The tragic beginning of Mia White

I don’t remember what came before, but when I was about three, I went to live with the Whites. As their beloved, pampered daughter, who they took from the slums and brought to live as royalty, or that’s what they told the people who We’re my parents, they lied. Under the fancy dresses and the perfect makeup lie bruises, cuts, and scars. Don't believe me? Well, I've heard that before. Dominic and Belinda White, or Father and Mother when we have company, say it all the time. I might only be four, but I know what mistakes mean, and saying anything is a mistake. Miss Tia, my nanny, brushes my short, dark curls back, gently smearing ointment over the red lashes across my neck and back, pulling a blue dress over my skinny frame. "Miss Tia," I whisper, hoping my bedroom is still a safe place to talk. “What did I do wrong?” She slips the last button into place. “Nothing, darling, absolutely nothing.” She wraps me in a hug and scoops me onto her lap, rocking and humming a happy little tune. I curl my pale fingers around her chocolate-colored arm, wishing I had skin like hers. Then I could melt into the shadows. Find a land where everyone is as nice as Miss Tia. I would bring her with me, of course, and we would live happily ever after like in the books Miss Tia sometimes reads me. This is my happy place: warm, quiet, and hidden. Too soon, Miss Tia gives me a squeeze. “You must go to the party now.” “I don't want to.” “I know, little bird, but everything will be better if you do.” And in this world, what we want doesn’t matter. So, in my dress and curls, I wait for the Whites. Soon, they come. Belinda, tall, graceful, in a long Robin's-egg-blue dress, with bleached blonde hair, and every inch the beautiful Snake her name implies. Dominic, a head taller than Belinda, clean-shaven with short blonde hair that will probably turn white one of these days, dashing in his matching blue tuxedo (that he actually owns), black tie, and shoes. Then the sons—I am their fifth child—they bore four sons before they took me. Nicholas, a mirror image of his father, just younger and a little shorter. He is the oldest, and so gets a "N" name instead of the "M" names the rest of us have. At the age of 8, he thinks me an ignorant child. He ignores me for the most part. The twins, Magness and Maximus, two years Nicholas's juniors, took more after their mother, with long, nimble fingers and sharp cheekbones. They like to tease me. And Mason, the youngest son, was born the same year I came. He is the treasured baby boy; I am the little girl who no one wants much, so I can’t go anywhere near him. We all wear blue. I wish it was something darker, something warm and dark brown, sweet, kind. I don’t know how they see me, but it must be something like this: tiny Mia, too skinny, unlike us, with her black hair and amber eyes. She should be glad Belinda and Dominic took her in, be glad when we hit her. She's a nobleman’s daughter now. She should be grateful. Miss Belinda snaps her fingers. “Mia, come.” I move to stand by her knee, and we walk down the hall, out the doors, and into the ballroom. Out in the ballroom, it's loud and colorful, and cold. I try to stay out of the way, but when you're the shortest, it's hard. So I stay in Belinda’s shadow; she hides me from the oppressive light, her hand resting on my shoulder. Here, I'm content; it's not the same as Miss Tia, but Belinda's approval means something special. In these short moments, it seems like she really cares about me. “Belinda, it's a pleasure to see you again.” A gentleman with the most ridiculous hat kisses her hand. Mason gripped her skirts tighter. “The pleasure is mine.” I listen, every inch the quiet, obedient child that these people think girls should be. They discuss politics and wars, and other things I don’t understand, though I like to think myself a smart child. “Mother.” The twins make their bows. “Yes?” She turns to them. “May we take Mia to meet the others?” I want to meet them. But if I want something, I can’t have it. But tonight, she surprises me. “Nicholas, keep them in line.” “Yes, Mother.” He bows. I curtsy, and Belinda’s hand squeezes uncomfortably tight. I get the message. Don’t do anything stupid. Nicholas's hand replaces Belinda's. As the boys guide me through the room, out into the gardens, a couple dozen children chatter. I'm shoved into the center of the circle, and they become silent. I fidget with my skirt. Nicholas sprawls on a bench. The twins, joining the circle, block all exits. “Oh, look at your eyes.” One girl sighs, opening her compact mirror, leaving me staring into my own large, amber eyes. “And your hair.” Another girl runs across the ring, pulling on my curls, yanking a lock out. The girls switch spots. I touch the stinging spot on my head. “Gorgeous.” They chorus. “Such delicate little hands.” A boy spins me around. “And a button nose.” Another pinches my nose. They switch positions in the ring. “Dance with me.“ A boy offers me a hand. There is only one right answer to that. I take his hand. Two weeks ago, I heard the twins telling Mason about a game called Queen's Court. A girl is chosen; she is showered with compliments. Then, she dances. Whoever wins her favor keeps their spot in the circle. If the queen is displeased, they must leave the ring. The last two are her champions. At that point, Belinda caught me eavesdropping and gave twelve lashes with the glass shard whip. The cuts still sting, scabbed over and in the process of healing. I take another extended hand and move to the beat of a fast song. I wonder whose speaker is blaring high-energy music. One dance after another. Soon, I want to be done. But every time I try to stop, another hand pulls me into another dance. Boys and girls alike keep me on my feet and moving. I spin and spin, more and more out of control. The twins probably planned this, so I look to Nicolás; maybe he will stop them. He raises an eyebrow, the image of boredom. No help can be expected of him. When I literally pass out from exhaustion, they leave. It's sunrise before I wake. I use a thorn bush to stand and limp to the library. I can’t read, but it’s quiet and dark, and no one ever comes here. Except… I ascend the staircase leading to the second floor of the library.