Chapter 3: “Sasha’s Birthday” Pt. III

Time for my stellar transformation.

I shower, wash my hair, and shave my important bits. Once I towel myself down, I wrap my long hair up in a cotton turban, clean the dirt off my ankles with a foot scrubber, and clip my toenails. Once I finish cutting my fingernails, I start lathering on some Victoria’s Secret lotion all over my naked body. I go from my legs first, then my hips, my crotch, my stomach, my breasts while I massage them for lumps, my shoulders, my neck (I need to scrub the back of my neck, too, grr), my hairy arms, even my face, remembering my butt and the back of my thighs, all too self-conscious of my stretch marks– until I feel refreshed and reborn. 

I lie down for five minutes, catching my breath. 

It smells pretty sweet, not gonna lie. Tease: Sugar Fleur (as the flowery name suggests) advertises a combination of fresh apples, jasmine buds, and pink caramel that simply intoxicates the senses. I wanted to try it out, take a break from the heavier fruity stuff. Plus, it earned Tati’s seal of approval despite Maika’s obvious distaste. 

“You should've picked the Sexy Passionfruit,” she said with a crinkle of her pointy nose. “You smell like apple pie.”

“What’s wrong with apple pie? I like apple pie.” 

Tati sacrificed himself to save me, instigating a fight he knew Maika could carry on forever just to distract her. I fled as soon as he slipped me a fifty, hiding the purchase in my Loungefly backpack until we returned home and I stuffed it behind my box of pads beneath the sink in my bathroom. 

I never forget all the times Tati defended my interests, even if they didn’t make much sense to him, because I felt free to explore or express myself without feeling like an idiot. Maika, on the other hand, can sometimes come across as cruel in her moments of shameless self-entitlement. I love her, don’t get me wrong. We’re her precious children and she loves to spoil us rotten, giving us the life she never had growing up (as she often likes to say to justify her mothering), yet she possesses a special talent for making you feel like a child even when she believes she means well.

Speaking of Maika... I take my phone off the charger, swiping down the bar. She still hasn’t texted me. 

How much longer should I wait before accepting the fact she’s forgotten all about my birthday? I really wanted her to remember and call me first, to show she actually cares. Oh well… Them’s the breaks, I guess. I wonder what she’s doing that would make her too busy to call.

Sigh. Well, enough basking in the afterglow. Time to get up.

I brush the painful knots out of my damp hair for fifteen minutes (nearly breaking my neck), blow-dry my thick hair for another twenty minutes, before brushing it smooth again for another grueling, anger-inducing ten minutes. See, this is why I hate hair maintenance. It’s thick and unruly and full of split ends. I forgot to visit Maria, Tati’s hair stylist friend who lives out in Walnut Creek, to trim them off, but that’s fine. I can do it myself. Five minutes later in front of the bathroom mirror, I’m satisfied with my handiwork.

Now my wardrobe. I had my favorite summer breezy white dress in mind, the one Tati bought me from Nordstrom Rack, with the floral stitching, delicate straps, and low-cut back. And now the shoes. I hate high heels with a passion, and I wore down my favorite low-heeled white sandals from last year. Welp, time to raid Maika’s closet. I might trip and meet my bloody end on the asphalt, but at least I’ll be the sexiest idiot. Wait a second, I still have her heels I borrowed from a couple weeks ago right here–

I slip them on and start practicing my amateur runway walk. Okay, I feel like Bambi on ice, but at least I didn’t fall twice. Success.

I tie my hair into a high ponytail in order to show off my crescent moon tattoo below the center of my neck. It’s my second tattoo out of the three I have, and it’s my favorite, inked violet and blue with twin stars and pink roses to complete the look. I love the thin straps of my dress, since they don’t obstruct my black mandala tattoo on the curve of my left shoulder and the fancy-looking Om symbol on my right bicep. 

Maika hates tattoos and she threw a nasty fit when she found out I got one, yet she holds no power in the face of Tati's fierce support. I mean, he’s the reason I managed to get one as soon as I turned sixteen. Otherwise, I would’ve tried to buy one with a fake ID; nothing could’ve stopped me. Tati looks so cool in his tattoos that I grew up wanting my own, building my courage with henna tattoos throughout middle school until Boey ratted me out one day. Even you, Brutus? To think I trusted you–! I tackled him to the ground, drawing first blood. When Tati couldn’t pry us apart, he promised me that he would buy my first tattoo in order to quell my wrath. 

There’s at least two more I want to get– a dreamcatcher tattoo right below my right ear (I’m still debating if I want two to match, swaying like wind chimes across my neck), and a large branch of white sakura blossoms that spans the entire length of my right thigh, ending right below my knee. And yet, I burn through my monthly allowance within the first week all the time. I can't help it. Tattoos are expensive. I had to beg Tati to buy me the mandala one as my early birthday present, Maika’s venomous anger be damned. Now I must wait for Christmas to test my luck.

Well, enough admiring myself in the mirror. I clip on my gold “Alexandria” necklace that Maika bought for me in middle school, before slipping on my rose-gold ruby ring that Tati gifted to me as a birthday present last year on my ring finger. 

Now, time for a graceful twirl. 

I only wish Aya could’ve been here to help me weave a couple of French braids, but otherwise, I’m satisfied with my overall look. Aya’s currently working at the B&N cafè down in Antioch, and she gets off around four to four thirty. It’s seventeen past three already? Damn, we plan to meet her there, and I’m the one who’s taking the longest. 

I remember to apply some Bulgarian rose perfume on my neck and collarbone before leaving my room and making my epic descent. Wait, I forgot my mascara and lipstick– never mind, screw it. I’ll go without. It’s too late. 

I see Tati first from the angle at which I descend. 

He stands waiting at the kitchen threshold, watching the boys play Mario Strikers with his arms crossed, his tattoos in full display. 

He sports a roaring lion’s head on his right arm framed by roses in full bloom, a dreamcatcher, and the Holy Cross. It covers his bicep all the way down to his wrist; that one he got during his gangster stint in Bulgaria. Years later, watching Game of Thrones at its peak would inspire him to get a wolf's head to match on his opposite arm, its eyes glowing an icy blue. Whoever designed that fearsome tattoo absolutely killed it, because its calm face looks so majestic pyramided inside a full moon, more roses in full bloom, and an ink black forest of evergreen trees blended into its mane. 

As for his outfit, Tati swapped his food-stained shirt and casual pants for a Banana Republic white shirt and matching Diesel shorts, his compass tattoo visible through the hollow cut fabric over his left chest. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome cuts a mean, handsome image as usual, yet the sight of his resting bitch face alone separates the gutless from the curious. Put him next to Boey, who looks and acts like a skinnier clone of him, and you can see why I can never find a decent guy worth his cojones. That suits me just fine. Means less work for me. Thanks to the overprotective men in my life, I never have to deal with unnecessary bullshit, least of all heartbreak, at the hands of no-good chads. 

I can tell Tati’s ready to go, because he wears his favorite solar-powered Rolex watch and Ringkøbing leather sandals. Boey’s nowhere in sight, a nice consolation for my “fashionably late” entrance. I feel like a Cinderella transformed– until I reach the bottom of the stairs, and no one acknowledges my glamorous entrance. 

"...Sasha? Is that my Sasha? You look like a princess~!"

Except for Sunnie, of course. He always takes the time to notice, bless his heart. 

He hops to his feet, dropping his place in the match entirely (much to the boys' vocal anger) to jog over and reach me. I know exactly what he wants and I’m gonna let him have it, because I want to enjoy the feeling of my maxi dress billowing around my legs as we dance like monkeys. We grin ear to ear as we hold hands, spinning round and round until dizziness overwhelms us and we succumb to breathless giggles. Woohoo~ This is fun~

"Hey, careful." Tati chastises us, and I panic.

Urk, I hope I don't trip– and just like that, I breathe my thoughts into life. 

Now I'm veering off course, feeling Sunnie's grip slip from my own. Gah! Who's the closest, I'm on a collision course straight for the couch armrest and it’s looking like a concussion. Caleb lunges forward last second from the edge of the couch, scrambling to catch me at the cost of his concentration and my pro controller (I shall never forget your sacrifice, Pikachu, nor your lack of vigilance, Ezra). He somehow succeeds to secure me, like catching a football pitched too low, both of us winded by the impact of my head hitting his diaphragm.

"Watch out, woman! You almost broke your neck."

"Oof. Thanks." I grimace. A little too close for comfort. I almost face-planted in his crotch. I scramble to straighten myself, using him as my anchor and feeling like a baby crocodile learning ballet in a tutu. "You're pretty strong." I smile, expecting a fat joke, anything to roast me for my clumsiness, and yet awkward silence answers me instead. I peer up at him, transfixed by his flustered expression. "What is it? 

It's when his eyes waver from my face does it dawn on me. Oh. I smirk, seeking his elusive gaze. “Cat got your tongue?"

"Shut up. Just get off me."

"Rude. You hurt my feelings." I pout, my offense only skin deep. As soon as I let go, backtracking to Tati's side while Sunnie hovers, looking remorseful, Caleb felt the need to have the last word. He always uses humor to cope with his embarrassment.

"You actually look like a girl for once."

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms and leaning my weight on one foot. "Gee, thanks."

I think they lost the game or they finally decided to pause it, because everyone set their controllers aside to watch the show, too distracted to keep the whole team together. Ezra in particular squints up at me, his dazed look of mute disbelief irking me. What am I, a shiny Poke’mon? 

“You look great, holy crap–.”

"Okay, enough already. I get the point. I'm the frog princess liberated from her curse."

"Nah. You're more like the swan princess who only transforms once in a blue moon.” JD smirks, always hitting me with those stealth shots. He’s basically saying I’m more hopeless than the ‘beast’ who only regains her beautiful human form at night when the moonlight hits the lake. I’m worse than a swan, because he prefers to call me ugly ‘gorilla’ girl instead. “You're still cursed. There's no saving you." 

“Ey!”

I’m not that bad, but the boys’ snickering says otherwise.

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Okay, even I have to admit that was a good one, but I would never give him the satisfaction.

"Ti si mnogo krisiva, printsesa."Translation: “You are very beautiful, princess.” Tati attempts to appease me for damage control, his voice soft and sincere. 

I refuse to let it sway me– after all, what father doesn’t compliment his daughter?– until his hand clasps my own, pulling me towards him. I catch myself in mid-stumble, irritated by the state of my awkward, stiff, and twisted body. Man, these heels add some serious inches, because Tati stands tall at five-feet-ten and here I am about to headbutt his nose (feeling tempted to do just that). My inadequacy over my lack of femininity starts to boil over, and I really want to vent my anger out on something, preferably an inanimate object I can inflict physical harm.

That feeling melts away as soon as he lifts my hand for a kiss, tickling my knuckles. How can I stay mad when Tati smiles at me like that? It’s like kicking a large and fluffy Bulgarian husky, so happy and impossible to scowl at while he continues gazing at me with those gentle eyes of his until I give in.

“Fine. You win." I concede with a huff; recalling his earlier compliment leads me to curtsy, hoping to save face. "Merci, Tati."Cultural note: It’s common for Bulgarians to say ‘merci’ instead of ‘blagodarya’ to express thank you. The former is more informal and acceptable for social settings; the latter rarely used unless you want to be serious.

Caleb grimaces, disgusted by our display of affection. "You're such a daddy's girl."

I swear, the men in my life try too hard to embarrass me, and this man loves to play with fire. Caleb used to pick on me all the time since first grade and he had a knack for pissing me off, even succeeding to humiliate me sometimes. Now, I’ve learned to not give a shit.

"Hey, just because you have daddy issues doesn't mean everyone else has to have them."

He blinks, clenching his jaw in a rather impressive show of tearful restraint. "You know, if you cleaned yourself up a bit more, guys would be lining up to date you."

I snort. That insult again? That might’ve worked on me five years ago when puberty struck me like lightning, but now my self-esteem has been reforged by the flames of experience. As if I care about being desirable to men with firecrackers for dicks. Still, I find it annoying that Caleb had the nerve to say that in front of my own Dad. What’s worse, Tati makes no comment about it, simply observes us in silence, and I voice my complaint through humor. 

"Can you believe this guy? Total disrespect!"

He shrugs. "You're grown kids now. I expect you to resolve your own fights and disagreements."

"What an adult thing to say." I smirk, nudging him.

He reciprocates my teasing with a smirk of his own, pinching my cheeky smile. "One of us has to be."

"Hey. If you've got a problem with that," Boey says, descending the stairs to sneer at him. "Then shut the fuck up. No one asked you."

Caleb recoils, the venom dripping from his sharp tone visceral enough to slap him speechless. I sigh, annoyed. He always acts like a tough guy until Boey shows up, and that’s when he shrinks into his shadow, afraid of invoking his hostility. The oldest in our group and the first one to graduate high school, Boey’s notorious for his violent temper and vitriolic intolerance for bullshit. Everybody and their mothers and cousins knows he tends to pick fights and win them, so no one dares to cross his path unless they harbor a death wish. 

I suffered and endured him at his worst since childhood, and he never made it a secret how much he hated me the day Maika brought me home from the hospital. So I am very familiar with his brand of fear and terror. I cured my fear of him a long time ago by fighting back, and now he learned to tolerate my existence.

“Oh, look. You’re actually wearing my favorite shirt.” 

Like now, poking the sleeping beast.

I compliment him as soon as he reaches us. Nothing fancy. Just a graphic white t-shirt with a wolf’s head howling at an unseen sky, but I appreciate his effort all the same since his white shirt, black jeans, and black combat boots complements my all-white ensemble. Look at us, the perfect monochrome family. I break out into a wolfish howl, motivating the cranky Boey to do the same. I envy how his tends to sound more natural, like Link’s Wolf form in Twilight Princess.

Tati watches us, his eyes twinkling from mirth as he begins to quote our favorite TV show. “When the snow falls and white wind blows–.”

“The lone wolf dies–.” Boey continues it, and I end it. “–but the pack survives.” 

That’s been our silly family tradition ever since the final season, and now Tati strides forward to snag us in each of his strong arms, bumping heads. “Alright, House Stark. Let’s move out,” he says, before dragging us along, relishing in our howling laughter and complaint.

“Gak! Careful! My heels– I’m about to trip–!”

“Wait a sec– Tatko! Who’s going to watch the house? JD doesn’t have a key.”

“That reminds me.” All of a sudden he lets go and we stumble into the foyer, recollecting ourselves as Tati strolls back into the living room. He shoves his hand into his pocket, taking out a Mandalorian painted key to toss it in the air. “JD, you're the man of the house. That one's yours. Don't lose it."

JD fails to catch it before it bounces off his shoulder, but Richie manages to snag it, pressing it to his awaiting palm. 

"What, so I'm no longer a freeloader?"

"Yeah. Consider yourself officially adopted." He grins, teasing.

"Aw ye~." JD grins, attaching it to his pin-loaded lanyard of keys and Kirby figurines. "Thanks, Yuri." 

He stands now, waddling over to give him a proper hug, which Tati accepts with a whole-hearted embrace, patting his back. Normally the awkward one when it comes to physical display of affection, he always spares the effort for Tati. It only took him this long to get a key, because none of us were sure if his strict and coldhearted parents wanted to bring his runaway status to court. Fortunately, they turned a blind eye to his situation upon their decision to move out of state, essentially disowning him to seek a cheaper standard of living outside California. He turns eighteen next year in May, anyway; no point in going through the formal adoption process.

"Don't mention it. You all behave yourselves, alright? Chow chow~."Translation: “Bye bye” Cultural Note: Can be used for both ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’

“Chow~.”

Once outside, Tati unlocks the doors to his black Challenger and I race the feet-dragging dispassionate Boey to the front passenger seat, which I claim by birthright. Just in case, I shout it out loud for maximum effect. "Shotgun~!" My arms and legs already break out into goosebumps from the blasting air-conditioner, and I lean over my plush leather seat to annoy Boey with one of my goofy faces.

"What're you supposed to be, a gremlin?"

"A goblin! Geez!"

"The ugliest goblin I've ever seen."

"C'mon, guys. Buckle up." 

We clip our seatbelts on after Tati shuts his door, and I reach over to fiddle with his Samsung phone, looking for my playlist of favorite Bulgarian songs on his Youtube Music. Here we go– Gergana's "Gubya Te Bavno," my favorite Bulgarian song from the early 2000s. I grew up listening to her albums among other artists like Kamelia and Anelia on our region-free Blu Ray player. I still don’t know how my parents found those disc copies– call it the wonders of the internet and their Bulgarian community– but me and Maika would blast their music on high while linking hands and dancing in circles until the neighbors complained (mostly just Aya’s asshole dad).

"Not this again."

"Shut up, Boey. No comments from the peanut gallery."

"You always pick the saddest songs. Scratch that– every love song by Gergana is the saddest song." 

"It's my birthday. I can play whatever I want." 

As I say this, Boey's grousing ruins the song's novelty for me, so I switch to my other favorite of hers just to spite him, a duet with Anelia called "Za Teb Lyubov." It still sounds a bit melancholic in nature, but much more passionate and full of hope, so he better appreciate it. I ignore Boey's reflection in the rearview mirror, of him collapsing into his seat with a heavy sigh, as I belt out the first two lines. Tati gives me a fond smile, tapping my cheek with his knuckles.

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