I remember watching Nicole tipping past the point of conscious behavior at her brother José Leibowitz. He always picked on her. Finally, the earthy Virgo, snapped, beat red. She punched his arm with all her might across the room. He winced, found it funny, until a point. “Did she know what she was doing?” My mother? People asked me. We can lose a grip. About to switch into another state, himself, I was struck by that—what is that switch? What’s happening? He’s going to lose consciousness. My mother made me aware of states, and I was fascinated, because I saw glimpses of her, wondering about that line, tipping point, what happened to her. Nicole was no longer aware of what she’d doing, and he was about to tip over, and it’s understandable, if you push someone, they might flip out, respond. Like magic, just when she was supposed to, Angelica burst through double doors with her fantastic legs coming out of a tennis skirt. She blew this fight away in Portuguese. The children fled from the flames. I stood there amazed at her, always. How did she know what was happening? That’s a four-year-old. (She heard.)

But Jose and Nicole appear older than they should in my memory, the kids. Maybe I’m wrong. It all happened so fast. That’s where we were though, at some tipping point between conscious and unconscious behavior. They always fought, so maybe I’m remembering it globally, but she exploded — boom, she was angry.

“You,” she blasted. “Me?” In my room now, she said.

I trailed behind her, I got in trouble a lot — I barked at people. But this time, I didn’t understand, as I didn’t do anything, so I don’t know where I am in time as I became known as a problem child. I refused to say “I’m sorry, thank you, and please.” I threw fits, I think. My behavior became a joke, even, how bad I was, so I tended to play into it, later as an adult, which almost ruined me, I think. I don’t do it anymore. How funny it was, I could laugh and laugh, so I played into the comedy of it, because it was also true. It was a comedy, or a comic universe.

We crossed the foyer, the crystal chandelier, it cast rainbows across the walls at night. I studied them, the beautiful even teary effect of colors. How did it do that? The crystal tears hanging still, the warm glow, the lambada coming on — again. The flecks of rainbows, so light and crystal can produce colors. With my little finger, I discovered light was real, couldn’t quite grasp it, the subtle projection, but I could hold it in my palm, upstairs, mostly, and Angelica would always snap at me, “stop staring at rainbows.” Her son and I, José, the most perfect name, we had matches across this house — no woman wanted to deal with me as I punched, bit, went for the eyes, I think. Angelita jumped on the perimeter, “Jose!” Women screamed “Jose” as I ran through the foyer —it was as if he studied me as if I were an opponent.

These moments, I remember them, but they feel as though they’re already in another dimension, so his legs leap over the ottoman, and the chases became so hysterical to me, picturing him jumping out windows in his tennis gear — and it might not be that far from the truth, actually, as he had to wrangle me down, so I’ll leave that be. So if I were telling a story of it, he would become my guardian, but that’s not exactly what happened, but even he would understand what I mean. He would explode from his desk. He would descend like thunder, he wanted me to hear him coming. He’d employ confusing footwork to snag me. He STARED at the ground and start throwing his feet in confusing directions to throw me off, and he would try and get me to say “thank you, please, and sorry.” I would throw punches. He’d hold me down, I didn’t yield, why would I want to say these words? Please, sorry, thank you. Picture some four year old who has no idea that she’s SMALL. I didn’t come from a house where I had to say these words. I barked at my father to explain the intricacies of the universe to me. BARKED, “WHAT IS IT?” No one is telling me, don’t talk like that.

They could have tried a softer approach, but I don’t think she thought I was abused yet, I don’t know where we are in time, but I was lucky, wasn’t I? I could have gotten beaten, isn’t that right? (This was how people spoke to me.) Wasn’t I on some weird edge? Unbelievable. How believeable the unbelievable is. I did feel like there was a collective. Some collective well of knowledge, except there’s more than one, and it didn’t mean it was right. But terrible things can happen to a child, that felt pretty known. Like, this could have gone much worse. As far as I know, these moments were dramatic and intense, but no one hit me. And no one was calling my parents? Was that the money, the accusation, both? Don’t know where I am in time.

And look, thinking about that mirror in my room, would they even tell the truth? The truth is, people shape it, especially under the gaze of the public eye, scrutiny, so they could very well lie. That’s just what the truth is. My father’s divorce file said, he came home and I was living with another family, and he was typically gone 5-7 weeks, and I don’t know where we were on that time line, but this situation developed quickly, so am I in phase one, two?

“It happened so fast.”

Once Jose came home—he threw open the front door and all his gear down, loud, right? He wanted me to know, no matter where I was, that he was here. Five women, including Angelita, the hottest one, RAN to him and screamed Jose! For a while, “JOSE!” was the name SCREAMED across this house, because he was the one — no matter WHERE I was, he could feel me, truly, this man. “She got out this time.” So, I’m interpreting this memory, later. I hid and tried to run away. “No no no,” he said, “she’s here.”

Into the living room, I remember seeing his shoes. The ladies called JOSE, no, no! We looked there, but I was crafty, crawling on my elbows and shit. Jose knew who I was. I forgot where I was that time, but he found me in three seconds, it was annoying. WHAT??? These women. HOURS, they searched for me for hours. JOSE — number one in the USA at tennis at 16—fast. I hated him. He hated me.

Nicole on the grass in the backyard: “wind and fire,” she said, softly smiling, pensive. “Yes, it was always going to be that way…” but my moon was in Gemini, she probably still remembers, “so…” As a Dorothy, she explained the elements to me. She spoke of her siblings, softly, airy, in terms of their astrological signs.

He once held a pitcher of orange juice, hiding at the kitchen door, because I was coming around. He poured the whole carton on me. The kids hated me, but think about it? Why I was there? The house turned around this foyer, so I remember standing there and looking into the living room. Jose and Michele confronted their mother. It was an unspoken change, my presence. Michele’s body language communicated that. One day, she walked up to her finally and paused, standing there in the living room. She threw her finger over to me, like it took some courage.

“What is she doing here?”

I was a touch too young, at the time, to be able to interject and add my two cents.

Up the steps of her house, Angelica had six children, a joke. Nicole, the youngest, was the astrology prodigy, I call her, a Dorothy in ruby slippers. I wore gold. My best friend, she’d wince when I got in trouble, she always stood by me. There was Jose Leibowitz, a name you cannot compete with, a few years older. Nicole was clearly a surprise, and then, Angelita got her tubes tied, so she wasn’t looking for a seventh. Michele, the sole blond, was the lethal one, as they always are. She was a pro soccer player along with the sole brunette, Louise, the future lesbian of the family. They were a couplet. Jo— the doctor at Berkeley, she brought me sprite when I was sick once. Andrea, the eldest, already had kids, young, like her mother. I have no recollection of their father, but he worked constantly, but doing what, I don’t know. He was supposedly a travel agent. He was never around, but I remember seeing him for a couple of parties—their world-famous parties— and once at dinner when I refused to take my elbows off the table while I was eating, not that happy about where I was, evidently, but what did he say? Did she tell him? The money, right? It had to be good enough.

Oh, the game, the tennis game, sneakers squeaking, a good volley back and forth. They were trying to throw the other off. Her husband told me — as my elbows were on the table and I was pushing around food, not living at my house, anymore, but who gave a shit? I’m four, I’m not having that deep of a thought process, but I’m upset. I understand, looking back at myself. He told me to get my elbows off the table. He commanded a captain-type respect among his children as if he were the father in The Sound of Music, which is also where I was, as you couldn’t take the music out of the house. A love song could rip through the athletic home at any time, she was dancing sexy regardless. We weren’t talking at the table, as his commanded silence, but his children loved him, adored him. He said to me, on the sly, while eating — get your elbows off the table. Now, to me at four? It’s not happening. He raised his voice, slightly. Get your elbows off the table. No one is speaking. So I just, but just took my elbows, literally, off the table, continued my action of pushing the food around. He said it again, as my elbows were just off the table. I slid my arms down a touch. So, off we went, the two of us, he’s repeating, losing his patience, elbows off the table. I slid down the entirety of my arms, acting all four-year-old about it, ornery. All the way down, until, finally, he’s about to blow, and I put out a single pinky on the edge of the table.

He blew.

OH MY GODDDDDD!!! The Neapolitans. He blew, the father. I tried to tell my cousins, as I spent a few summers with them after this debacle, in Naples, and then I disappeared to them a few years later. I was bad, I was bad, okay? I exploded, uh oh? Feast 2 with these people, Christmas, December 5th —

I had tried to warn them, “I am a woman in love” streaming from their stereo around the rugged cliffs on our way to Angela and Vico’s in splotches. I had tried to tackle it, right? With one foot on either side, seated in the middle in the backseat between them, Franco and Flora, equal parties, I…had tried to warn them. They wanted to know what happened, why I disappeared, and I was at a point, at that point, where “it was always like this!” I don’t know if that’s true exactly, I mean, the fault of it, but who I was became funny. I tried to tell them I jumped out of her car, pushed her door open, and they’re just finding it charming, of course. I’m thinking they’re going to get “something’s off.”

“Aww…”

“No!”

And then, I had to insist — I told a woman to get out of my way, I was practically raised into the air — they put “My Way” Frank Sinatra on, in my honor, a Christmas anthem. You see? The goal in these parts is immortality, so the end of the year? There’s no bitterness, no dreams of the year to come, I did it — my way. That’s the attitude every year — so that’s what Christmas is about in Naples. “My Way.” I pushed — celebration. I pushed the button: this bitch, this little bitch, she told this woman to get out of my way, YEAH! A Christmas baby. YEAH! Applause, songs, tears, pizza coming out of the outdoor oven, it’s all timed to the song, naturally, as these people are so in tune with one another in groups, it was Aristophanes, a true Greek chorus. I had no idea, even, that they put it on for me, so classic, they waited to the end to tell me… it was a shock, a true shock. “Yeah!”

That’s what the end of the year is. It’s a chance, not a romance. And I would receive applause from these people for saying that. “YEAHHHHH,” party favors, bravo being slung, flung, blown — man, these people know how to blow you away with BRAVO. BRAVO! The Neapolitan baby told this bitch — get out of MY WAY! These were middle-aged men in cashmere sweaters. So they put on that song at Angela’s in my honor, and when we sat down to eat, they kept wanting me to — tell them, how I told this woman to “get out of my way,” as they understood the sentence, due to Frank Sinatra. Angela kept saying, “ESCI, ESCI,” because my Italian was limited. “Exit,” in other words, “EXIT…” Giggino tapped the dinner table, conclusively. We did a little reprise.

“My way.”

They didn’t understand, okay? Are you laughing at FRANK SINATRA? And I could be attacked, yes, even by members of my own family, HEY! YOU? ARE YOU— boom, MY WAY again. In revolt. Fuck you. And then, we’re kicking our feet, but Frank Sinatra is another mood entirely, this is DEEP. This is bravo — firing like canons, DEEP metal, people, deep.

I ended up flipping out, they pushed me too far — “I was BAD, okay? I was not BRAVA.” UHHHHHH? They kept wanting me to do it, looking at me like this JEU, or play is unnecessary — “show us how you told this woman to get out of YOUR WAY,” right? They had the same teeth, they adored them in me, at the dinner table. “Get em.” I insisted, “okay?” They received my insistence. “UHHHHH?” I insisted, I was bad —"OKAY?” They weren’t into it—FOUL, bitch, because they’re NASTY, at the table, they’re IN THE PLAY, they’re charging the field, they’re RESPONDING.

“I was BAD!” To an Italian? “YEAH…” sure… enough of that.

“A bad baby?” Angela asked.

“You know,” um, acting stupid, trying to find the word, “monster?”

UHHHHH, the crowd responded, UUHHHHHH.

I was on some edge, getting up from the table, and YELLING and THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT — they’re commenting, disagreeing, having side convos, telling me WHAT THE? I’m pointing to fruit, “when this bad…” Silence, uhhhh, the crowd is ADJUSTING. “It is NOT GOOD for eternity…” I searched for the word for “spoiled, brat,” when “A BABY IS NOT GOOD.” A bad baby? Has she lost her mind? “Uhhhhhhhhhhh…” They’re calling my foul, watching me act out, perform, but dinner in Naples is a match, theater, whatever. What’s the goddamn difference? Charge the field, tear down the set, save the smuggling revolutionary, this is our true thought process. WHAT? “I was bad,” I said, and my cousin Giggino leveled with me, look this comedy routine, he said without words, so I laughed, “it doesn’t work,” he said simply. “It just doesn’t work,” as he believed I was a true comedian. “DOESN’T WORK,” and I’m insisting at the man. I suppose I had a sharp smile—which they were indifferent to — because I got the impression that children got blamed sooner than they should be. But to them, I’m insisting, sort of with a smile they don’t understand, even, understanding I’m trying to MAKE A POINT, but WHAT IS IT?

I couldn’t help what the story was, you know? So, it was a match, it could be.

So then — GIGGINO — boom, he was watching me, in the match I was in, like he didn’t like that I was bad. So he came after me, later, at his house, in the kitchen.

“What are you talking about???”

“Why are you talking about yourself like that?”

Such a “Dad move,” right? The second I stepped onto the floor, the living room floor, GIGGINO would fire: “HEY COMPLICATE!” I was goddamn complicated. I took a deep breath, I was trying to be open to them, but there’s no way they were going to be able to deal with… the story. But he’s not going, “yeah you were bad,” or playing into that I—ME?—was a piece a work, like “my father didn’t stand a chance,” I couldn’t believe that, later. That people said that to me. He hated it, all of it. He sensed it, even, smelled it. He could tell that I became the problem, and he didn’t like that, and then, there was so much he didn’t know.

He didn’t give a crap, “what are you talking about?” They might not understand their own prejudices, gender biases, right? She had them too, Angelica. She favored men, you see, her daughters used to snap at her, and she didn’t deny it. Jose was her favorite. I laughed, I did, I laughed all these years through, at the truth of it, you know? I don’t know, maybe someone will understand, there is an architecture, ideas that are engrained. I felt that way, like my father was favored, that I wasn’t believed because I was a WOMAN, female, yes, also. I MEAN WHAT I SAY. But he was also sentenced, without a doubt. A man could do this, it was so easy for this woman to believe, but “you’d never expect” someone to lie about that… it’s just to a lawyer, they’re going, “I do not understand…” you see. Lawyers want you to EXPLAIN. When did it become a lie? Lies are a tricky arena, and I fell for it too. You think, the biggest liar, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. If you have ever… had any experience with shady shit.

He watched me as I tapped my pinky on the kitchen table, remembering that dinner. “I WAS BAD.” I threw Italian across the walls like mad — amazing, to them — Pollock, it was art, okay? According to my cousins, strictly speaking, what I was doing was Neapolitan art of the highest caliber. Abstractionism, it was art, even important, Neapolitan abstractionism? I’m telling them, trying to, tapping my pinky. GIGGINO said YES, GOOD. I’m trying to tell them about this dinner as if it would EXPLAIN WHY I WAS BAD. GIGGINO was saying GOOD in my FACE. “YES, of course.” Giggino — undercut — “did these people know you were Italian?” He gave me DOUBLE pinches. He gathered his pinches— his pinched fingers.

No one in Naples acts like it’s abnormal to get upset, at any time, basically.

I laughed.

“Show me,” he said, even gallantly, “an Italian who would EAT with their elbows off the table.”

“AH,” Giggino looked at me. He got through. “Telling an Italian to EAT,” his wife said, “si,” “TO EAT,” Giggino leveled with me, “with their ELBOWS off the table.” He called it “absurd.” He couldn’t even deal with it. I insisted. He nodded, okay, let it slide. He FOLLOWED ME, goddammit, he’s nodding at me, “Maria,” as I slid my arms down the table again, he’s FOLLOWING me. He gave me the PINKY — he showed me the PINKY — was it not “vai fanculo?” He gave it to me like a fuck you. Of course. He put it on the edge of the proverbial table. He GOT what I was SAYING. “GOOD.”

He sizzled, brought the intensity down, he was resolved about it.

“Look,” he said, “if you tell a Neapolitan to EAT with their elbows off the table, doesn’t matter how old they are,” he assured me. “This is the reaction.” He continued, a doctor. “Revolting like this, that’s…” he grew fatigued, “that’s just the reaction. It’s just Neapolitan… they’re going to revolt,” he said it as if there was nothing one could even do about it. “BEING ASKED to eat with your elbows off the table…” He was disturbed. I laughed, I really did. I didn’t even know they existed, I was in California. I insisted I was bad, a piece of work. Giggino hated it. That was that.

“Why are you there?”

I can’t help that many truths exist, I don’t know what to SAY. I’m not Italian, I’m from California, and she was actually from Brazil… just to say. I don’t SPEAK in an accent. I’m not Italian to her. God knows if she even knew I was Italian, she might not have been concerned about it, if you would, not in these circumstances.

My back to the court, sneakers squeaking, the players in a tense close match, I asked her how much she was paid to do this in the shade of the umbrella.

Not looking at me, she said, “1200 a week.”

“For 24/7?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

I asked her to repeat that. “24/7?”

“Yes.”

What did that mean to me at nine-twelve? I didn’t think about looking up that value until recently, as it was 1989. That would equate to about 11k a month, cash, no taxes. So, never enough, she said, never enough. She went on and on and on …this is money. The pay didn’t even bring me respect, it brought me the opposite. I owed HER for taking care of me basically speaking, she clothed me, fed me, she would list everything she did for me, though she was paid. She agreed to the deal. It’s one of these moments I had, like, look lady, YOU made a deal with the devil, not me. Money. This is money. Her putting this on me, like she clothed me, bathed me, fed me, that’s what she agreed to, and a grateful complex I had prevented me from living a normal life. So that’s the adult looking back in this moment. I had to be grateful? For this? My mother said I was being abused, that she was being abused, so it was only right, tears falling, Joy. I get she was played, but did she think she was actually sort of getting a good DEAL? THInk. WHY else, why else would you do that, though of course, her emotions are wrapped up in her decision making, of course. Thinking about these sneakers needing to be quick and agile across the court. She cared, right? About me? About a child being abused? About some woman begging her, please help me? I’m a fair person, not everyone is. SHE most certainly was not FAIR, not when it came to me. At all.

And so, Angelica said, don’t worry, she agreed to take charge of me while my mother garnered up the courage to leave her abusive husband, and this is what she does. We might not have started at 11k, but that’s where we’re headed for around the clock care.

Her bedroom always looked holy to me. This was where the real show was…I would sit on the edge of her white bed, as I had rules. I couldn’t get into her bed, normally, and it felt correct to me. I would watch her dance — to herself — in the mirrors — primetime, the light streaming through her white curtains. Her foot kicking back on the plush white carpet. She turned herself on, dancing to herself in the mirror — Nina. We watched that movie, she would fast forward to the sexy parts, I laughed at her. I usually clapped. She’d laugh and have to sizzle herself down…”love,” her face rose from her hands. “Love,” it was all she talked about. Sex. It was love. Only the best love songs scored this heartwarming story, Lady in Red, too, Celine Dion. I could never get over that it was 1989, the year that the Lambada took the world by storm, a dance so close to sex it was even scandalous, and it began in heartbreak.

I took a seat in my chair. Angelita brought hers in front of me. She was different this time. She wasn’t angry with me. We made each other laugh, so that usually broke up the tension, but this time was different, her mood was. I could never see my father again, she dipped down, in sweet little girl tones. The light came through her window, a heavenly glow. “Why?” I asked. “You’ll never see your mother again,” she said. But I wasn’t seeing her, but I didn’t say that. “And you’ll never see us again, do you want that,” sweetly. I was four, five, so I wouldn’t have known how to approach that question, but of course, I bonded with these people, I’m designed to. “No.”

“Shush,” Angelita shushed me, bringing herself back up.

“We’re not going to tell him what we know…”

“We going to play a nice game…” with this piece of shit, she spat on his name. But — she didn’t ask me any real questions, and I don’t think I would have been much help. As far as I knew, at the time, it hadn’t happened to me. Now, I don’t know.

The phone rang.

**I included a scene with my cousins because I’m working out what the book is, and something has to change, as I’m going to wake up to all this, so I might move that later. I see some pieces in it that might be better later, but I’m just going to leave it as is, and keep moving through it, because maybe it’s not necessarily too soon, like introducing the dancing here, the love songs, but I might just need to rewrite it, depending on how the rest goes. But around here, as I began waking up to all this, I might need to make some kind of transition, but it’s coming, so the phone rings… it’s my father…

So right now, I’m going into my first tennis lesson next, which is related to a love song, as my instructor started singing “Maria” from Westside Story to me, which was — a no no. I chucked the tennis racket as hard as I could, I even threw my body into it, so I caused a scene, but my tennis instructor was so truly enamoured with me, “that’s a good backhand…” no love songs!!! I am four! I flip out, and Angelica and I talk about how my behavior signaled to her that it was true, too. I had to put together her side, as I was writing about it, so back in her bedroom, perhaps, I’m thinking ahead, I asked her questions about sex, right. “You’d never expect someone to lie about that,” she said, but I see the truth of it and the lie of it like mirrored images, isn’t it already a lie? And I’ll conduct my psychological experiment in the fourth grade that I did in school, needing to understand how someone could lie like that. I’ll make sure to put in the crazy case of a pedophile lying left and right, about what happened.

This is where people, and even I, could get confused. The lie.

I conducted a couple of psychological experiments in the fourth grade, tough year, on lying. And there, you’ll see that my father was actually sick, literally, but sick with what? And then I’ll go into the game — kick it off. Overall, thus far, I just have to work the language, style, with that tennis game. But there’s a build, the game getting nastier, right? Something. Thanks for reading.

I think, overall, I can’t quite shake that no one reading this is going to necessarily think it’s not true, so I’m not sure if there’s suspense there? Any point in acting like that question isn’t there from the beginning? I’m trying to just speak about it from the place I am in now.