“What the fuck was that?” My dad’s voice grates across my skin like a knife. His pointed eyes cut into mine, assessing for any signs of weakness. He suffers from resting dick face with wrinkles marring the sensitive skin near his eyes. Unfortunately for me, I look like him. Dark hair with a wave, blue eyes that challenge the Caribbean ocean, and a tall frame that stands toe to toe against him.
I place a palm against my race suit. “Well, shit. Someone told me I was driving for a top F1 team, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.”
“Someone told me you were supposed to be a World Champion this year, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.” My dad’s voice snaps back.
Ah, there’s the viper we all know and hate. See, my dad may be a legend to everyone in the F1 community, but to me, he’s a snake straight from the pits of hell. One sent from the Devil himself. A venomous man who does nothing but scold me, funding my career with the lovely bonus of tearing me down whenever he has the chance. But in front of everyone else, he acts like a doting dad who supports my racing career, both financially and emotionally. He could win an Oscar for Best Supporting Jackass.
“Scared of me contesting your three-title standing? Thought you’d be happy with me staying in your shadow, forever trying to catch up to the legendary Nicholas Slade.” Distaste colors my voice.
He closes the gap between us and grabs me like the good old days. His fists tighten around my race suit, eyes barely concealing the rage that bubbles within. I can tell he battles between hitting me and verbally sparring with me.
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference despite my heart rapidly beating in my chest. “Your predictability bores me. What are you going to do? Slap me around to remember how much of a dick you are?” My voice stays firm.
My dad and I have a tumultuous history at best. The first three years of my life were fun, but ever since I began karting, it was game over. Ironic how the best years of my life became the worst. Gone was the dad who took me to the park to ride my bike or throw a football around. Every year he got worse when all I wanted to do was please him, pushing myself to become one of the best drivers in karts. Then it became Formula phases, forever seeking his love and approval at the expense of my childhood. Desperate for anything to stop his private rituals. Fans don’t know the real me, the shit I dealt with to impress my dad, the weekly beatings I received if I placed anything below first. My ass never met a belt I liked.
Slaps became punches that upgraded into verbal lashings once I reached his height. My dad stripped away my childhood at the expense of my humanity. Because to survive the worst of them, you eventually become them.
I stare into my dad’s eyes and look at the monster who made me. He got his wish. To please him and protect myself, I became everything he is, minus smacking people around. I’m an asshole with walls higher than the Grand fucking Canyon.
He leers at me, his words a snarl against his clenched teeth. “I lost thousands because of your shitty-ass display out there. Congratulations on being runner-up. Wonder how it feels to kiss a whole year of your life away. You can’t live in my shadow when you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me.”
His anger doesn’t faze my mother, who sits there and watches us, eyes cold and dead, just like her personality. A useless waste of space who plays the role of a mother whenever convenient. She chooses to turn a blind eye every damn time he gets this way, indifference evident in her blank gaze. I’d honestly forget she talks except for when she calls me to ask for exclusive tickets and backstage passes.
“Then you should step away. Don’t want to get near me because I hear being a loser is contagious.” I grip his hands and push him the fuck off me. He doesn’t back down, keeping eye to eye with me as he sneers.
“You’re such a fuck-up, ever since you were born. The only reason you got this far was because of me and my investments since no other person would have sponsored your sorry ass. A pompous brat who acted out, pretending to be tough when you really cried into your pillow at night about a mommy who didn’t love you and a daddy who beat your ass weekly.”
I shrug, hoping to come off careless. Inside, my blood burns hot, edginess creeping up my spine in the hopes of a fight—an unlucky genetic inheritance from this man.
“Darn, Dad, sorry. Would you like to wipe your eyes with a couple of hundred-dollar bills? What a disappointment to raise someone who has three World Championship titles already.”
“The disappointment wasn’t raising you. It’s seeing the pathetic excuse of a man you’ve become. Enjoy your second-place parade. I know it’s been a while for me, but I heard the first-place view on the podium is best.” He sends me an evil smile before stepping away.
Check-fucking-mate.
1
Maya
“Maya Alatorre, Bachelor of Arts in Communications.” The announcer states my degree in both English and Spanish. My parents and Santi beam at me from their seats off to the side of the stage, waving signs amongst other parents of graduates from the Universitat de Barcelona. I clutch the most expensive piece of paper in my hands, the rough texture pressing against my fingertips, reminding me of my efforts to graduate today.
I sit myself back in the sea of students cloaked in cheap polyester gowns. After a few speeches, we move our tassels to the side, signifying the end of our university days. Five grueling years and two major changes later, I can happily say I graduated. Turns out I wasn’t cut out for a biology degree; I fainted during a dissection lab when my partner cut into a baby pig’s stomach. And pre-law didn’t exactly work out for me; I threw up in a nearby trash can during my first debate, forfeiting before the questions began. People would count these restarts as failures, but I think they built character. That and resilience for messing up.
It took me two internships to discover my interest in film and production. I add myself to the unemployed post-grad statistic because finding jobs in film is a lot harder than I thought.
My family meets me outside, the views of Barcelona greeting us while the cool December air brushes against my skin, which is poorly protected by the cheap grad outfit. We all pull in for a group hug before they take pictures of me. I get a boatload of congratulations and kisses, along with a slip of an envelope from my brother, Santiago.
“For the graduate. Took you long enough.” He sends me a smile before smacking the top of my cap. We look similar yet different, thank God. Dark, thick hair matches our light brown eyes, long lashes, and olive skin. Our similarities end there. Santi inherited a tall gene from a distant relative while I stopped growing by eighth grade. He rocks week-old stubble and a goofy smile while I prefer a more mischievous grin that matches the glint in my eyes. He works out seven days a week while I count climbing up stairs to get to class as my daily workout.
Santi’s phone rings and he steps away to answer it.
My mother poses me and takes more pictures. She and I look alike, all honey eyes, short stature, and hair with enough wave and volume to look good when I wake up.
“We’re extremely proud of you. Both of our babies are out doing good things in the world,” my mom says as she snaps a picture of me rolling my eyes. Her accent has a lull to it, a product of learning English from hotel guests at her job.