Chapter 5: “Sasha’s Birthday” Pt. III

Time for my stellar transformation.

I shower and wash my hair, making sure to shave my important bits. Once I step out and towel myself dry, 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 filing my fingernails, I start lathering on some Victoria’s Secret cream all over my bed-sore body, starting from my legs before moving my way up to my breasts and hairy arms. I remember to rub my butt and the back of my thighs, all too self-conscious of my stretch marks, until I feel refreshed and reborn, glowing brighter than dawn’s first light.

I collapse on my bed now, catching my breath. 

This new lotion I’ve been safeguarding smells pretty sweet, not gonna lie. It’s not my usual style, but as the flowery name suggests, Sugar Fleur boasts a sweet 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 rosy stuff. Tati even gave it his seal of approval despite Maika’s obvious distaste.

I remember how Maika criticized me for picking that over the Sexy Passionfruit in her typical mocking tone (“You smell like apple pie”), to which Tati dared to jump to my defense using on-brand Dad humor (“What’s wrong with apple pie? I like apple pie”), thus leading to an argument he knew she’d drag on forever just so he could distract her and slip me a fifty. I snuck away before she noticed my conspicuous silence, scrambling to hide my secret purchase inside my Loungefly backpack. Once we had returned home, I shoved it behind my boxes of pads beneath the sink of my bathroom where it continues to lurk in the shadow of my thoughts.

Maika scares me sometimes. I love her, don’t get me wrong. We’re her beloved children and she loves to spoil us rotten, yet she possesses a special talent for making you feel like a child despite the fact she means well. Shocking, I know. She’s quite the contrarian, that one. I blame her shameless sense of entitlement on the way she grew up, always treated like a princess compared to her grumpy sister. Speaking of Maika...

I check my phone, swiping down the notification bar. 

How much longer should I hold on to hope before accepting the fact she doesn't care enough to call? I know she texted me and everything, but I really wanted her to call me instead, to show that she enjoys the sound of my voice and our crazy, high-octane conversations more than the cute afterthought of an American daughter waiting to be showered with extravagant gifts.

Oh, well… Them’s the breaks, I guess. I wonder what she’s doing that would make her too busy to drop a line.

Sigh. Well, enough wallowing in my pettiness. Time to get up.

I brush the painful knots out of my damp hair for fifteen minutes (nearly breaking my neck), blow-drying 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, unruly, and full of split ends. I forgot to visit Maria, Tati’s hair stylist friend who lives out in the bourgeois Walnut Creek, to trim them off as well as layer my overgrown hair, but that’s fine. I can at least do the trimming myself. Five minutes later in front of the bathroom mirror, I’m satisfied with my handiwork.

Now my wardrobe. I had my favorite white dress in mind, the one Tati bought me from Nordstrom Rack with the floral stitching, delicate straps, and low-cut back. But what about 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 get to be the sexiest idiot. Wait a second, I still have her heels that 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 up in a high ponytail 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 also my favorite, inked a deep blue violet with twin stars and pink roses to complete the picture. I like 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’s powerless in the face of Tati's fierce support. He’s the reason I managed to get one in the place, and right after I turned sixteen, too! Without his divine intervention, I would’ve bought one with a fake ID (and I guarantee you, nothing could’ve stopped me). I’ve always admired Tati’s tattoos for as long as I can remember, going so far as to plaster on cheap tattoo stickers from restaurant slot machines and doodling amateur pen art on my arms until I eventually discovered henna tattoos.

Of course, Boey ratted me out one day because he had nothing better to do, convinced they were the real thing, and I screamed bloody murder, calling him a cunt (the first time I dared to utter it within earshot of Tati’s vocal disapproval) before I proceeded to body him, drawing blood. When Tati couldn’t pry us apart, he promised me that he would buy my first tattoo in order to quell my wrath, thus resulting in these three beauties.

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 tree branch of white sakura blossoms that spans the entire length of my right thigh, ending below my knee. Alas, tattoos are expensive. Because I tend to burn through my monthly allowance so quick, 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, before slipping on the rose-gold ruby ring Tati gifted me for my birthday last year, rummaging for my new earrings Maika gifted me in the mail. As if she knew she would not make it. I try not to think about it, how she likes to make up for lost time with expensive gifts instead. They're a pair of white sapphires fashioned inside rose-shaped stud earrings that coincidently match my ring, as if competing with Tati's measure of love. Maika needs to lighten up sometimes.

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 or four thirty. I can't remember– It’s twenty-seven 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. Wait, I forgot my mascara and lipstick– never mind, screw it. I’ll go without. I’m already running 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 on full display. On his right arm, a roaring lion’s head surrounded by blooming roses and the Holy Cross; that one he got during his gangster stint in Bulgaria months before moving to America. Years later, watching Game of Thrones would inspire him to get a wolf's head on his left arm to match, framed by a full moon above and an ink black forest of evergreen trees within its mane.

I can tell Tati’s all ready to go, because he wears his favorite solar-powered Rolex watch and Ringkøbing leather sandals. He swapped his food-stained shirt and casual pants for a Banana Republic white shirt and Diesel white shorts, his compass tattoo visible through the hollow cut fabric on his left chest. Boey’s nowhere in sight, a little consolation for my “fashionably late” self. I feel like a Cinderella transformed– until I reach the bottom of the stairs, and nobody 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 to jog over and reach me (much to the boys' vocal frustration). I know exactly what he wants and I’m gonna let him have it, because I want to enjoy the feeling of my dress fluttering around my legs as we dance. We link hands and spin round and round like a pair of giggling monkeys until dizziness overtakes us and we succumb to breathless laughter.

“Woohoo~ That was fun~!”

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

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

Now I'm veering off course, feeling Sunnie's grip slip from my own. Gah! I'm on a collision course straight for the glass table in front of our 4K TV and it’s looking like a serious concussion. Caleb lunges forward at the last second from the couch armrest to catch me like a football pitched too low, both of us winded by the impact of my head hitting his diaphragm. I shall never forget your sacrifice, Pikachu, nor your lack of vigilance and concern, Ezra.

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

"Oof. Thanks." I grimace. A little too close for comfort. I almost face-planted into his crotch.

I scramble to straighten myself, using him for balance while feeling like a 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 only awkward silence answers me. I peer up at him, transfixed by his flustered expression. “What?” It's when his eyes waver from my face does it dawn on me. Oh. So that's how it is.

I smirk, seeking his elusive gaze. “What’s this~? Cat got your tongue?"

"Sh-Shut up! Just get off me."

I pout, pretending to act offended. "Rude. You hurt my feelings." 

Say what you will about my personality, but I inherited my mother’s blessed looks. Caleb’s a sucker for pretty faces and I’ve used that to my advantage, messing with him every chance I got. I’d find ways to casually invade his personal space and he’d react by shoving me away every time, delighting in his rising anger over my shameless laughter. I had braced myself, afraid of the knock back on these heels– only to be surprised that he didn’t. Whoa, my heart skipped a beat there. 

Standing this close to him, I can actually admit that he looks cute when he’s blushing, his scowling face flushed red like he woke up to a double sunburn. It’s even funnier due to his fair complexion, because he can’t even hide it. Satisfied by my mischief, I let go and backtrack to Tati's side, mindful of Sunnie’s hovering. Aw, look at him with those puppy eyes. I reach out to pat his head, absolving him of any guilt– and annoyed by Caleb’s need to have the last word.

"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 the boys lost the game or they finally decided to pause it, because now everyone set their controllers aside to watch the show, too distracted to keep the whole team together. Ezra squints up at me, confused by the rare sight of me. His dazed look of mute disbelief annoys 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, except instead of a swan, he prefers to call me 'ugly gorilla girl.' “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.

"Mnogo ti 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 six feet and here I am about to head-butt 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? Like– like a large and fluffy Bulgarian husky! So happy and loving and pure. Hnnng. His positivity blinds me... And he's wearing Calvin Klein cologne, too! The kind he only wears for fancy outings. Now that I'm standing this close, it's starting to intoxicate my senses. Men's cologne are my mortal weakness...

“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. "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 wrath. The oldest in our group and the first one to graduate high school, Boey’s notorious for his violent temper and 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 ever since Maika brought me home from the hospital. The first day, Boey cried and kept abusing his toys until he exhausted himself to sleep. Later on, he learned to sneak in punches every time Tati looked away and I'd smash his prized Lego sets in retaliation. I hated our punishments whenever Tati got fed-up of us, because he would force us to literally "kiss and make up" before releasing us from our mutual humiliation.

And I've never forgiven Maika for defending Boey every time he started shit, always wearing her rose-colored glasses when it came to our "play fighting." Firstborn son, my ass. He's an asshole who always wins his way. Nowadays, he calls me every other insult under the sun, and I consider that an improvement. Or maybe he learned to back off once I started screaming "ABUSE!" in public; gotta use every weapon in my arsenal, including my female privilege.

So I am very familiar with his brand of fear and terror, yet I cured my fear of him a long time ago by fighting back.

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

Like now, poking the sleeping beast.

I backhand him with a compliment 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, dragging us along and 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 took him this long to finally get a key, because none of us were sure if his strict, conservative 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? Ciao ciao~."Translation: “Bye bye” Cultural Note: Can be used for both ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’

“Ciao~.”

Once outside, I race the feet-dragging Boey across the red stone pavement of our long driveway, barely beating him to the front passenger seat, which I claim by birthright. Just in case, I shout it out loud for maximum effect. "Shotgun~!" Tati unlocks the doors to his black Challenger and I jump inside, my arms and legs already breaking out into goosebumps from the air-conditioner. I lean over my plush leather seat to annoy Boey with one of my goofy faces after he settles in.

"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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