Chapter 3

Cora--

Sixteen Years Ago

I will not cry. I’m too old to cry. I sniffle as quietly as possible as I rub my burning cheek with my right palm. Sometimes it helps. Mama sees the tears I’m holding back and sighs with disappointment. “Malyshka, you have to be strong. We are being poor now, because of your bespolezno father.  You must grow up smart and strong for Mama. If he had given a boy for me, it would be more easy, but you have to do. Good grades from now, yes? I not have no stupid daughter.” I take a deep breath and nod. I’ll study harder.

The whole argument started because I got an 85 on my algebra test at school. Math and science have always come harder to me. I’ve never had to study for English or History tests of any kind– I just absorb whatever the teacher talks about during the day and automatically file it away. I’ve always been good at writing, as well. High school has come with more essays that I can improve my skills with, but it also comes with harder math and science classes.

Mama wants me to be a doctor when I grow up so I can support her, but secretly I want to be a writer. I have a dream deep down in my heart that one day I’ll be a famous journalist. If I work hard enough, land the right story, I’ll get the Pulitzer prize. Even Mama knows what that is. She wouldn’t be able to call me weak or stupid then. One day I could be on TV, and then Mama could be proud of me. I could get us a penthouse in New York City, and we could shop on Fifth Avenue. I pull my secret dreams around me like armor and use them to will the tears away before they can actually fall. It’s always worse if I let them fall. Mama nods and finally leaves when she sees me pull myself together. It’s unspoken, but I know she expects me to study from now until bedtime.

I have a box that I keep under my bed with pictures of Nellie Bly, and the articles she wrote about insane asylums. Times like these, when Mama doesn’t understand and I’m feeling discouraged, I pull it out to remind myself. She was smart, strong, and committed. She pretended to be insane so she could go undercover and investigate the asylums for herself. She sacrificed for the truth. But Mama would never see that. According to her, strong women only go into STEM-related jobs, never mind the fact that it’s harder for a woman to get hired in those than for journalism. I’m supposed to work harder than everyone else and defeat all odds so that I can be successful the way Mama expects me to be.

Nellie Bly lived a long time ago– in the 1800s– but she was courageous in a way that I haven’t gotten to see in female journalists of recent times. Part of the game now is to always appear poised and polished while you report on the world’s horrors. If you want to be a female journalist today, you have to be beautiful as well as ruthless. One good thing Mama gave me is her looks. She often comments that I’m lucky my dad only gave me his mouth.

I’m already taller than Mama, but I have her blonde hair and icy eyes, her elegant bone structure, and her graceful build. Dad apparently had the bee-sting lips that he passed on naturally to me. Mama said that I wear them better, that he looked ridiculous with them but she couldn’t see them past his money, anyway. His money was all she wanted, besides a son to keep that gravy train rolling.

Dad was a successful plastic surgeon who had invested well– he retired to the back country of North Carolina and decided to find himself a bride. Being a man who decided long ago that time was money and money was something he loved more than anything else, my dad didn’t have the mental energy to date around and find himself a bride he liked. He found a company and sent for one from Russia. Mama was eighteen years old, and her family saw her beauty as an opportunity for a better life. A life in America.

Mama tells me the story all the time– she came to America to marry my dad, get her green card, and live the rest of her life as a kept woman. I’m not sure where the wheels fell off. The story is always different from there. Something happened that ruined their marriage, and Mama couldn’t read English well enough to understand the prenup she signed when they first got married. The result was that she ended her marriage with nothing. Except me– six years old and full of needs. Seven years later, and we still haven’t really landed on our feet.

I stifle my sigh and put the box away. I have to get studying before Mama comes back in and sees me messing around. I have to ace my next three tests if I’m going to get an A in algebra this semester. I crack open the book and do the problems between the ones my teacher assigned for our homework. Maybe I just need extra practice.