she put up with him when she could do so much better.
"Ah, sorellina... you'll understand when you grow up that your heart has no boundaries, and that it'll beat for someone regardless of who they are or where they come from." Was what she had said, using her Italian nickname for Athea as a way to soften the conversation that was way too serious for an 11-year-old – 'little sis', it meant. That same night, they went out together. That same night they got into a car crash. A week after that same night, she passed away. Dante was driving. Athea's parents could only bear to forgive him when the official police statement came out, proving that the other driver was drunk and speeding. Dante had pledged and swore he was sober and they were safely driving around town. He came to the service and the funeral and things ended up settling down after a while.
Dante never really forgave himself, though. He ended up feeling guilty – it was his idea to ride around at 2 a.m. He visited her grave every week for a good two years,and every time Athea and her parents went there, the flowers were fresh and new – dahlias, her all-time favorite.
"Athea? Athea!" Her dad called her out of her trip down memory lane just as her eyes were starting to tear up. "They're ready, sweetie." He put the pancakes in front of her: a perfect pile, maple syrup all over them, a small square of butter atop and apple slices around it. She took a big sniff at the sweet scent of the syrup.
"They look great!" She congratulated Patrick.
"Yeah, they better taste great, too. I almost burned my finger with the last ones!" He put his own plate of pancakes down, a lot less fancy than his daughter's. Athea laughed, remembering herself of her promise to not let the past take the best of her. "So, how ya feelin'?" He casually asked with a mouthful of apple deliciousness.
"About what?" She pretended to be aloof.
"'About what' she says! Today's a big day, your first dance!" Patrick drops his fork on his plate in indignation, making Athea blow her cover with his exaggerated expressions. She let out an embarrassed laugh. "So, nervous?" He poured some coffee.
"Oddly, no." She thought to herself. "Rather, excited, curiously enough." She looked up, thinking. "I've never been to an event like this before... I guess you could say it's fascinating." She concluded.
"Oohh, fancy words." Patrick picked on her.
"I'm just looking forward to ir, okay?" She went back to her pancakes.
"So, do I need to worry about your date?" Her dad said in a more serious tone, looking down at his plate. Athea's heart raced at the sound of her father's grave voice, nearly dropping her fork.
"N-No, dad, it's okay." She locked her sight on an apple slice. "It's mainly just a favor from a friend because I didn't have someone to go with." She twisted the truth slightly, not wanting her dad to know that blue eyes was covering up for being mean and a jackass on her first day of school.
"A friend, you say?" He stressed the word. "So you're making progress, then?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say he's more of a peer." She shrugged. "But it could become something." She looked up to Patrick to find him staring at her in worry.
"Sure, just be careful what kind of "thing" it becomes." He went back to his pancakes after the speech.
"You're really trying to play overprotective-manly-man-I-have-a-gun-at-home-and-killed-a-man-in-the-war-once dad at me, right now?" Athea lifted an eyebrow, glaring her dad in disbelief.
"Hey! A man can dream, okay?" He joked around, making a hurt face. "But don't test me, I still got some boxer moves in here." He started waving his hands around in fists. "I could give him some jabs, an uppercut..." He distracted himself with his moves, eyes fixed in a distant point across the table.
"Dad. That was in the 80s. You were 20." She looked at him with a poker face, being reasonable.
"You know, maybe you shouldn't go to this dance, after all. You're a real party pooper." He pouted, putting his arms back close to his body.
"And you're still a rebellious teenager inside, but what can you do, right?" She shrugged. "Somebody's gotta pay the bills."
"When did you get this sassy?" He couldn't hold a laugh.
"Years of living with Brie that were suppressed and are apparently coming out now?" She laughed along at her own self. He chewed his pancakes with a caring look at his daughter.
"You really miss her, don't ya?"
Athea sighed.
"Yeah." She played with her apples. "Yeah, I do." She put her hair behind her ear in a quick motion. "But I'm trying to not have it get to me too much, you know?" She looked at her father, feeling a little fragile. Patrick looked long and deep into Athea's watery eyes.
"Yeah, you should do that. I'm sure that's what she would want." He took her hand over the table. "The Brie I knew wouldn't have wanted you to waste your teen years in mourn."
"Yeah." She cleared her runny nose with a rough sniff and chugged down some more apple pancakes, trying to end the subject.
"Sooo..." Patrick started after a few minutes of cutlery noise and tense silence. "Do you want to go dress-shopping or something?" He didn't really know how to handle these types of situations.
"Please, dad. Dress-shopping on the day of the ball? You must be crazy." She smiled, looking at him sideways.
"I don't know! Maybe..." He tried to justify himself but Athea quickly interrupted him.
"Don't worry, dad. I've already got it figured out." She calmed him down. He breathed out.
"Of course you do, piccina." He smiled tenderly.
And so, that afternoon, Athea was locked up in her bedroom finishing up her dress for the night. She had picked out of the bottom of her closet an old white chiffon-layered dress and gave it a makeover to fit her current style better. There were still some touch-ups left to be made and so, as soon as she could, she set off to it.