Page 40 of Alliance

“Hush.” She slaps my fingers away. “I like this one. What you think, Rina?”

Aunt Caterina assesses the gown, inspecting the stitching as if she knows what she’s looking for. I meet Madi’s gaze, and she rolls her eyes at her mother. I’m thankful to have one person in my corner even if neither of our opinions matter.

“Ma,” I try again, but she darts her eyes to me, giving me a look that makes my mouth snap shut. She doesn’t want to hear my opinion, clearly.

“It’s good,” Aunt Caterina says, clapping her hands together. “I think this is the one.”

My stomach sinks, a sickness rolling through it. I can’t imagine what my wedding day will look like. Can’t even fathom walking down the aisle in this dress.

The wedding, planned by a professional who only listens to my mother’s opinions, is an extravagant affair.

It feels like most of New Orleans will be there, between my parents’ guest list and Davis’. The wedding bears no resemblance to me. If my name wasn’t on the invitation, I don’t think anyone would even know it was mine.

Isn’t this supposed to be a day girls dream about?

My only dreams are about how to get out of this.

I think about begging, right here, in this too tight dress. Sinking to the ground like a petulant child. But she won’t care.

So instead, I stay silent.

When I come out of the dressing room in my jeans and t-shirt, it’s just Madi left. My mom and Caterina went to the front of the bridal shop to pay for the grand dress.

Madi looks at me with a sympathetic look. “Ma told me I’d have to dye my hair for your wedding.”

The comment surprised me and I can’t help but laugh. “What did you say?”

“Fuck that.” Madi giggles and steps closer to me. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me into her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She has no reason to apologize, nothing is her fault, but still the sympathy makes me feel slightly better.

I hug her back and we stay like that for a moment, both silently recognizing how fucked up our family is.

I don’t hate the idea of a white dress or of marriage. I hate the situation, the man I’ll be meeting at the end of the aisle. I hate that I wasn’t given a choice.

I take a look at the dress hanging on the door of my fitting room. There’s no one else around, we’re in our private area, a special fitting for clientele of our “status.”

A thought pops into my head as I stare at the white fabric that was just on my body.

I don’t think too hard about it as I pull the tube of red lipstick from my purse, pushing up the red crayon from its bullet casing.

It takes two steps for me to be in front of the dress before I’m coloring it with the lipstick. I slash a bright smear of red across it, letting the color stain the white fabric.

Relief floods my body.

The action gives me a rush. It feels cathartic, and I can’t stop my hand from continuing the motions, covering the white fabric with the red wax until my arms are sore.

Madi stares at me with wide eyes.

When I’m done, the lipstick used down until there’s nothing left but a little nub, I’m panting.

“That was badass,” Madi says, her lips still forming a wide ‘O’ in shock.

It won’t matter, the dress is only a try-on version, the real one will still be ordered.

But the feeling, the release it gave me, was well worth it.

I stare at my work as my breathing evens out.

I’m a fighter.

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