Good Girls Played with Dolls

Chapter Two:

A Telenovela Indeed


"Faith." Someone called, she could barely hear them. The hallway was crowded, it was the third day of school, the first real day of sixth grade, and she couldn't be more thrilled. School was her escape. School was a place where no fathers could leave her. School was a place where she'd never see empty alcohol bottles.

Once, when her father still came to visit, he took her to pick up his niece. That wasn't, of course, what he said they were going to do. He told her he was going to take her to see the Red Sox play. He told her they were going to see Clemens in action. The closest they came to Fenway Park was the Winsor school. That was the school that her mom said, "All the rich bitches went to." The girls, her mom would mutter about under her vodka scented breath, all wore expensive looking clothes and had sophisticated haircuts she had only seen on the covers of magazines. Her "cousin" was no exception.

The main hall was pristine. She could have stared at it for hours. While her father walked ahead, she snuck a look in one of the classrooms. It was as big her house and the floors sparkled. It was mesmerizing. Even if she were blind she would have sensed what she was missing; the place smelled rich.

When he dropped her off that night, he apologized. "My brother's helping me out. He's getting me a job, a real job, the type of job I used to have. Before, you know? I just had to do this for him. I'm sorry. I got your hopes up, I shouldn't have, but if I can get this job, you know, maybe I can come home, and we can be a family again. I promise then we'll go see all the games you want." The look in his eyes made her forget who was talking to her. Despite her better knowledge, she believed him. He was going to get a job and come home. He was going to make her mom stop. That's what dads were for.

That was second grade. She was seven and hopeful. Her dad was going to be her hero. Her father was going to whisk her away to baseball games.

She only saw him once more after that.

She played with the rusty yellow locker door. It creaked. The place smelled like ammonia. No one would ever mistake this for the Winsor school. She pushed her old ratty sneakers into the ground, and looked at the trio of blondes walking toward her.

"Ms. Watson, wanted us to tell you that next Wednesday is 'Take Your Daughter to Work Day.' The tallest of the girls said. "Your mom didn't reply to the letter. She needs to talk to you after class."

"My mom's taking me to her desk at the Globe." The smallest girl piped up.

"My dad's gonna let me work the counter at his butcher shop."

"My dad's going to let me spend the whole day trying on clothes at the Macys he works at. It's going to be a blast." The tall girl smirked. "But don't worry Faith, I'm sure there's a relative out there who'd let you spend the day with them. I mean what with your mom not having a real job and your dad missing in action." She pushed her hand into a locker. The paint was peeling. "So yeah, anyway, don't forget to talk to Ms. Watson after class."

"I won't." She said softly. She hated blonde girls. She hated new, clean clothes and perfectly styled hair. When they walked on, she looked down at herself. Her blue shirt had unraveling strings. There were holes in the bottom seam. Her jeans had stains that she couldn't account for. Stains that couldn't be removed. Standing there, in that sea of people. She felt like a bum. She felt small. She felt invisible. For Faith, everyday was a fight to be visible. Everyday was a fight to be seen as something more then an anger outlet, a punching bag. She didn't need school to be the same way. "Stupid salvation army," she cursed silently, shaking her head.

"Faith." She heard out of the corner of her ear once more. She turned and put the name with the face. It was Michael Lesley. His skin was the same shade as a mighty African warrior, but he was small and meek. He lived down the street, and yet, he never talked to her. He rarely acknowledged her existence. She smiled. He walked over to her and patted her on the back. "Don't feel bad. We're not part of that world, and that's probably a good thing."



She didn't belong here. She didn't belong in this damn Bronze knockoff, with the wannabe cast of 90210. Where she came from ordering a fojito would be blasphemous, here it was all she heard. This was the trendy spot. This was the spot where dumb blonde bimbos spent their time. She had almost forgotten how much she hated blondes.

She stared out onto the stage, some obscure indie band plucked the strings of electric guitars. Girls in Abercrombie and Marc Jacobs bobbed up and down. They probably had no idea what the band's name was, and they probably didn't care. She scoffed.

"Overwhelming?" Alex asked her, trying to make her voice loud enough to be heard against the booming of the speakers.

Faith shrugged. She pointed out into the crowd. "That girl's pants cost more then it cost to rent the house I grew up in." Alex laughed, if it was an uncomfortable laugh, Faith couldn't tell. "Though, that probably isn't hard."

She had escaped Sunnydale. She had left little Buffy Summers and that world behind, yet everywhere she went, it was as though they were following her. She bent down to dry out a clean glass and, when she looked up, a skinny boy with a Jew fro was standing before her. He gave off the same vibes as Xander Harris. "What can I get ya?"

Alex nudged her. "I've got this." She ran a hand through her blonde hair. "I thought you were going to meet me later."

"I'm kind of under lock and key right now." He informed her. "I just got permission to come and ask you if you'd like to join the big Cohen extravaganza."

"Cohen extravaganza?" She asked raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. "Friday night. Catered food, nice dresses, and all the family hostility you can handle."

"As fun as that sounds, I have to go out of town on Friday."

"Where?"

"Just out." She said softly. He stared at her for a moment and then awkwardly put his hands into his pant's pockets. He wasn't happy. "I've got my own family business to attend to." She eventually added.

"I see."

"Yeah. Look, the place is really busy right now. I've got things to do. Call me later, I mean if your phone isn't locked away." She said, puling her hair into a ponytail. "Oh." She bit her lip and looked at the brunette next to her. "Cohen this is Faith. Faith this is Seth Cohen. If you need anything, I'm sure she'd be willing to help."

"Seth Cohen." Faith repeated as Alex walked off. "As in Kirsten Cohen, as in Caleb Nichol, as in the guy who owns half the town?"

"Yeah." Seth rubbed his feet into the floor. "That'd be my lineage."

"Your grandfather owns most of Richville, that has got to be exciting."

"You could say that," Seth smirked.

"It has to have its perks at least."

"Not so much." He said softly.

"Says the kid from Newport Beach." She put a shot glass down on the bar. "You've got more perks than I ever had growing up."

"Are you from Chino too?" He joked.

"No. South Boston."

"Scorsese's making a movie set in South Boston." He paused. "Another Japanese remake."

"Sounds about right." She muttered, picking up a bottle of golden brown liquid.

"Really though, living here isn't all it's cracked up about."

"I'm sure." She said sarcastically, pouring the liquid into the glass

"I can prove it. Be my guest at dinner on Friday and you'll see a regular telenovela."

Faith ran a finger across the bar. "I'd like that." She handed him the shot glass. "To the good life," she toasted.

"I shouldn't."

She shifted her gaze around the room and then leaned in. "I won't tell."

He let the liquid pour down his throat and coughed as it made its way to his stomach. "I'll pick you up here at seven." She saluted him and watched as he walked off.

She put the whiskey bottle back under the counter. "A Telenovela indeed." She said softly.


The leaves fell off the trees. Each yard she passed had a layer of red and orange sprinkled on it. She passed her own yard and frowned. She could barely call it a yard, all it was was a small patch of grass, and the grass there had was dead. They needed to rake. They need sod and sprinklers. They needed a lawn mower, and they were never going to get any of it.

She could imagine the barren living room. She could imagine the empty fridge. She could imagine the long row of liquor bottles. She could imagine her mother's latest boyfriend walking around in boxers. She could practically hear all the fake promises.

"I'm going to help your mother."

"I'm going to save your family."

"I'm going to get a real job."

"We'll be a real family."

The words haunted her mind. It was all bullshit. It was an endless array of bullshit. She had just entered eighth grade, that meant only five more years, five more years, and she'd be free. She'd be free to disappear.

When she met Michael, the world started moving faster. She had an escape. They hung out in his basement, they wasted hours on end. When his father drank, they hid down there. When her mother drank, they hid down there. They hid together. They played games and watched movies, they pretended they were normal. What was normal anyway?

Compared to hers, his house was a mansion. Two stories. Four bedrooms. Just as barren. Slightly more clean, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that there were nooks. There were crannies. There were places to be invisible and one person who was always aware that she existed.

She saw the house first. The sheets in the windows. The old oak door. That's all she wanted to see. She closed her eyes and pretended she couldn't see the yellow tape. She pretended she didn't see the police car. She pretended she didn't see the ambulance. She pretended that everything was normal. She needed consistency for once. She needed something good and even though she knew nothing was okay, even though she knew nothing would be right, she pretended.

She turned in the opposite direction, hummed the last song she had heard on the radio, and tried desperately not to break down in tears.


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