Page 5 of Sweet Prison

I should be used to all of this by now. Teasing. Mean, spiteful name-calling. It goes way back to elementary school. The questions came first.What happened to you?Does it hurt?I tried explaining that it’s just how my skin looks and it’s completely normal, exactly as my mom told me to. Regardless, kids typically stayed clear of me—no one wanted to play with me, and some didn’t even want to look in my direction.

Once I started high school, it got worse. The days of peaceful shunning were no more.Gross.That looks awful.Or, the ever-present…Don’t touch me. I don’t wanna catch what you got.There was no point in explaining that vitiligo is not contagious. They didn’t really care, anyway. And since I always tried to ignore them instead of fighting back, I was an easy target for their insecurities. So they humiliate me. Cause me pain. Both physically and with their words.

Oddly enough, the bullying doesn’t really bother me anymore… not much, at least. It’s the looks of pity I can’t stand. So I try to remain as invisible as possible. Do my best not to attract any unwanted attention. Too bad that strategy doesn’t work on Kenneth fricking Harris.

“Brown looks good on you, lep.” A mocking smile pulls at Kenneth’s lips. He halts right in front of me, blocking my way to the school’s main entrance, and plants his hands on his hips. “But I think you must have forgotten to check today’s forecast. You gotta be cooking inside that mesh-looking thing. Or is it a mosquito net?”

Another round of laughter echoes through the hallway.

“Let me pass, please,” I mumble, staring at the tips of my shoes.

“Of course.” He takes a step to the side.

Holding my breath, I dash past him, but as I do, Kenneth yanks on one of my sleeves. The unmistakable sound of tearing fabric follows as the fine threads break.

Tears gather at the corners of my eyes while I stare at the ruined lace in Kenneth’s meaty fist. I spent days working on this blouse, modifying the original pattern to make the sleeves long enough to cover my hands. Hours of labor that made my back and fingers ache, and this jerk cared nothing about it.

“Sorry, lep.” Chuckling, he throws the tattered material to the floor. “But hey, look on the bright side. It’s more suitable for the weather now.”

There are over a dozen people around us—all of them the jerkface’s cronies—and I can feel each of their gazes on my exposed arm. Gawking at the discoloration on my elbow, my forearm, my wrist. The urge to gouge everyone’s eyes out withmy bare hands, to scream in their faces to stop fucking gaping, surges inside me.

I don’t.

I never do.

Biting my lower lip to keep it from quivering, I scoop the scrap of lace off the floor. Clutching it in my hand so hard my nails pierce my palm, I turn and head down the hallway. I can’t make a scene, or my father will hear about it. Then he’d probably transfer me to another prestigious school, one filled with even more stuck-up creeps than this one, or maybe just decide to have me homeschooled. I can still hear his hushed words from his conversation with his underboss last week:My poor little Zara, I’m so worried about her. She always finds it hard to handle stressful situations.

Sometimes, I wish I could tell him the truth. That I’ve imagined him showing up at my school, raising hell, and yelling at everyone who has ever hurt me. Or beating the shit out of that asshole, Kenneth. Too bad something like that would never happen. My father might be the boss of Cosa Nostra in Boston, but he would never cause a fuss because of me. The sons and daughters of his business associates attend this school, and the don would never risk jeopardizing lucrative partnerships simply because some boy “upset” his antisocial, skittish child.

Image is everything withinLa Famiglia, and Nuncio Veronese would never stoop to anything so clearly beneath him. It would simply be easier to transfer me to another school, just as he’d done before. And then, I would feel like an even bigger failure.

I’m hurrying across the schoolyard toward the west side of campus when a hand brushes my arm, and I jump.

“Hey, Zara! Want to come to Dania’s to watch a movie?”

I force a small smile and look up at my sister. “No. I… I have to study.”

“You sure?” Nera asks. “We could— Oh my God, what happened to your shirt?”

“My sleeve got caught on a door handle,” I lie.

“Oh?” Her eyes narrow at my ruined blouse. “Is someone bothering you again?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. That’s all.”

When I was nine, I made the mistake of confessing to my sister about the teasing I received at school. I told her that a boy from her grade called me a bunch of names. Despite being a tiny eleven-year-old, Nera tracked my bully down during recess and fought him. She earned a bruise on her chin and two weeks of detention. And when we got home, Dad grounded her for “despicable behavior unbecoming of our pedigree” and “bringing shame to the Veronese name.”

I will never again put my sister in a position to get in trouble because she feels the need to defend me, just because I’m too much of a chicken to stand up for myself. Thank God most of her classes are in a separate building this year. Now she can’t witness the bulk of my encounters with Kenneth.

“You guys have fun. I’ll see you tonight.” I squeeze Nera’s hand and head toward the car waiting for me by the campus gates. It’s parked just behind the big SUV belonging to Hannah’s dad, and I spot my friend getting into the back of it while giving me a brief wave. I’m glad she’s rushing off to her dance class right now and doesn’t have time to stop and chat. She’d instantly know that something was up with me, having seen enough of my run-ins with Kenneth the dick twat.

“Miss Veronese.” Peppe, my chauffeur nods, holding the door open for me.

Without meeting his gaze, I slip into the back seat.

The drive to our house is about half an hour, and I usually spend that time aimlessly gazing out the window. Now, however, I can’t seem to sit still. Although the windows are up and the AC isn’t on, a shiver races across my skin, and the fine hairs on my bare arm stand on end. Flashbacks of that scene in the school hallway flood my mind. I’d love to be able to talk to someone about it, just so I could call the shit-for-brains Kenneth a douchnozzle out loud. If my brother, Elmo, was alive I’m sure he would beat the shit out of Kenneth. He wouldn’t let anyone touch me or call me names. Or at least, that’s what I choose to believe. I barely remember Elmo, but Nera does. And she says he was the best brother in the whole world.

I sigh and reach into my bag for my phone. As I do, my eyes catch on the corner of a violet notebook peeking from between a few others. It’s the one I use to sketch my designs for custom clothing.

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