The Pucking Wrong Man: Prologue

“You were fantastic today, Ana. You’ve almost got it down perfect,” Miss Gallagher murmured. I beamed under her praise. She rarely gave it, but when she did, it was magical. “Have you thought about the extra class I suggested? A contemporary class would be very helpful in getting you to the next step.”

I ducked my head, not wanting to look her in the eyes. I had thought about it.

A lot.

I wanted it so badly.

But I was already on scholarship here. I was afraid to ask if they could cover a new class too. The girls already made fun of me enough. The kids in the contemporary class were older…they would probably be even more mean about it.

“Ana,” Miss Gallagher said knowingly, her finger tapping on my chin so I had to look at her…she hated when I wouldn’t.

“Yes?” I asked, ignoring the shakiness in my voice. She always said there was no crying in dance.

But I was really close to crying right now.

“If you need something, you just need to ask. This dance studio is very invested in you. We want you to succeed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sniffed, wiping at my eyes frantically because I couldn’t stop my tears.

There was a pause, and then her voice lowered even more. “Is everything alright at home?”

I stiffened.

Why did adults always ask this question, like I could actually tell them the truth?

Dad would get so mad if he knew I was even talking to her.

And when he got mad—really, really bad things happened.

I held in my shiver and tried my best to keep my face blank.

She was just trying to help. They all were.

But there was no one that could help me. I just had to be okay until I was grown up.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

“Everything’s fine,” I said, my tone suspiciously high and squeaky. I tried to put on the dance smile that they’d taught me in my first class.

“Happiness needs to beam out of your eyeballs,” Miss Franca had told us that day.

Staring up at Miss Gallagher with all the fake happiness I could muster…I wasn’t sure she was falling for it.

Miss Gallagher sighed like I’d disappointed her and patted my shoulder. “Someday, you will trust me, ma chérie,” she said before she glided away, her posture elegant and confident, and everything I wanted to be.

I wanted to run after her and tell her all about Dad and how mean he’d gotten the last few years since Mom left. I wanted to tell her how alone and scared and hungry I was all the time.

But the last time I’d told someone, he’d hit me so hard, my head cracked open. I still got headaches all the time from it.

Nope. I wanted to sprint after her, throw my arms around her waist and beg her not to let me go home.

But I didn’t let myself.

I grabbed my bag, and I walked out of the dance studio, dread building in my stomach with every step I took.

Trudging to the bus stop, I did my best to keep the happiness with me. Dancing was the only time I felt happy. The only time I felt like everything was going to be okay. My life didn’t have to turn out horrible just because now was really hard.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement as I stared at the concrete, trying not to catch anyone’s attention. The regulars who caught this bus were used to seeing a ten-year-old riding by herself by now. But the new riders never were.

I nodded at the driver, a sweaty man with hair coming out of his squished up nose and pit stains under his arms that went halfway down his shirt. He didn’t nod back, he just made sure I swiped my bus card before his gaze moved to the person climbing on behind me.

The bus was like a giant metal oven, baking us in the heat of the dying sun. But instead of cookies, it smelled like a mix of old socks and moldy cheese. Every time someone opened a window, it just seemed to make things worse, bringing in a blast of hot air and even more funky smells.

I tried to ignore it, pressing my face against the cool glass and watching the world pass by in a blur of colors.

I should have gotten used to the stench by now—I probably didn’t smell very good either after hours of dancing. I usually would shower at the studio, but with Miss Gallagher stopping me, she’d taken the extra time I had before I needed to get to the bus.

Dad was usually passed out or at a bar. But if he was awake and I happened to be late…

That would be really bad.

I fingered the shiny, pink burn mark on my arm where he’d held my arm to the gas stove six months ago.

I had only been a few minutes late that day…

Staring out the window, I took in the “nice” part of town as we passed through. There was a line in this city, invisible but noticeable as soon as you crossed it.

The rich and the poor side.

Unfortunately for me, I didn’t live in just the poor side. I lived in the so poor everyone forgot about you side, where they didn’t even bother to send buses because very few people—if any—were ever leaving there. Thus, the bus stop was a mile from my house.

I watched as the shiny buildings and storefronts, the manicured lawns and towering mansions disappeared…making way for crumbling buildings and litter-strewn streets.

It was symbolic of what it felt like to go from my dance classes to home.

Glittering, gleaming dance studios to boarded up windows and struggle.

I didn’t understand how in the same world, there were people that had so much…and others that had so little.

The bus shuddered to a stop, the squeak of the breaks making me wince as it assaulted my ear drums. I threw out a “see you,” to the driver, knowing he wouldn’t say anything back.

But sometimes I liked to pretend that we were friends.

“Ana!” a familiar voice called, and I sighed before straightening my face and turning around.

Michael Carver gave me the creeps. That was the only way to describe it.

And that was saying something with where I lived, where down-on-their-luck men seemed to haunt every street corner.

Maybe it was how he looked.

So perfect. So clean. Not a hair on his head out of place.

No one else looked like that around here, like they had stepped out of a Brady Bunch episode.

Even in my dance outfit I didn’t look like that.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a sophomore at the local high school, and I’d heard rumors already in middle school about how he was selling drugs.

Or maybe it was the fact that he always seemed to be lurking around, popping up every time I was outside my house, even though I knew he lived nowhere near here.

That was probably it.

“Hi, Michael,” I said politely. “I don’t have time to talk today. I need to get home.”

He smirked and made a disgusting show of dragging his gaze up and down my body, like I wasn’t just a kid.

I was at the age where I was definitely noticing boys, even if I was staying far away from them.

But my boobs hadn’t even come in yet. I didn’t eat enough to have the curves that boys were already talking about at school.

The way he stared at me…

Creepy.

It didn’t help that his eye color was what I would describe as “watery blue.” For some reason that color had always given me the shivers. I’d seen a character described like that in a book once and it had always stuck with me. Michael’s eyes looked empty…that was the word. Like he was wearing a mask and there wasn’t actually anything inside of him.

A shiver crept up my back and I held it in.

“I don’t know why you try so hard to not be friends with me, Ana. I could really help you out.” He brushed some invisible hair from his face, trying for a hot guy move that was never going to work for him—at least not in my eyes.

“Anastasia,” I said stiffly.

“What?”

“Anastasia. My name’s Anastasia.”

He snorted. “I’ve heard other people call you Ana before.”

I opened my mouth to answer—to tell him that the only people who called me that were people I liked—or at least tolerated.

Snapping my lips closed, I didn’t say anything. But somehow the words still hovered in the air between us, and the smile he’d been sporting transformed into a dark frown.

“Okay, well, nice to talk to you,” I said instead, turning to step away. I really did need to get home. And it said something about how uneasy Michael made me feel that I would rather be at home than talking to him.

It said a lot actually.

His hand shot out and grabbed my arm.

Tightly.

“Ouch,” I growled, trying to pull away.

“Ana,” he answered, emphasizing the nickname in a calm voice that somehow made me flinch. “You just need to accept that we’re going to be friends. And that it will be a good thing for you.”

“Uh huh,” I answered, finally succeeding in pulling my arm away. I could feel the lingering pressure of his grip as I backed up, not taking my eyes off him.

He didn’t lunge after me or do anything else, though.

Michael did something scarier instead.

He smiled.

There were a whole bunch of promises in that smile that I wanted nothing to do with.

As soon as he turned, I sped toward home, thinking that someday I wasn’t going to run from anything that scared me.

But that someday was definitely not today.

I dragged my tired feet up the overgrown gravel drive. It was a tangled mess of weeds and thorns and neglect.

Home sweet home.

Well, it was more of a shack really, with its sagging roof, but it kept the rain out.

Sometimes.

Somehow it looked even more run down than it did this morning when I left. The paint peeled in long, jagged strips, revealing the decaying wood beneath. The windows were smudged with grime.

I pushed open the creaking front door, its hinges groaning in protest. I winced, wishing there was a quieter way to get in the house. It was best for me to stay as unnoticed as possible.

One step inside, and the familiar stench of alcohol hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned the corner and screeched to a halt. Dad was slumped in the armchair, the one that was so faded, and worn, and dirty, you couldn’t tell what color it used to be.

He wasn’t snoring yet—which wasn’t good. He snored when he was in a really deep sleep. I had a test to study for tomorrow’s history class, and I didn’t want him waking up and messing that all up.

I watched him for a moment, making sure he wasn’t going to jump up when I passed. His skin was a ruddy red color beneath a tangled mass of unkempt, greasy hair. His clothes were stained and wrinkled from days spent in a drunken stupor.

Even in sleep, his face was contorted with anger and bitterness, the lines etched deeply into his brows like a roadmap of the demons that haunted him.

As I watched him, fear and loathing curled in my stomach.

There were bottles all over the floor glinting in the dim light. I winced when I saw them because they weren’t there this morning when I left, and that meant he’d spent money we didn’t have. I would have my free lunch at school tomorrow, but it would make it really hard for me to get through the day. I danced for so many hours that I burned a lot of calories. A slice of plasticky pizza and a carton of milk just didn’t do it.

I didn’t bother picking them up, I just focused on not tripping on them.

Sometimes I thought about what would happen if he just died. If one day he drank so much, he never woke.

And then I felt bad, because I knew that Mom leaving him really messed him up.

But he’d told me he would never leave me that day she’d disappeared.

He’d lied.

He’d left me every day. With every drop he drank. With every step he took from who he’d been to who he was now.

So it felt like it was okay that sometimes it was hard for me to keep my promises to him too.

My stomach grumbled as I reached the hallway, and I bit my lip as I stared into the kitchen.

Maybe…

I tiptoed into the room, noting the dirty dishes in the sink…and the pizza box.

Had he ordered us dinner for once?

I scrambled toward the box like someone possessed…I hadn’t had Papa Johns in forever.

Flipping open the lid, I could have cried.

It was all gone. Every last piece.

Forgetting I was supposed to be quiet, I threw open the fridge door, staring at the one expired bottle of mustard on the shelf, a strange numbness flooding my limbs.

I’d eaten nothing but school lunches and stale bread for weeks…and he’d ordered a pizza…and eaten the entire thing.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I let it drip to the ground.

My stomach grumbled again, and I rubbed at it, grabbing the cup I kept clean in the cabinet and filling it to the brim with water. If I drank enough water, sometimes my stomach wouldn’t hurt as bad.

I would just have to try and charm the lunch ladies out of some extra food tomorrow to help me get through the day.

Making it to my room without waking him, I collapsed on my bed, trying not to wince as a spring dug into my back. I stared up at the ceiling, at the water stains and the cracks that I’d memorized.

Someday I’d be the greatest ballerina the world had ever seen. I would dance on the stage with the New York Ballet and the entire audience would give me a standing ovation.

Everyone would know my name.

They’d throw flowers on the stage and they would love me.

I would make them love me.

A crashing sound echoed from the living room, and I scrambled up from the bed, preparing myself…just in case.

Tiptoeing to the door, I carefully placed my ear on the worn wood, listening to what Dad could be doing out there.

There was nothing but silence.

Maybe he’d just had one of his fits he sometimes got, when he thrashed in his sleep and made a mess, but somehow stayed asleep.

Another minute of listening, and I decided that must have been it, and I started to study.

After I’d finished, I got into bed, pulling up my threadbare comforter, my eyes growing heavy almost the second my head touched my pillow—one good thing about dancing for hours, no matter what, it was easy to fall asleep.

Tomorrow would be a new day…

My door slammed open and crashed against the wall with a bang that had me gasping for breath as I was dragged from sleep.

I blinked, trying to get my bearings, and when I did, I was immediately awake.

And terrified.

Dad was there, his body swaying in place as he stood in the doorway.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. Like he was a predator that maybe couldn’t see me if I didn’t move at all.

“Demon,” he growled suddenly.

I started shaking, because sometimes when he drank a lot, he started imagining things that didn’t really happen, and that was always when the worst things had happened.

Slowly raising my hands in front of me, I tried to calm myself and think.

“Dad, you should go back to your chair. Everything’s alright,” I began, keeping my voice as soothing as possible.

“Demon!” he raged, and he lunged toward the bed, his movements clumsy and erratic, the rest of his words slurred and incomprehensible.

“Dad! No!” I shrieked, trying to escape the covers that were tangled around my legs.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, his breath hot and putrid against my face.

“I won’t let you get me,” he spit, throwing me to the ground.

Dad fisted my hair, his knee digging into my neck. I coughed and thrashed under him, struggling to breathe.

“Dirty little devil. Demon!” he screamed, spittle showering my face with every word.

“Pl…ease,” I tried to choke out.

His foot connected with my leg with a sickening crack. Pain exploded through me like fireworks, and I crumpled to the ground, clutching my shattered limb as tears blurred my vision.

I blinked up at the ceiling as shock settled over my skin. He stood over me and leaned down, his breath reeking of whiskey as he glared down at me in disgust.

“You’re a pretty thief,” he murmured as he squatted down.

And another tear slid down my cheek, because suddenly he didn’t sound nearly as drunk as he had before.

His palm caressed my face, and my head slid to the side, vomit launching out of my mouth because everything was too much. The pain, the nausea from the pain, everything.

He staggered away, leaving me writhing on the floor, flayed open and broken.

Eventually, I glanced down at my leg, my breath scattering as I saw that there was a bone popping out of my skin.

My head dropped back to the floor as blood seeped out around me.

It was so cold.

I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live.

I wanted to dance…