Crises in Love (Zora and Jaylan)

Our car rolled up to Irving's place with the kind of swagger. When our eyes locked, I saw his cocky expression falter, just for a second.

We zoomed past him, and at that moment, Jaylan was left in the dust, looking like a complete fool.

Gone was his usual confident stride, the air of a man who had the world at his feet.

I bet when he saw me, I was the picture of indifference, still sitting on my pedestal.

I was born with this aura. And him? He was just a fool. I wanted him to know that without me, he was nothing. Even a fart has some presence, but he? He had none.

At the Bradlees' doorstep, the doorbell chimed, and Irving himself came to greet us, his smile so wide it was almost grotesque, all teeth and no eyes, the sycophantic grin that was his trademark.

Irving was a man of two faces. One was reserved for currying favor, full of obsequious charms and the constant scraping of bows. The other was a haughty mask he wore when he felt superior, as he looked down his nose with disdain.

And sure enough, as we entered the yard, there was Nettie, back in Goldenvale Town, kicking a soccer ball around the garden with her little brother Sammy.

"Goodness gracious! Ms. Wilburn, you've arrived. What a rare treat. I'm overjoyed, and I never thought you'd accept our invitation." Irving babbled on with his pleasantries.

Seeing the toy in Hannah's hands, he burst into even louder laughter, "Sammy, look what Ms. Wilburn brought for you."

At the sound of Irving's voice, his son Sammy stopped and turned around, a sneer on his face as he glanced at the box in Hannah's hands.

Irving beckoned urgently, "Sammy, come here."

I looked over and saw that Nettie's cheeks were flushed from playing so long, and her white sports shirt was marked with numerous ball prints, the result of Sammy's inaccurate kicks. As she nodded to us, Sammy casually kicked the ball, and it flew straight at her. I couldn't help but let out a cry of alarm.

But it was too late, and the ball hit Nettie square in the face.

She crouched down, clutching her face.

Instinctively, I blurted out, "Dear, are you okay? Did it hurt?"

But Sammy was laughing uncontrollably, even having the gall to say, "Nettie, are you an idiot? Don't you know how to dodge? Do you want to play soccer with me? I'll play you to death."

I felt a surge of anger and disgust. What kind of child was this? A spoiled brat.

Irving, catching my disapproving look, shouted at Sammy, "Sammy, you and your mischief. Go and see if you've hurt Nettie."

Sammy, with a smug look, retorted, "She's made of clay or what? A little knock and she breaks? She insists on playing, and she can't handle it?"

With that, he picked up the ball and aimed another shot at Nettie, taunting, "Can't handle it, then don't play. Stay away from me, and stop hanging around me like a bad smell."

I couldn't help but glance at Nettie, suddenly understanding where those marks had come from.

I felt a strange pang of sympathy. In Janetta's eyes, she was the princess, the apple of her eye.

I watched as Nettie, who had been crouched down, slowly stood up. My breath caught, and there were drops of blood on the front of her white sports shirt.

She gave me a quick, flustered nod, then turned and ran towards the house, holding her nose.

Sammy sneered and, without acknowledging me, strode back inside.

I scoffed to myself, thinking that even as a son, he was ruined by Irving's indulgence.

Irving, with an awkward smile, turned to me helplessly and admitted, "He is spoiled."

I just gave a smile, too speechless to comment.

Throughout it all, Irving hadn't given Nettie a second glance, not even asking if she was hurt. It was clear how little he cared for her.

It seemed Nettie's place in this household was indeed precarious, and I couldn't help but remember Janice's words. It looked like Nettie had brought this on herself.