Mafia's Runaway And Pregnant

Camila

No matter how many times I punch the numbers into the calculator, they just don't add up. How can this be happening? I silently worry, afraid that saying it out loud will make it real. Worse, my mother might hear the frustration in my voice. I can't upset her, not after all we've been through.

"Come on, come on!" I press the keys harder, hoping for a different result, but it stays the same every time. Over and over.

I hit the clear button again and again until the calculator slips from my hand and crashes to the floor of our small office. The room feels even tinier with all the papers scattered around, papers I've never seen before today, and I wonder if my mother ever did.

"Camila?" My mother, Katinka, asks nervously, reaching across the desk towards me. Her fingers are slender, her nails perfectly kept despite everything. She does them herself, a skill that might be crucial now as I look at these documents...

"We're in financial trouble," I say flatly. As I look up from her nails to her face, I see her flinch. "Mom, how long have you known?"

She pulls her hand back, sinking into her chair. Her chin-length hair, as dark as mine, hides her expression. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mom! These bills are mountains high!"

"Don't raise your voice, Camila Marakov," she says in Russian, using my full name to try to assert authority. She has always done that since I was a toddler.

I struggle to suppress an eye-roll. That used to work when I was younger when her old-country ways could still intimidate me. But not now. Not about this.

"This is serious," I reply in English, letting out a bitter laugh as I stand up. "Our dance studio is drowning in debt. That's what you should be worried about!"

Her mouth tightens into a firm line. Tilting her chin up, she watches me with guarded eyes. There's anger there, but not directed at me. "We did what we could, Camila."

"We? You and Dad?" A wave of grief washes over me as I turn away, facing the boxes overflowing with evidence that our studio is on the brink of collapse. "It's okay. We can figure this out. I just need time to think."

"There's no need." Rising from her chair, my mother walks over to me. Despite nearing fifty, her slender frame moves gracefully. Ballet has been her life since she was four, and she taught me everything. But losing Dad has aged her in a way only sorrow can. For the first time, I see my mother as vulnerable, as someone who is growing old. "I've found a buyer."

"What?"

"He's coming tomorrow to check out the place. It's happening, Camila."

When she reaches out to me, I pull back. "We can't just sell the studio! It's been ours since I was born."

"The bills... You saw them yourself."

"Yeah, but still, just giving up on all the hard work Dad put into this place? How can you do that?"

She recoils, her hair covering her sharp cheekbones. She always does that when she's overwhelmed, like a turtle retreating into its shell. My own hair cascades down to my elbows, but I keep it tied back tightly, unable to hide behind it. When I was little, I used to wrap it around my chin and pretend it was a beard until Dad would laugh so hard he turned red.

My mom takes a deep breath. I've hurt her, and I hate it. "Mom," I begin, feeling apologetic.

"You're right." She wipes at her eyes. Mom never cries, not in front of anyone. "Selling the studio feels like a betrayal. Please understand, I'd choose anything else if I could. But there's no other option, Camila."

A pang of guilt tears through me. I can't bear seeing her so miserable. I don't agree with her decision, but I hate seeing her in pain more.

"It's okay, Mom." I reach for her, pulling her close against my chest. We're nearly the same height, her chin brushing my brow bone. Her thin arms wrap around me instantly, and the scent of her lemon-scented soap fills my senses. "Let's not dwell on it for now."

"I'm really sorry, my angel. I truly am."

"I know, Mom. And I love you. Okay?"

She squeezes me tightly, making it hard to breathe. "I love you too." She lets go, fanning her hands over her cheeks as if she's warm. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

"Don't you dare smoke a cigarette," I admonish her.

Her posture stiffens as she walks away, her voice trailing behind. "I don't smoke anymore."

A lie. But that's okay. Everyone has their secrets.

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my high-waisted jeans. Checking it, I read Adriana's message.

Adriana: Still up for drinks?

Pausing, I glance at the stack of bills cluttering the room. It's not the smartest move financially to go out and spend money on expensive drinks, especially now. This city has a knack for charging too much for watered-down cocktails.

But at the same time, I know fifty bucks won't make a dent in the studio's debt. If I'm going to splurge, I might as well do something to lift my spirits.

Me: Sure thing. Meet you at Topher's soon.

Leaving the office, I enter a short hallway. To the right, the restroom; to the left, the main dance area. It's a beautiful space with mirrors covering every wall and lights crisscrossing above like stars. There was a time when our studio had a waiting list and this room was filled with girls in tutus, moving to music.

But those days are long gone, as evidenced by these overdue bills.

The wooden floor creaks beneath my steps as I walk. The echoes fade as I reach the threadbare carpet near the front door. The entryway holds a few old chairs and a display with untouched program sheets. Through the glass windows, I see my mother leaning against the door, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the distance.

I don't see a cigarette in her hand. Did she take a few puffs and stub it out already? Opening the door, I catch a whiff of tobacco, confirming my suspicion. But I decide not to mention it.

I've already hurt her enough today.

Instead, I inform her, "I'm heading out to meet Adriana."

She furrows her brow. "Not downtown, I hope."

"It's fine, Mom. You worry too much."

She scowls, crossing her arms tighter, her black puffer jacket squeaking softly. "Sometimes I feel like I don't worry enough. Especially about you." Her gaze pierces me, and I instinctively pull back. "Bad things happen downtown, Camila. Really bad things to people who stick their noses where they shouldn't."

I offer her a sideways smile. "Are you calling your daughter stupid?"

She huffs, waving her hands at me. "Fine! Do whatever you want. But call me if you need a ride. Don't drink and drive."

"I won't." Planting a kiss on her cheek, I step back. "Make sure to eat dinner. Your cheekbones could cut glass."

That earns a laugh from her. With a final wave, I jog to my light blue Prius. Inside, I connect my phone to my favorite playlist, something upbeat and energetic, a stark contrast to the gritty streets I navigate toward Topher's Lounge near the docks, where the scent of the ocean permeates the air.

Mom's right. It's a rough area, but I've never encountered any trouble. Sure, guys sometimes hit on me, but what girl hasn't dealt with that? It's never escalated.

Adriana, on the other hand, once smashed a glass over a guy's head when he grabbed her while her engagement ring was on full display. No charges were pressed from either side, partly because her husband, Jonah, specializes in witness protection law, but mostly because it wasn't worth the hassle.

The cops around here don’t pay attention unless they’re being bribed to do so. And that night, nobody wanted to cough up the extra cash to make them care.

I park my car along the curb. The last belted-out lyrics about dancing the night away are cut off abruptly when I open my door. Topher’s Lounge is squat, like a hulking gargoyle with its old stone. Blue lights flash through the curved windows, outlining the bodies of the people hovering outside. There’s a cloud of smoke around the group. One of them whistles at me as I pass and I ignore him, not bothering to roll my eyes.

I’m not even dressed in anything revealing, just jeans, low red heels, and a white tank-top.

“Hey, barbie doll!” a bald guy with gauge earrings yells. “You want some company?”

I cringe violently. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was hot or ugly; I hate being flirted with.

Flirting leads to feelings, feelings lead to dating, and dating … Well, that’s just the road to disaster.

And the last thing I need in my life is more trouble.