Dirty Little Secret

By Lydia Miranda

Sixteen-year-old Laila Chance wants to be like Glinda the Good Witch and float away in her magical bubble. Better yet, she wishes she could be Medusa and turn both her abusive parents to stone. When her father finally leaves one weekend after a violent confrontation, Laila hopes he is never coming back. In the meantime, all she can do is pray and attempt to find solace in her creative writing classroom.

As she tries to maintain a stable home life, care for her younger brother, and excel in high school, Laila becomes overwhelmed. In an attempt to express herself, she transforms a creative writing assignment into her life story--written under an alias. As her mothers abusive tendencies worsen and the schools golden boy takes an interest in her, Laila is torn between making herself happy and being a good sister. But when her assignment falls into the wrong hands and someone pieces together the truth, Laila thinks things cannot get any worse--until her father returns with a dark purpose.

In this compelling young adult tale, a teenager must keep her enemies close and her secrets even closer as her world crumbles around her and she struggles to find happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480827202

Lydia Miranda

Lydia Miranda is a New York City native who is obsessed with books, fictional boys, the color purple, and kicking taxi cabs. She is a high school student and reluctant published poet. Dirty Little Secret is her first novel.

Book preview

1

Monday

Ben, let's go.

With an iron grip, I took Ben's arm with one hand and held his book bag in the other. I ushered him to the front door and yanked his uniform sweater off the rack. I bent down and helped him put it on.

When do you think he'll come back, huh? Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him back? Annabelle sniffled as she walked toward us.

I yanked the front door open and stepped out, throwing Ben in front of me. He was hugging his book bag and looked small compared to the grand front steps of the house. Ben, go to the corner and wait for me.

He didn't move.

I said, Now!

Ben turned around, jumped down each step, and ran down the hill to the mansion's front gates. He pressed the button on the keypad, and when he disappeared out of sight, I reached for my bag and sweater.

I slid on my uniform sweater and grabbed my book bag. Go sober up before you talk to me.

Annabelle was usually a hottie, but her blue eyes were red and puffy. She wore the same dress from Friday, and her golden-blonde hair was falling out of its bun. Her lips were red and swollen, and the tip of her nose looked sore from a weekend of sniffling and tissues.

"We need your father here!" she declared.

Yes, and I need a new pair of shoes. Your point?

I felt like a storm was going on inside of me---something fierce and uncontrollable---and it split me open the way an earthquake splits concrete. I was royally pissed off.

Mom had fluctuating moods, but her main four went like this:

• sickly normal

• sickly insane

• sickly happy

• sickly depressed

Notice how they all begin with sickly? Right now, she was sickly depressed and maybe a little bit of sickly insane.

You know what? There's a rope in the basement and a tree out back. Have fun! I stormed out of the house without taking another look back.

You're an ungrateful little brat! she screamed.

I rushed down the front steps, blocking her out.

Your father has given you everything, Laila!

That was when I stopped. I felt it was necessary to clarify something. Phillip never did anything for my brother and me. We lived off of my mother's fortune. We lived in her house with her money. I turned around, and when I was ready to rip her a new one, I realized how much of a lost cause it was. How could I do anything? What could I possibly say that would make her understand?

He didn't even give me a name. I looked at her helplessly. She was my mother. She was supposed to protect Ben and me because that's what mothers do. Couldn't she see? How could he have ever given me anything else?

I left her with that to think about and ran to the front gates. I usually liked to joke that we had a Lifetime home. You know how when you watch those LMN movies with the mansions of the hot, rich love interest or the widowed wife that are always insanely palatial and gorgeous? That's what my house looked like.

When I heard the door slam, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out everything else. I had to go to school. More importantly, Ben had to go to school, which meant I needed to take him.

Ben was waiting obediently for me at the corner by the stop sign.

As I approached him, he slipped his hand into mine. We started the walk to school in silence. Most people would've driven to school, but I had a thing with driving. When I was in the eighth grade, a kid in my class was killed in an accident. Ever since then, I'd been wary about getting behind the wheel. I had a license, but if I could walk, I would.

My little brother, aside from the ever-so-gorgeous Zac Efron, was my entire existence. My world revolved around making him happy.

Ben was still in elementary, and his school was much closer than mine. I was most certainly going to be late to school. It was a beautiful day, and the end of summer was approaching. It didn't feel that way though. The trees were still green, the wind was warm, and everything smelled like blooming flowers. The sun still bathed the world in the same golden sunshine as during the summer months. September was my favorite month.

After several blocks in silence, Ben looked up at me. His mess of black hair was carelessly pushed away from his face, and his shining, dark eyes bore into me like daggers. The kid could seriously read my thoughts.

What's wrong with Mommy and Daddy? he asked.

In my head, I hurled as many expletives as I could think of at our parents. I thought of the best lie I could, but there was no perfect lie I could give him. He understood enough to know that something was wrong. What do you say to a seven-year-old whose mommy and daddy are always fighting?

Ben, don't worry about Mommy and Daddy. I forced the best smile I could muster. We're going to stay at Ethan and Kelly's tonight, okay?

Ben nodded, and we walked in silence for the rest of the way. Of all those damned Oscar winners---I deserved one for best actress. Not one of them ever had to fake a smile like me.

***

The bell rang as soon as I rushed through the doors of St. Ignatius High School. I was late again, and Mrs. Rosenberg was going to sink one of her sharp teeth into me because it was the third time since school started that I'd been late to her class. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could and zoomed down the hallways.

Is this going to be my life? Running to make it to school on time?

On the bright side, I made it to Mrs. Rosenberg's class before she was able to slam the door in my face. Instantly her eyes squinted, and trying to avoid a scolding, I smiled nervously. Her silver hair was done in a French braid, and her evil brown eyes---behind the rims of her huge 1980s glasses---were glaring at me.

I'm here! I said.

She pointed toward my seat with a long finger, and I planted my butt in my chair. Without another glance in my direction, Mrs. Rosenberg sat at her desk and started to take attendance.

From in front of me, a familiar face appeared over my desk. I resisted the urge to grin like an idiot. Patty leaned over the back of her desk onto the front of mine and smiled. Hey, boo.

Hey, Patty.

My BFF was a total knockout. Her mom was black, and her dad was white; the mix made her look like the most exotic thing on the planet. Her light brown skin was positively flawless, due to her numerous wacky skin treatments, and her gray eyes held the millions of secrets I knew were trapped in that head of long black hair.

You missed Curt's party yesterday. She winked at me.

Oh, yay. A bunch of sixteen-year-old boys acting like fools---how entertaining.

I know!

Patty swung around in her seat to face the blackboard. Still smiling, I rolled my eyes. My ears drowned out the sound of Mrs. Rosenberg moaning the names from the attendance sheet. Impatiently wiggling my pencil back and forth, I looked up at the clock.

Eight thirty, first period.

I needed it to be twelve thirty, fifth period. Mr. Andrews's creative writing class. Oh, the agony of the hours I'd have to wait.

2

Mr. Andrews's Creative Writing Class

I usually did pretty well in school, but stress and life at home sometimes got the best of me. When they did, it was reflected in my schoolwork. In school, I was quiet, antisocial, and nearly invisible. I could literally count on my fingers the number of friends I had: two. The only time anyone ever heard me speak in class was when I was answering a question.

For junior year, I was able to choose an elective, and I chose creative writing. Mr. Andrews was not your cliché eight-hundred-year-old teacher. Mr. Andrews tipped the cool-teacher scale by being a triple threat: hot, young, and smart. He had an ivory complexion, black hair, and gray eyes. He also dressed like he was in a Dolce & Gabbana magazine ad.

I looked at Mr. Andrews like a father figure or an older brother. The year before I took his class, I joined the poetry club. That was where I met him. The guy was freaking awesome, and we had a pretty good understanding of each other. We weren't just teacher and student. We were friends.

Okay, class. Mr. Andrews turned away from the board and placed his hands on his desk. St. Ignatius High School looked more like a college or university than a high school. Behind the several wheeled chalkboards was a floor-to-ceiling French-style window with a view of the prayer gardens.

Mr. Andrews detested anything modern and refused to allow the school to install the latest smartboard in his classroom. His argument was that the only thing he needed to teach was a book, a piece of chalk, and a chalkboard. I could see beds of grass, cement benches, and the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary outside the window.

Our desks were set up in a semicircle on three different landings. Behind our seats, two long walls were covered in shelves of books from the floor to the ceiling. I could smell the floor polish on the wooden floors, and I liked the fact that there was so much light. The place was practically glowing.

Judging by the dazzling smile on Mr. Andrews's face, he was up to something. It was Monday, and he hated Mondays with the same passion the Roman Senate hated Julius Caesar. He clasped his hands and rubbed them like a Disney villain. I have a new assignment I want all of you to start working on. He walked around his desk.

I leaned to the side and saw what was written on the board behind him: Stories about Teen Life.

I really put a lot of thought into this one, and I hope you guys like it. Mr. Andrews leaned against his desk.

I'd never really been in the same school for long. I bounced around during freshman year. And last February, that miraculous February, Phillip left. Since I thought he wouldn't be back, I transferred to St. Ignatius.

St. Ignatius was my home. It was the first school I'd ever been at long enough to memorize people's names.

What's the assignment about? Clary asked. She was a cute little redhead on the cheerleading squad, and I wished I could have gotten better acquainted with her. She was always so nice to me. We had the same history class as sophomores, and whenever we had partner assignments, she volunteered to work with the new girl.

Mr. Andrews smiled and shook his head. If you would let me finish.

Everyone chuckled.

He held up a finger. I wanted you all to let your imaginations run wild, but I have some requirements for your next story.

A collective groan went through the class at the thought of Mr. Andrews and his long list of requirements.

I know, I know, evil Mr. Andrews and his requirements. He straightened his back and counted his requirements on his fingers. First, no vampires, werewolves, or mythical creatures.

There was certainly a disagreement among the ladies of the class.

There goes my dream of gorgeous vampires, Jeanine muttered.

"I guess this means no Jacob from Twilight." Kate sighed, and all the girls giggled.

Jeanine and Kate, two other lovely girls I wished I could get better acquainted with, were in Clary's social circle---the high school royalty circle---but contrary to what most people believed, they were the sweetest girls you would ever meet.

Mr. Andrews turned to the boys. Second, no extreme gore, fighting, action, or profanity. Nothing explicit. And so help me God, boys, if I find one innuendo in any of your stories, I'm having you scrub the floors of the locker room. He raised an eyebrow. Understood?

There go the beach babes, Toby said.

Riley laughed a little. Riley Grey was the school's golden boy. Think, Troy Bolton, High School Musical. Winning smile, captain of a sports team and all.

Is that all you think about? Riley asked. Girls?

The boys in the corner of the room reserved for football stars turned to look at him. In unison, they all said, Duh!

The classroom began to roar.

Mr. Andrews, unable to help himself, smiled and motioned for the class to settle down. All right, quiet down.

Yeah, good thing we have those requirements, Kimberly said. "Wouldn't want another assignment like Tyler's House of---"

Mr. Andrews held up a hand. Let's not relive that.

The room began to vibrate with stifled laughter.

I slid into my chair and doodled in my notebook. Aside from being the quiet girl in school, I was notorious for scribbling all over my notes. It had gotten me detention a few times. I scribbled the letter R hesitantly in my notebook, but one glance across the room caused me to scribble it out with black ink. I shouldn't even try. I wanted to sock myself over the head for even the thought of it.

Can you picture it? Captain of the football team, gorgeous, honor roll student Mr. Riley Grey and me?

It wasn't like he'd ever give me a second glance. Our last encounter had been when I first transferred to St. Ignatius in the tenth grade. Our lockers were next to each other. We'd seen each other around, but it was nothing more than that. I highly doubted he even remembered me anyway. He probably just saw me as Laila, the girl in creative writing class who twisted her spiral curls around her pencil and raised her hand all day.

So this is your new assignment. I want you to write something real and raw about teenage life. I want a story that revolves around the everyday struggles of the American teen. Whether that is life, love, family, friends, or school---whatever the case may be---I want you to be creative. He moved his hands around while he spoke and paced in front of the classroom. I want real, hard-core drama that scratches something deeper than the surface in modern-day young adult writing. I want something that real kids your age can relate to. I want you to be able to create the characters that other people can truly feel a connection with.

The classroom was silent. I knew Mr. Andrews was done with his speech, because he folded his hands and leaned against his desk again. I started to fiddle with the fabric of my red plaid skirt and wondered about his assignment.

I love the idea.

The words were out of my mouth before I had the chance to take them back. Every head turned in my direction, but I didn't mind. I was excited. I was happy. I knew what I was going to write about---and who and how. I felt the realization come over me like a beach wave, and it was only when I looked up that I noticed the piercing eyes of my peers.

Oh crap.

I bit my lip and tried to think of a way to backtrack. When I tried to shrink and disappear inside my desk, Mr. Andrews gave me an expectant look. I wanted to fling my damn book at him. What the hell was I supposed to say? I swallowed the lump in my throat and scrambled together whatever words I thought of first.

I love the idea. I mean, really, think about it. I sat up straight in my chair and breathed.

Wouldn't it be great to read a story about a character just like you? Someone you can look up to and admire? A character that is going through your same struggles? I looked up. It's just nice to know that you're not alone in your struggles---and you're not the only one that feels the way you do. Real life can be fun and creative. You just have to put your mind to it.

At first, I was grateful for the silence that followed, but when it pulled out a little too long, I began to feel insulted. That was one hell of a good speech, people!

Beautifully said, Laila. Mr. Andrews winked.

I let out a deep breath and sank into my chair.

Everyone clapped, and I pressed my palms to my cheeks, hoping to alleviate the heat. I stole a glance at the other end of the room.

Beach babes and gore are way better. I don't need a sappy speech to try to convince me otherwise, Toby said.

All the boys laughed---except Riley.

Hey. Riley smacked Toby upside the head and looked irritated.

Just as I was about to look away, he looked up and caught my eyes. Everyone was clapping, and Riley smiled at me. I bit my lip, smiled a little, and turned away.

Real nice, Laila.

Avoiding the burning of my cheeks, I started doodling in my notebook again. The assignment gave me an idea. I knew what I was going to write my story about. I was going to base a story---loosely---on my life. I could create a storyline, take details and events from my life, and work it all into the story. It would be gold! I could finally express how I was feeling in a healthy way. And the best part? No one would ever know it's me.

I spent the rest of class dreaming about my writing assignment. Opening up to a fresh page in my notebook---one without graffiti---I jotted down all of my thoughts. I was itching for school to end so I could start working on it.

When that annoying bell rang, I felt stuck in the classroom. With everyone bumping into my desk and trying to leave, it took forever to gather my things.

I turned around to grab my bag off the back of my seat, and my book fell off my desk.

I muttered a million swears under my breath, and when I turned to reach for it, someone had already extended it to me. I looked up and the freaking Brad Pitt of teenage boys smiled at me. Riley freaking Grey smiled at me. Here.

Thanks, I said and took it.

Before he was able to say anything else, Toby grabbed his arm---and with the rest of the laughing jocks, Riley disappeared. I couldn't tell if there was a small smile on my face or not, but I definitely felt my lips move. I stood and flung my bag over my shoulder.

You were excellent today, Mr. Andrews said as I passed his desk.

I curtsied. "Grazie. I wasn't going to say anything, but, you know." I shrugged.

I'm glad you liked the topic. I actually had you in mind when I thought if it. I know how much you like topics like these.

This was the way society was set up. Male teachers and male students could be friends. Female teachers and female students could be friends. Female teachers and male students could be friends. Male teachers and female students, however, could not be friends, because it was immediately deemed inappropriate or unnatural.

Mr. Andrews and I were living proof that what society said wasn't always true. A male teacher and female student could, in fact, have a healthy relationship. This was not in any way unnatural or unacceptable. It was a friendship between two people---just like any other. There was just something in the way everything clicked and fell together the moment I stepped into his classroom for the first time.

I'd always been the older sister. I'd always been the protector and the nurturer and the adult figure. I didn't have any older siblings looking out for me. With Mr. Andrews, I had that. In tenth grade, I was a bird flying blind---and Mr. Andrews helped guide me even though he didn't have to. He let me stay in his classroom whenever I wanted, and he let me borrow whatever poetry books I wanted from his library.

Having him as a teacher and friend was like having a crucial ally and confidant. I didn't look up to my parents. Mr. Andrews kind of filled that gap and doubled as a father figure and caring older brother. He provided safety and security. If I ever needed anything, I'd always have him to turn to. There was nothing wrong with that in my eyes. And I felt especially lucky to have a teacher like him.

Yeah, I actually already have an idea, I replied.

He smiled. Oh, yeah. I already knew that.

3

Riley Grey, Oh, Riley Grey

When the final bell rang, I zoomed out of art class so quickly I think someone might have mistaken me for Sonic. I pushed through the front doors of St. Ignatius High School and waltzed right out. With the trees swaying and the light shining, I felt my life take a shift. I'd been reborn! The only thing I felt was excitement. I couldn't wait to start writing my story. The ideas were clouding my head and making it hard to think straight.

Looking down at the folder in my hands, I started going through all the tests I'd gotten back that day. All of a sudden, a gust of wind blew the paper away. I tried to