The first (and last) time Sasha Torres asked her mother for advice, the slender dark haired ballerina received only a single piece of reluctant, hurried wisdom – "Find yourself a boyfriend and you'll be just fine." Sasha wondered if that was what her mother had been trying to do.
She was twelve years old at that point, which was when things had first started to go wrong. Twelve was how old she was when her father started drinking heavily and staying out all night, when her mother switched from neglecting her to completely ignoring her. Twelve was how old she was when Boo started being less like a mini-me and more like a stranger, when girls started making snide comments about her in the hallways. Twelve was how old she was when she started feeling empty inside, like somebody had ripped out whatever make her her and sewn up the hole with pink satin ribbon. Twelve was also the number of shallow cuts Sasha made on her silky stomach with a blade from her pink razor the night before she turned thirteen.
When she was thirteen, Sasha got drunk for the first time. She couldn't understand what her father liked about it – it didn't make you forget your problems, it just made you dwell on them, only you weren't thinking straight. At least, for her it did. Thirteen was how old she was when she decided that she was getting out of Paradise someday. When she was little and her family was happier, she had thought Paradise was the whole world. As she grew older, she didn't stop believing in that little kingdom of happiness, but she realized that she would have to look for it somewhere else. But she didn't know where. For everybody else she knew, Paradise was that 'last stop', the idyllic little town they dreamed of. For Sasha, it was a prison disguised with sunshine, one that she was slowly learning how to escape from. She dreamed of cities and storms and happiness, and she knew she'd get there sometime. She carved the restless unhappiness of her dreams into her the taut flesh of her stomach, deeper and deeper, punishing herself for never being good enough, and giving herself the only real comfort she knew. She still drank sometimes, but only because it was the thing to do. She wasn't her father, no matter how much she'd idolized him as a child.
It was funny how easy it was to hide.
Fourteen was how old she was when she started getting the leads in all the dance productions, and realized that she might have a chance to get out after all. Fourteen was how old she was when she put on a snarky, bitter, perfect mask made of pain and fear and unhappiness and resolved never to take it off.
Until she met Roman.
He was...well, perfect. He was cute, he was snarky and sarcastic and funny and a good kisser. He made her laugh, he made her forget her troubles for a while. He made her so happy that she put down the razor. For a week anyway.
And that was the thing. Her mother had been wrong. Having a boyfriend didn't suddenly make everything okay. It was just one more person to try and hide from.
The problem was that everybody else thought like her mother. After all, how could you possibly be unhappy when you have a boyfriend?
So Sasha humored them, tried even harder to perfect her perfect façade. Because after all, how could she possibly be unhappy?
Easily.