CHAPTER 2: Naming games and Tiny Cloths

“I'm home!” I yelled as I closed the front door with my left foot.

“I'm in the kitchen!” Mum called back.

I dropped my keys into the little bowl by the entrance and made my way through the house, passing the living room and the staircase before turning right into the kitchen. The second I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong. Mum was wearing her blue apron, the one with Best Chef written across the front, and her hair had been twisted into a messy bun that looked like it had survived a fight with a whisk. Pots were spread across the stove, pans covered half the counter, and she was moving around the kitchen with the kind of frantic energy usually reserved for people trying to defuse bombs.

I slowly placed my bag on the floor, watching her lift one lid, stir something, mutter under her breath, then rush to the oven. “Am I missing something?”

She didn’t answer straight away. She moved a tray, checked a pot, wiped her hands on her apron, then finally stopped long enough to look at me with an expression that immediately made me nervous. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

I blinked. “Forgot what?”

Mum sighed heavily, the kind of sigh that carried years of disappointment, exhaustion and probably my entire childhood. “We’re having the Casaties over for dinner today. I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

My eyes widened. “I didn’t agree to this.”

Have I mentioned how much I hate guests? Well, I do. Serious hate. The kind that sits deep in the soul and files complaints. Especially uninvited guests. And by uninvited, I mean anyone I personally did not invite. The Casaties had only moved into the house next door a little over a month ago, and already they had managed to become the human equivalent of glitter. Annoying, impossible to ignore, and somehow everywhere. Mum smiled as if my opinion on the matter had been cute but completely irrelevant, then the smile vanished when her eyes sharpened on me. “I swear, if you pull another stunt like the last time…”

Her voice faded as my mind dragged me straight back to the last time the Casaties came over, which, in my defence, was not entirely my fault. Mostly. Maybe. Fine, it was a little bit my fault.

One month ago, I had silently made my way downstairs while everyone else was in the living room. I’d been watching a movie in my room and had reached the desperate stage of needing popcorn. Mum had invited our new neighbours over for dinner, the Casaties, a weird bunch consisting of one snobby mother and two annoying children. One of them was a kid, don’t ask me how old because I couldn’t care less, and the other was, I think, older than me. Anywho, I had already been forced to sit through dinner with them at the dining table, smiling politely while internally begging for freedom, so the moment the meal ended, I escaped upstairs like any reasonable person would. No way was I entertaining them.

I managed to get to the kitchen without being seen and went straight for the popcorn container on the counter, only to find it completely empty. I facepalmed, remembering I’d finished it the day before. Since apparently the universe liked testing me, I decided to make more. I pulled out a pot, not like pot pot, the cooking kind, okay? Just making sure you’re not confused or anything. Then I grabbed the oil and popcorn seeds from the pantry, turned the stove to maximum heat because patience was for people with hobbies, poured a careless amount of oil into the pot and set it on the burner. I covered it with the lid and left the oil to heat before adding the popcorn. I didn’t cook much. For some strange reason, no one trusted me around a stove or anything remotely dangerous. People were too paranoid.

A little while later, smoke began forming inside the pot, curling against the glass lid in a way that did not look friendly. Because I had obviously learnt nothing from life, I opened the lid and placed it on the counter. Smoke rose, filled the kitchen, and the next thing I knew, fire erupted out of the same pot I had almost had my face over. The alarm screamed through the house while I stared at the flames in shock. That wasn’t good.

After that, the fire department came. It wasn’t even that big of a fire. Nothing except the pot got burnt, if you excused my pride. Our new neighbours, however, were apparently traumatised and hadn’t stepped foot back in our home since. Honestly, I was surprised they had agreed to come back at all, especially after Mrs Casatie spent the entire evening clutching her pearls like I had personally attacked the family bloodline with cooking oil.

“Daniella! Are you even listening to me?”

I looked up to find Mum standing with her hands on her hips and a pointed look on her face. “Yes, yes, I heard everything you said.” I smiled, knowing full well I had heard nothing but a fragment of the first sentence. Before she could call me out, I eyed the messy kitchen and asked a very dumb question. “Do you need help?”

“No!”

Her response came out in less than a millisecond. Her hazel eyes widened, and both her arms shot up like she was trying to catch me before I fell off a cliff. She acted as if I had asked to burn down the house. When she noticed my face fall, she quickly tried to fix it. “What I meant was, you just got back from school and you must be really tired. If you’d like, you can help set the table later.”

I attempted to raise an eyebrow, though it probably made me look deranged, and slowly picked my bag up from the floor. Sure. That was definitely what she meant. Note the sarcasm. “You’re right. Hectic school and whatnot. I’ll set the table later, and if you need anything, I’ll be in my room.”

I turned and made my way upstairs, and I could’ve sworn I heard her sigh in relief. Halfway up, I glanced back. Mum had gone still beside the counter, one hand resting near the small noticeboard where she pinned bills, shopping lists and old photos she pretended she forgot to take down. Her fingers hovered over one picture in particular before she quickly turned it face down behind a takeaway menu. I only saw it for a second, but I knew the corner of that photo. I knew the leather jacket sleeve. I knew Mum knew I knew too, because when she looked up, her smile came too fast.

By the time I stood in front of the large mirror in my bedroom, I had already taken a shower and wrapped myself in a fluffy towel that was practically the size of a blanket. Green eyes stared back at me. Green eyes I wished I could forget. For a second, my mind drifted somewhere I didn’t want it to go, somewhere it always tried to sneak towards when I wasn’t paying attention, but I forced myself to focus on my reflection instead.

A strand of brown curly hair fell over my face. I blew it upward, only for it to fall right back down. This scene felt oddly familiar, did it not? A mess of frizzy curls sat on my head, making me look like I had survived a tornado and then possibly argued with it. Although I loved my thick, curly, waist-length hair, I was lazy as fudge, so taking care of it was less of a beauty routine and more of a full-time job I never applied for.

My bedroom door suddenly flew open, and I jumped so hard my towel almost gave up on life. I thought I had locked it. I turned to see Mum walking into my room as if privacy was a myth invented by dramatic teenagers, heading straight for my closet without a care in the world. Every time I brought up the concept of personal space, she mumbled something about seeing me naked since the day I was born. That was not the winning argument she thought it was. I grabbed the towel, which had loosened in the chaos, and clutched it so tightly against my chest it was a miracle I didn’t shove it through my ribs.

I watched in silence as Mum rummaged through my closet. The only sounds were hangers scraping against the rail, clothes being shoved aside and her constant disappointed “no” as she rejected perfectly good outfits. I sighed in defeat. Picking a fight with Mum over what I should wear had never ended well. Actually, picking a fight with Mum over anything had never ended well. She had the calm persistence of a woman who could fold fitted sheets and still have energy left to emotionally destroy you with a look.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, turning around with something green in her hand. “And you said it disappeared.”

My eyes moved from her proud smile to the piece of fabric dangling from her fingers. It took a second for my brain to understand what I was looking at. Once it did, my eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. I mean, they were practically running away from the trauma that was the cloth in her hand. I choked on my own saliva while trying to recollect my brain cells.

“I thought I burned that,” I whispered.

Mum’s smile widened as she placed it on the bed. “I’m so glad I got you this dress. I knew it would come in handy one day.”

Dress? I was pretty sure I owned knickers longer than that. I shook my head before she had even finished speaking, but Mum anticipated my response with the frightening accuracy only mothers possessed. “No, you will not refuse. I didn’t spend money on it just so it could decorate your closet floor.”

Might as well have.

Her finger rose at me in warning. “This isn’t up for discussion. You are wearing this dress.”

A frown settled on my face. No. That dress would be wearing me. I would practically be naked. I knew what she was trying to do, and I appreciated the effort, but I didn’t need it. She wanted me to dress more like my age, sixteen. Girls here dressed like they had been mugged for fabric on the street and were missing important parts of their clothing. I despised it. My body was my own, and I would choose comfort over this so-called beauty any day. So you could probably imagine how the people in our community viewed me. It was like a law to dress a certain way. I swear, I wouldn’t be shocked if I found it in an actual law book.

Mum sighed and approached me, placing both hands gently on my shoulders. We were almost eye to eye, though she was still taller by a few inches, which she never let me forget without saying anything. “I know you don’t care how you look as long as you’re comfortable,” she said, her voice softening in that dangerous way that usually meant guilt was coming. “It would just be nice to see you in a dress a few times.”

Then she did it. The puppy dog eyes. She always did this. Sometimes it was hard to remember who the teenager was in this house. Guilt filled me like water filling a glass, and I began glancing around my room to avoid looking directly at her. My room was quite the sight, so at least it gave me options. The walls were painted black and covered with my own paintings and drawings, originals of course, because as an art student it was only right to have my work pasted everywhere like a small personal museum. My queen bed had a navy blue duvet with yellow stripes, which I once thought looked like a race car. All it was missing were wheels, metal, windows, a steering wheel... okay, maybe it didn’t look like a race car. My dresser stood in the far-right corner, a proud brown thing with six drawers containing everything from stationery to undergarments. The window sat to the left of it, and through the glass I could see over the trees because my room was upstairs. Night was slowly settling in, and a crescent moon had begun rising in the distance, so beautiful I wanted to take a picture of it.

“Daniella Ariella Rosabella Bella Zoella Ella Nella Mariella Mariana Katamina.”

I cringed at the mention of my ridiculous and extraordinarily long full name. I was honestly shocked she wasn’t out of breath. When I was younger, I used to think my teachers were being dramatic when they had mini hyperventilating sessions after saying my whole name. Now I understood what they went through. Gosh, what were my parents thinking? It was like they had played a sick joke on baby me. Every time I tried to get clarification on what the fudge had been going on in their heads, they brushed me off like lint. Well, not this time.

“Let’s say I make you a deal,” I said.

I realised I was rubbing my hands together in a maniacal way like one of those terrible villains on television, so I quickly dropped them to my sides and attempted to look natural. Mum had removed her hands from my shoulders and placed them on her hips, one eyebrow lifted in question. Even she could do it. She didn’t have to say anything. Her what do you want face was clear as day.

I smiled in a non-suspicious way. “I’ll wear that awf—amazing dress,” I said, recovering quickly from my slip-up, “only if you tell me the story of how my wonderful name came to be.”

I smiled sweetly to cover the sarcasm that was desperately trying to show itself. I deserved to know, right? My name literally sounded like a nursery rhyme on crack. Mum eyed me for a few moments, and I could tell she was debating whether to tell me. A few of my many, uncountable, never-ending cousins on her side had even made a song out of my name. They kept having babies like there was a competition and no one had informed me. It was crazy. How was anyone supposed to take me seriously when people almost died of laughter after hearing my full name? I wasn’t saying it was terrible. It was unique. Very, very, and I mean very, rare.

Mum clearly didn’t want to tell me, but eventually she gave in. Her sigh echoed through the room, and I almost jumped in victory. “Fine. I tell you, you wear the dress.”

I nodded enthusiastically.

She moved towards my bed and patted the space beside her, motioning for me to sit. I kept one hand firmly on my towel as I joined her because I trusted Mum with many things, but I did not trust gravity. Once I sat down, she looked at the dress, then at me, then somewhere far beyond my room, as if the memory lived in a place she didn’t visit often.

“After many, many months of waiting, finally the day came that you would be born, and you were so heavy it’s a miracle my back was still intact.”

I rolled my eyes. So dramatic.

“Again, after many gruesome hours of push—” She immediately stopped when she remembered who she was talking to. Her sweet, innocent sixteen-year-old daughter who was just a fledgling and knew nothing of the world. Sike. I knew, unfortunately, how the annoying creatures known as babies were manufactured. I had to learn about it at school at some point. But for some odd, disgusting, what-the-fudge reason, us innocent children were expected to watch a video about it. Me being the smart one, I faked being sick at the time, not knowing it would come back to bite me in the bottom later. Who knew vomiting during the baby lesson would have people thinking you were pregnant? Me? Preggy? Why, I never. It took some time to convince my teacher, but finally he believed me. Again, do you know how difficult it is to convince your male teacher that you’re not pregnant?

Mum awkwardly cleared her throat and continued. “Fast forward to me holding you in my arms. You were so cute.” Her eyes left my face and wandered into a dream state. “So adorably tiny. A little angel in my arms.”

I considered interrupting to tell her that her little angel was currently number one on everyone’s hit list at school, but no good would come from that.

“So your father and I...” She paused slightly.

I didn’t miss the quick glance she gave me at the mention of he who must not be spoken of, and no, not Voldemort. Him. The one she had just mentioned. I refused to call him by that other word.

“We hadn’t yet decided on a name for you because we wanted to meet you first,” Mum continued. “So days later, we invited everyone over.”

By everyone, she meant the family. The extended family and the extension of the extended family. The ones who continued to have babies like they had nothing else to do. I lost count of how many we were after fifty, just on Mum’s side. Yes, they reached fifty and somehow still wanted to continue. Why, you may wonder? I asked myself that every time they visited.

“So we had a small celebration.”

Small, my foot. They probably filled an entire hall and had people lounging outside too.

“We may or may not have gotten a little tipsy. As the night progressed, we continued celebrating and drinking.”

Wait a second. If everyone was drinking, where was baby me in this situation? Along with the many other babies and children at the time?

“When the clock struck midnight—”

Hold up. Was this a retelling of Cinderella?

“Everyone wanted to know your name. Your father,” cue the awkward cringe from yours truly, “and his brothers had been singing some nursery rhyme at the time, and a bunch of us joined in. Next thing we knew, your beautiful name was formed, and then we somehow ended up writing it onto your birth certificate before we could sober up.”

She muttered the last part, but I heard it clearly.

For several seconds, we sat in silence. Me, glowering at her. Her, looking calmly back at me with the tiniest hint of guilt tucked into the corners of her mouth. You could tell from her small smile and wandering eyes that refused to meet mine properly.

“Let me get this straight.” I took a deep breath, because I could not explode. I had to remember that she was, in fact, my mother, and if I did explode, she would skin me alive. “You were drunk when you chose my wonderful name?”