I am Cecilia

By Zara Miller

What would you do if your mother fell back in love with the no-good, nomadic father that abandoned her, and you, and is now back for the money? Oh, and he might be (definitely is) associating with criminals. In Zara Miller's hilarious young adult epic I am Cec

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637302613

Book preview

Chapter 1

As the loud engine of a roaring bus with a glaring number eighteen on its windshield lagged its way into the abandoned bus stop, Cecilia couldn’t wait to slip in and escape the intensifying chill of the progressing winter. She was born in January, on a similarly unwelcoming, bitterly cold evening. Whenever she complained about the climate, so annoyingly characteristic for her hometown of Kosice, her grandmother would disapprovingly shake her head and say something witty like:

Born in winter, hates winter—you never conform to the obvious. Always sticking out like a sore thumb.

Cecilia didn’t know where her mother was dragging her or why. Still, she knew she couldn’t tolerate another Friday evening in the company of Russian poets with her grandfather’s tedious stories about the times he had been in the service of the Communist Party. Oh yes, the Communists—the only friends she was meeting in books Friday evenings.

Grandpa would always slip off into the not-so-graceful slumber accompanied by loud snoring in the middle of painting the picture before he managed to finish his little etude. So Cecilia would always end up unsatisfied with bits and pieces of unfitting edges she had to rub down and conjoin into a puzzle that made sense in her head.

She was on page thirty-eight of the book about the Velvet Revolution. All she had learned so far was that her home, Slovakia, apparently used to be a slightly less miserable place before it decided to separate its tiny, sparsely populated roots from the Soviet Union. She wasn’t actually sure, as far as the clarity went. Grandfather had insisted she read it, but the book was dragging its writing as gruelingly as this bus was rubbing its semi-inflated tires down the road.

Still, she wouldn’t let her mother leave her for yet another weekend, to just disappear. She had tried to ask her grandparents about Danielle’s mysterious trips, but nobody seemed to acknowledge there were any to begin with. Both her grandma and grandpa would wave it off, change the subject, or get so uncomfortable the air would turn into a toxic gas. Could a middle school principal from a well-established, respected family like her mother be committing some ominous crime on the weekends in her free time?

Being born stubborn and persistent, she managed to convince her mom to take her wherever she went for those last few weeks of November 2004.

Danielle was apprehensive about the request. Then Cecilia activated the ultimate weapon—the upper lip pout. Danielle, having an unhealthy soft spot for her only child, agreed to take her.

Danielle had wanted to drive them, but Grandpa’s eyebrows started to twitch in a nervous tic he’d get whenever Danielle felt like unnecessarily wasting petrol or wasting his money in any way. Perks of living with your parents in your late thirties. Although technically, the car belonged to Danielle. Parent logic.

Cecilia deducted that her mom’s trips were highly unappreciated for some unknown reason. But rather than getting through another one of Grandpa’s hissy fits, she pulled her mom by the hand, and they set off to go by bus.

The touch of her mom’s hand, always so soothing and comforting, sent ripples of confusion through Cecilia’s spine, as they were climbing the impossibly steep steps her legs were too short for, into the warmth of this conduit-in-disrepair. Their connection, the outlandish, psychic communication that confounded everyone who wasn’t in on it, was always there, much like a duvet studded with juvenile images of cars Cecilia loved so much.

After all, she was only nine, (almost ten, as she liked to say) she was still entitled to such memorabilia.

Dobry vecer, Danielle greeted the uninterested bus driver who didn’t bother to say hello back. Cecilia studied his untidy beard and the acid blue shirt hanging on him like a dead vine from a parched tree.

She wondered whether bus drivers looked as scruffy and unfriendly before the Velvet Revolution. After all, it had been exactly fifteen years since the whole separation incident. Slovakia ought to have given its public transit officers at least a decent uniform, she thought. Maybe then they wouldn’t look like unpaid VH1 audience members.

She followed her mom in, fingers intertwined like vines. Danielle uneasily wiggled through the narrow alley into the back of the bus, away from the four dark-skinned women, chatting in a cumbersome dialect Cecilia didn’t speak.

Cecilia felt repulsed by their bleached blonde hair and giant hoop earrings flapping around, as the bus hit one giant bump after another.

They finally sat down, the question burning on her tongue, as she swayed her legs back and forth while fidgeting in her seat, fearful to ask. She knew the route eighteen’s stops roughly, only as far as Dandelion Street in the north part of Kosice. Her grandpa drove her everywhere she needed to go, and the northern part was kilometers away from their house in the countryside called Peres, or from her school.

Whenever she took this bus with grandma, she would always end up in an objectionable situation—whether it was the doctor’s office by the end of Dandelion Street or a Catholic service in the Saint Elizabeth Cathedral. She would always end up having to sit through a nuisance she didn’t enjoy or understand.

The rash covers of the bus seat digging into her delicate white stockings only reassured her that life would often throw her into situations she would rather avoid. The itchy skin only added to her growing anxiety.

Fear of her mother’s annoyance wasn’t what stopped her from asking where they were headed but the dread of learning an answer she wouldn’t like.

She preferred blissful ignorance, a silent suffering.

She was acutely aware that Jessica from school would probably be peeling the flies off of the bus window with her long, demonic nails, demanding an answer. But she wasn’t Jessica.

Cecilia would never cause a public scene. She knew better than to embarrass herself or her family like that. But the bus either rerouted, or they finally reached the outskirts of town near the railway station. The moment it turned right and yawed away from the Dandelion Street allied with birches, she no longer recognized her surroundings.

The realization of not knowing where she was made the veiled curiosity drop like an overripe pear from a tree. If her mother wasn’t squeezing her hand so tightly she was almost cutting the bloodstream from flowing into her palm, she’d be terrified.

Where are we? Cecilia asked, laying her hand on the dusty window no one had probably cleaned in thirty years. She shivered in disgust.

Her mother failed to provide an answer. Cecilia looked down on their joined hands, admired the long elegant fingers of her mother, the at-home-made, pink manicure on her nails, soaking in every gentle crease, every rough fold. Gentile hands of a teacher, a respectable, intelligent woman.

One day, her hands would grow as big and elegant as her mother’s.

We’re almost there.

Cecilia’s head snapped to the side, averting her eyes and attention from the poorly lit neighborhood filled with rusty apartment buildings, to her mother’s loving stare—chocolate irises drowning in a feeling, which tapped beyond Cecilia’s vocabulary.

Grandpa was angry, Cecilia remarked, hoping to spark a conversation and maybe squish her mom’s uncooperative tendencies.

Grandpa’s always angry, Danielle said with trepidation. Cecilia registered that the nervousness didn’t come as a result of Grandpa’s aggressiveness, but she couldn’t pinpoint why her ever-transparent mum, who she dearly admired, would speak so unaccustomed.

Route eighteen finally came to a halt at the final stop—Underhill. Cecilia scanned the premises. Amid mental somersaults about her mom’s odd behavior, she failed to notice that they were the last two people getting off the bus.

Everyone else would have either gotten off three stops before to shop for a pepper spray, two stops before to buy weed and coke, or one stop before to get home by walking the Railway Bridge, effectively avoiding direct contact with the gypsies.

Anyone who got off at the Underhill stop lived in the part of town called The Den of Gypsies.

Unbeknownst to Cecilia or her comprehension of why her mother brought her to a place that looked like it had been ripped straight from the pages of the Oliver Twist book—she stepped off the bus and onto a curbside ruffled with unevenly laid concrete.

Cecilia gave her japanned shoes a distressed look. Walking on this crooked ground would for sure tarnish the heel, or worse, scratch the platform.

She spun in an uncoordinated pirouette to examine the place, but the streets were silent as death.

The dawn had already come when they reached the Underhill after more than thirty minutes of suffering through the public transport system.

Cecilia was unsure if she believed in God, but since the church on Sunday was mandatory, in her family anyway, she might as well thank him for getting her out of that musty bus alive and untouched by mold.

Cecilia scooched closer to her mother’s side, barely reaching the hem of her black fur coat. The familiar scent, a mix of flowers and tobacco, helped manage Cecilia’s spasm of cluelessness.

Come on, buttercup.

The tension in her bones was growing exponentially as her mother checked both sides of the road before crossing and pulled her toward the small, ignoble-looking building with black grating on almost every ground window.

Cecilia could hear her petticoat shuffling underneath her velvet skirt as she forcedly towed her feet behind her.

When they crossed the road, a man came into her view, sternly standing by the building’s main entrance with his hands locked behind his back. Cecilia stopped in her tracks, ready to grow roots on the spot if necessary to prevent her mother from dragging her over to the guy currently wearing a condescending look on his face.

Don’t be afraid. We’ll just say hello, Danielle reassured her daughter. All the agitation Cecilia felt oozing from her before was gone, replaced with excitement.

Cecilia’s pupils widened in horror. Her arm started to hurt from being stretched out, her mother pulling in one direction and Cecilia’s instincts in the opposite one. She started shaking her head in panic. She overheard enough stories from her teachers, talking about flaky mothers who abandoned their children.

It’s okay, Danielle, the man spoke. Nothing about the way he uttered those words seemed okay to Cecilia. His raspy voice caused her stomach acid to boil and climb all the way up to her throat. She swallowed hard, biting on her tongue to stop herself from puking.

Mom, who is this? Cecilia asked, insisting on staying put.

Danielle looked over to the man for help, but he left her hanging, asserting the upper hand by the stoic posture. He noticed Cecilia’s jolty movements, raking her up and down with his filthy, slighted look.

Cecilia was familiar with the dark undertone of his skin, the same shade of creole those women had on the bus from hell. She knew enough from her grandpa’s grotty, picturesque descriptions to recognize a gypsy when she saw one.

This is your dad, Danielle said proudly. Cecilia yanked her small hand out of Danielle’s. Her back hit someone’s side of the car parked by the pavement. Her breathing gained an uneven pace sickeningly fast.

Danielle gathered her in her arms, picking her up in one swift, graceful movement. She had two options: act out, run off, and die in the streets… or comply and regroup later.

Get ahold of yourself.

Her brain started spinning a million miles an hour. She could recite by heart Pushkin’s work. She learned how to divide and multiply a long time ago. This new British pop group Blue was on the rise, and she’d memorized all the lyrics to all their songs (in a foreign language, nonetheless). If she ran off into the night now, she’d get murdered, or worse, have some freakish gypsy curse put on her. Which meant, all the talent for possibly becoming someone important one day would go to waste.

So she gave in and let herself be carried with a quiet promise in her heart. If everything else in this world, in this town of torment as she loved to call it, were to lose all sense, this would always remain true. This stranger—who her mother called your dad, would forever stay just that—a stranger.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Chapter 2

Two years later

Cecilia used to think that being born to a small fortune, accompanied by chrysanthemums on the way from the hospital and surrounded by exploding fanfares of affection, would set her up for a never-ending life of lottery wins, parades without rain, and smooth slides on the slopes of adoration.

She never realized how slippery that slope of adoration was. Maybe money was not the root of all evil. Family dysfunction was.

At least that’s what she had learned over the last two years, watching the dynamic go from a pianissimo arrangement to a Piano-Godzilla rock concert. She had been ungainly chewing on the concept of having a dad, (though she never once addressed him as such) spitting it out and putting it in her mouth again, only to certify that the word still tasted worse than Grandpa’s illegally distilled plum brandy. Meanwhile, her mom blossomed like a cherry tree at a dawn of a spring afternoon.

The strive for greatness has ultimately destroyed him…

She looked up curiously to check whether Miss Francisci, (or Miss Wet T-shirt, as Cecilia secretly nicknamed her) still opaquely mumbled through her history lecture or finally picked up the tempo. The Slovak national emblem, a double white-red-blue cross skewered on the highest hill out of the triple mountain chain, lingered on a dusty portrait behind her head.

Now that she was older, she understood the crippling obsession these people of Kosice had with God. She never equated or identified with it.

This town, whose only excitement occurred during May when the world hockey championship ravaged the streets with enthusiasm and patriotic spirit, was otherwise so freaking boring Cecilia felt like stabbing herself with a hot rod most days.

No wonder folks turned to faith for help. If she believed in God (now being twelve and having read through the Scripture, she concluded with certainty she didn’t), she would also pray three times a day for something to happen in this town.

She longed for drama to disrupt her routine. She ached to transform into a heroine from those simplistic Latino stories to pump a new dose of adrenaline into her veins.

His quest for glory, and riches, it all came down to a halt eventually…

And every weekend, when Danielle left for the Underhill, an invisible thread that attached her to her daughter thinned down tremendously.

This isn’t forever, she reminded herself patiently, as she crafted an elegant D with a heavy, lopsided tail in her notebook, where scribbles about Alexander the Great were supposed to be. She still wasn’t sure if the D stood for Danielle, Daemon, or Dysfunction.

She was trapped in a family threesome with her parents and their unfinished business from the times the Backstreet Boys were still making hits.

She had hoped and deferred, waited and lingered, for Daemon to recognize he didn’t belong with them. Self-awareness was not his strongest suit.

Margot and Jan still pretended their daughter was impregnated by a holy spirit as it was a more plausible alternative than coming to terms with the fact that Danielle had chosen to have a child with a gypsy. And Cecilia—as much of an unbothered, phlegmatic makeup she put on before each visit of the Underhill—was genuinely afraid of him. The combination of his pathetic apartment that hosted no daylight and the lack of interest in building a relationship with her created a dark fairytale inside her analytical brain that painted a permanent villain mark on Daemon’s forehead.

Maybe if she scribbled the D hard enough, she would write Daemon out of the equation. It would just be her grandparents and mom again. Like it used to be before he randomly returned from Belgium after nine years of being MIA.

And he wouldn’t listen to anyone. He blindly led himself into a death trap...

A light bundle of wet paper landed on her head and slid down her hair, messily tangling in her dark locks.

Cecilia turned her entire upper body around, both agitated and annoyed that someone had interfered with her train of thought.

Her sight fell on the blonde Jessica, scrawling in her notes. She wore that devilish, conniving smirk. Jessica usually went about her bullying less subtly. Cecilia was left wide-eyed after such an open display of abuse. She plucked the paper out, and correctly guessing, it was actually a napkin drenched in something that smelled like citrus lemonade.

This isn’t forever.

Cecilia aimed at a trash can standing in the corner, merely inches away from her desk. She tossed the cruel evidence of a poorly executed joke in the trash.

In conclusion, what have we learned from Alexander’s death?

Miss Wet T-shirt was wearing yet another piece from her collection of burgundy blouses with extravagant cleavage. She belonged in a beauty pageant or maybe in a plastic surgery commercial, as an advocate for removing the last set of ribs.

Well? Miss Francisci scanned the entire classroom with her giant fish eyeballs, expecting engagement and recognition.

This would have usually been where Cecilia came in, raising her hand and spinning her elaborate answer into a poetic repertory, wowing (annoying) everyone.

But for the last two years, she had studied, and read, and run circles around her peers in such elaborate ways, even she got tired of hearing her own voice.

Alexander the Great was an arrogant jerk, an ambitious prick, and a raging alcoholic in love with his best friend. At least one thing on that list was bound to eventually blow a hole in his plan to take over the world.

Cecilia outlined the exact trajectory that Miss Francisci’s slutty boots would take from this pavilion to the pavilion where her mother’s office was, informing the principal about her daughter’s insolence and stayed silent instead.

She was tired of the adhesive label teacher’s pet she had accidentally given herself. Besides, if the lemonade napkin was any indication, it was about time to start shaking up her image a bit.

But Miss Francisci’s aloof manner made Cecilia take mercy and end the awkward silence.

We should recognize when enough is enough and differentiate between a hollow ambition and a climb toward greatness.

She would never get any recognition for her intelligence from her peers. Still, the important thing was that the teachers recognized it in her own educational excellence, her climb toward greatness.

And Miss Francisci’s proud nod only welded this conviction in her mind.

A much more hopeful this isn’t forever thought glinted through the perfectly crafted Escape Plan (the official name of the abort mission in her journal) she had devised.

She took advantage of Miss Wet T-shirt’s distracted demeanor and checked the Brick for a much-anticipated text message.

She felt immediate release when that massive, ponderous thing was no longer tucked in her denim jumpsuit’s inner pocket. Her mom insisted she would carry around that hideous phone everywhere, even though she was not allowed to go anywhere by herself anyway.

But today, on this windy September Wednesday, she would check the rectangular uggo for messages every five minutes. Today, the next glorious step on her voyage up and up was going to be revealed.

Mrs. Mankovic had promised she would contact Cecilia about the test results before anyone else. Katarina’s fascination with Cecilia’s oratory skills made her believe that the child’s intelligence was being wasted at a regular public school.

The school psychologist had captured Danielle’s ear the minute she proclaimed Cecilia could flourish at an establishment specializing in developing talented children. Therefore, Cecilia underwent a special set of tests to determine whether she could be considered an attractive addition to the Krasnohorska Middle School for Gifted Youth’s collection of geniuses.

She couldn’t wait to be plucked out of this den of idiots.

She caressed the plastic buttons of the phone back and forth from the numeric imprints to the alphabetical ones, but the phone didn’t oblige.

No new messages.

Miss Francisci dismissed the class precisely at two o’clock, and Cecilia frantically collected her backpack and pulled the books from under the desk to stuff them in.

On Wednesdays, Jessica would hold her up before she managed to hop in the car with Grandpa.

Today, she had no time for Jessica’s wanton aggression and subsequent do the homework for me or else threats. The blonde monster knew as long as Cecilia stayed the obedient mummy’s girl, Jessica and her crooked teeth could get away with anything.

Until Cecilia was sure she had a way out of here, she wouldn’t stir the pot.

It was more bearable to just do the homework for the green-eyed dullard. That way, Cecilia could preserve her dignity and falsely wheedle herself into believing she was superior by helping Jessica get through the sixth grade.

Hey, Letticia.

Cecilia painfully grimaced, slouching her posture. The inner fire that raged inside her, the part of her that wanted to scream, kick, and bitch-slap people who pissed her off—the gypsy in her—started to take over.

This isn’t forever.

She centered herself, focused on her classmates passing her by on the threshold of the room. Jessica stood tall above her, stiff and prepared to drop the stash of her notes in Cecilia’s arms.

It’s Cecilia. We’ve been sharing the same classroom for about four years now, so I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t confuse it with any other nonclever jabs at my personality.

Jessica’s uncoordinated moves caused her to stumble a few steps backward as if to unintentionally create more space between herself and the girl she despised so much.

God forbid the mean-spirited wench would stand close enough to get infected by at least three more brain cells for better coordination.

Whatever. I have a job for you. And by a job, I mean an unpaid internship, Jessica declared authoritatively. Nico will be transferring from Scultety’s, here to Ridge’s next week. I want you to tutor him before he does.

Cecilia’s eyebrows drew together into a confused line. Isn’t your brother two years older?

So what?

Cecilia held up her hands defensively, feeling triumphant. She started to suspect that Jessica secretly hated her guts just because she outsmarted her at every crossroad.

Nothing. One would think that a family as influential as yours could afford to pay for a tutor.

Jessica clasped her hands behind her back, her eyes following the arched back of Richard Malava—the last student to exit alongside Miss Francisci.

The sudden change of atmosphere around Jessica’s behavior hardly qualified as distinct, but Cecilia’s impeccable instinct picked up on it immediately.

My brother doesn’t want our parents to know he’s behind on schoolwork. They would forbid him from practicing.

Cecilia didn’t know what practicing was in reference to, but she didn’t care enough to ask. Jessica guarded her family life more rampantly than she guarded her acrylic nail polish against peeling.

Everyone at school knew Jessica had an older brother and a rich daddy, but that was it. That’s how she could afford to be chauffeured around in a radiant Porsche instead of a Seat Ibiza like Cecilia’s family owned. Yes, Grandpa Jan could probably afford to buy them a Porsche, too, but for some unbeknownst reason, he preferred his money to be hidden.

You want me to help your brother? You threw a wet napkin at me. My hair is now sticky. Cecilia patted the place on her head where the napkin had left an unpleasant feeling.

There was a memo written on that napkin, you idiot. I dipped it in my citrus Gucci perfume for a dramatic effect. And also as a peace offering. You smell like cabbage. I wanted to do you a favor.

Cecilia’s hand shot up toward her mouth to gag the laughter. Jessica folded her arms on her chest, incredulously offended.

That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Cecilia laughed. Are you sure I’m the idiot here? The perfume dissolved your message. There’s alcohol in it.

Jessica’s jaw dropped low, but she stood her ground long enough not to lose it. Are you gonna help him or not?

Cecilia wrinkled her nose funnily, observing Jessica’s fidgeting, the tapping of her foot, and all the other indications that screamed, This is serious. I need help, and I don’t know how to go