Labeled Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright © 2015 Danielle Rocco

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The scanning, uploading and distribution of the book via the Internet or via any other means without permission is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author approved contest, this book has been pirated. Your support for the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9965850-0-2

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY FAMILY

  My husband Jeff

  My children Jeffrey, Joseph, DanniElla and Sophia

  We live by the motto given from above

  All things are possible for those who believe

  This is for you

  I wrote a story

  I believed and I did it.

  Mark 9:23

  Do you remember the day we met, baby?

  I remember every single moment I’ve ever had with you.

  I fell hard. I fell fast.

  I loved slowly.

  God, baby, I love loving you slowly, and now time is going to kill me slowly.

  I can’t breathe without you…

  I won’t be able to breathe without you.

  I just want you to know how I feel.

  You’re everything to me…

  I love you, baby…

  The beginning

  I WAS NEVER taught to love, but I was taught at an early age to defend myself. That’s why I don’t even think twice when I step in to help harmless Bart Phillips from being shoved around by some wannabe gangsters in front of our middle school. I should walk away and let him learn to defend himself the way I had to, but I can’t because somewhere deep inside me I don’t want him to have to put up with that shit.

  My eyes roam the area before I walk up to them. No one is paying any attention, as usual. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I make my way over to Bart, whose buck teeth are ready to pierce his lip from how hard he’s biting down on it. The guy towers over him. Not only is Bart skinny, he’s also shorter than most kids in our grade. The wannabe tough guy has two friends standing there like his bouncers. I know them. They like to pick on the wallflowers of the school to make themselves look like the tough guys on campus.

  “Bro, are you seriously picking on this kid?”

  The wannabe turns to me, and I stand tall. One thing I learned at an early age was not to let anyone punk me. “Mind your own fucking business, pretty boy.” That one statement is all it takes. I look over at Bart, nodding with a tilt of my head for him to walk away.

  Every day I watch this kid walk with his head down, afraid to make eye contact. Nervous and unsure of himself, he barely looks at me now. It’s sad. That’s why I can’t let him sit here and get an ass beating, when I know he tries so hard to go unnoticed.

  Because their dads and older brothers are gangsters, the wannabe and his friends think that’s the life, but I won’t let them pick on innocent kids that can’t even swat a fly.

  “What has he ever done to you?” I ask the wannabe. The kid looks at me. His expression tells me what I already know. Nothing. Bart has never done anything to him. “Then leave him alone.” I turn to Bart. “Let’s get to class.”

  Head down, he reluctantly follows me. As I turn to walk away, I get pushed hard. “Don’t fucking walk away from me, Jace.” That’s when I snap. I pounce forward with a balled fist slamming into the side of the wannabe’s face. A small crowd gathers, garnering the attention of the security guard who breaks it up and quickly drags us to the principal’s office.

  After a thirty-minute lecture and Bart too scared to be honest about what caused the fight, I am sent home for the day. I guess I don’t blame him. Bart knows it will just make it worse for him if he talks. As I walk down the hall, he calls after me.

  “Thanks, Jace. I didn’t stand a chance. They would have for sure beat my ass.” I just nod and start off for home.

  THE WALK BACK to our apartment doesn’t take long. The first thing I come across is a junkie with her baby in a stroller. I try to walk past her without focusing on her, but a part of me sees my mom in her, so my eyes stay transfixed. She looks really young, like she belongs in school. I can’t help but wonder if this is how my mom looked with me: young, alone, and just trying to get by. Her hollow eyes look up at me, and it’s like a train wreck.

  “Do you have a couple of bucks? I need diapers for my baby.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t have any.” It is the truth. I probably would have given her some if I had. She turns away from me, as her baby starts crying. Walking past her, I glance over my shoulder, curious as to what she’ll do next. Just like I figured, she’s already asking the next passerby. I turn back around and just keep walking.

  I look up.

  Ahead, there’s a huge billboard for a television show that’s releasing soon. I’ve seen the commercials while switching channels. They are the picture-perfect family—the mom that always has a loving smile on her face, the dad that walks through the door sweeping her off her feet, and the kids that can do no wrong—all walking into the living room to have a family meeting while sitting on the pretty furniture. Everyone walks away happy and tucked safely into bed. The actors in the ad are all sitting there on a couch, hugging and falling on top of each other and laughing. I wonder if their real lives are that good.

  The sun bounces off the billboard, hurting my eyes, so I look down. Straight ahead is my reality, which is a far cry from the image on the billboard. My apartment building comes into view as I cro
ss the busy street while there’s a break in traffic. A horn beeps.

  “Dumb ass!” a guy that can barely speak English yells from his car window when I get to the curb. I guess I didn’t get across quickly enough for him. I ignore him and continue to make my way home. My shoes crunch down on the dry grass that has now become straw from the lack of water.

  I make it to the back of the building and stare at our door, never knowing what I’m going to walk into. I picture that girl with the baby on the street again, hoping she can figure out her life before it’s too late, so her baby doesn’t have to grow up like me.

  The cloud of smoke is thick when I walk through the door. I was hoping she wasn’t here. Even though she is, she’s really not. She’s passed out on the couch. As I head to my room, I hear her faint voice. “Why are you home so early?” I guess she’s not passed out after all.

  I scramble my words, trying to answer her. “School got out early today.”

  She grabs her pack of cigarettes lying next to her on the couch cushion and lights one up. Taking a big pull, I hear it sizzle through the red glow. Turning her head in my direction, she asks, “Why?”

  I don’t look at her. I don’t like to lie, so I don’t make eye contact. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a holiday.”

  “It’s not a fucking holiday, Jace.” I’m surprised she even knows what day it is, but I keep my mouth shut. “Did you get in trouble?”

  For the first time, I really did get in trouble, but what was I supposed to do? Let my friend get hassled?

  “I never get in trouble. I told you school just got out early.”

  She looks up at me, butts out her cigarette, and closes her eyes. I don’t waste time waiting for her to say more. I go to my room where I don’t plan on seeing her again until the next morning. When I close my door, I fall onto my bed. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t get in the middle of shit. If it had been any other kid, I would have walked away, but it wasn’t. It was the kid everyone picks on. I’d had enough. I had to step in.

  MY MOTHER, GRACE, doesn’t have any protective, caring qualities. She never has been nurturing. I don’t really even know my mother. I’ve always lived with her, but I’ve never really known her. I don’t even think she knows herself. She got pregnant with me as a teen. I think she was maybe sixteen. Her parents weren’t kind people, or so she says, since I’ve only ever heard her say they were judgmental of her. It’s that vicious cycle that continues from one fucked-up generation to the next. She has a sister, Joy, that is only a year younger than her. Grace says she doesn’t even know if she and her sister share the same father.

  Sad, right? But typical, seeing as my mom can’t tell me who my father is. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  When Grace told my grandparents she was pregnant with me, they weren’t up for the embarrassment of being labeled “the parents with the knocked-up teen,” so they kicked her out. I never met them. We moved to California when I was a baby. This is the only home I’ve ever known. I don’t know how we got here; all I know is it’s only ever been Grace and me. Whatever family is still left is in Oregon.

  Her parents are dead.

  At least that’s what she told me. Maybe they’re just dead to her. I don’t even know if she talks to her sister. That’s pretty much all I know about my family, and I only know that much, because in elementary school when we had to do a family tree project, that information was the walk down memory lane Grace provided me. She hated every minute of that project, complaining the entire time I asked questions. When I asked about my father, her words were quick, and her tone was harsh. “You don’t have a father.” I was crushed. I put the questionnaire down, telling her that was all the questions I needed to ask.

  After that, she went and picked up her pack of cigarettes off the counter. As she lit one up, I watched her inhale deeply. When she exhaled, there was a big cloud of smoke that filtered through the air. Pulling in another puff, she walked to the front door, opened it, and walked out. Probably no more than six years old, I sat staring at the questionnaire. While focusing on the little box that had a space to write my father’s name, I grabbed my pencil and filled in the blank. Even at such a young age, I knew that love should be felt. The problem was, how did I feel something when I didn’t have anyone that cared to show me?

  “YOU DON’T HAVE a father.”

  I must have replayed her cruel words over and over again through my head for weeks after she told me that. Birthday. Father’s Day. I would hear that voice again and again.

  “You don’t have a father.”

  The thing is, everyone has a father. Even kids like me who grew up without one. I just never met him.

  I always wondered about him, though. I must look like him, as I look nothing like my mother. Grace is on the small side; she’s not super short, but she’s not tall, either. I’m tall for my age. She already has to look up when she talks to me. We are complete opposites in looks. She has dirty blonde hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin is pale white, and she never really tans. I think if her life had been different she probably would’ve aged much more gracefully than she has. However, years of drinking—and I’m sure taking drugs—have taken their toll on her.

  She was pretty at one time in her life. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was younger. She has an album full of photos, but she doesn’t keep it out in the open. I just stumbled upon it one day. Inside it are even pictures of her when she was pregnant with me. Maybe there is a picture of my dad in there, but I’ll never know. She put it away somewhere else after she found me looking through it.

  Whoever my sperm donor is definitely has a different gene pool. My long, lean, muscular frame—even at my age—is pretty impressive. I don’t even have to work out, and I already look strong and fit.

  The biggest differences between my mom and me are my jet-black hair and my light, pale blue eyes. I’m pretty light-skinned, too, but I have no problem tanning, and by being in the California sun all year long, I have a permanent tan. So, I guess old Pops must not have had any problems with the ladies. I’m not being cocky, but at thirteen, I already have girls knocking on my door.

  I’m proud to say that I’m a boy with morals. I’ve seen too many things that make me want to look away. I have no problem roughing someone up if they mess with me, though. That’s one thing I won’t shy away from. I just don’t mess with alcohol or drugs. And girls—I’ve never gone there yet, either. Believe me, pretty much all the guys I know have, but somewhere deep inside me, I want more. I want different. I want what I see in the movies and what I hear artists sing about. I want something real, something I can hold on to. I don’t want anything from this place. Girls are one thing, but I’m talking about the big picture. I want a different life than what I’ve had to grow up with.

  I dream.

  As stupid as it is, I really do dream about what is out there beyond these walls that surround me. I dream of providing for myself and not living off the government. I dream of what I see in the movies: a mom with loving arms and a dad with encouraging words who would move mountains to be with the woman he loves.

  I dream this shit.

  Even in my pathetic life full of broken words, overflowing ashtrays, and empty beer cans, I still dream. I fall asleep dreaming of a life full of love.

  I RUB MY eyes from the burn of the wafting cigarette smoke first thing in the morning. Even though I shut my bedroom door at night, it still seeps in. I just want to close my eyes and drift back to the dream I was having where my mom was happy-go-lucky, and I had a dad who loved us both more than anything. As my eyes continue to sting, I’m faced with another day in reality where that just isn’t my life.

  My gaze finds its way to the dirty popcorn ceiling. Hair falls into my eyes, and instead of throwing it back with my hand, I blow it up to see if I can move it out of the way. It doesn’t work, so I try again just to entertain myself, but really holding off on getting up. Nothing happens, reminding me that nothing changes, and everything st
ays the same.

  I live in Los Angeles, where dreamers come to live out their dreams. Little do those dreamers know that there is already a shitload of people here that want the same thing but will never get it. Is it too much to ask for the kid from the other side of the tracks to get the fairy tale like in the damn movies? Why is it only the girls we hear about who get the damn fairy-tale ending?

  I laugh to myself.

  I’m pathetic.

  Settling my thoughts away, I stretch out and run my fingers through my unruly hair while yawning loudly. I didn’t sleep well last night, but what’s new? I should be able to sleep like a baby with how dark our apartment is. I rarely open the metal blinds that keep out the shadow of the outside world around me. I only have one tiny window, and when I look out of it, the only thing I see is a large bush and the other side of the apartment building. It’s dark and gloomy, and even opening the window provides no natural light. I think the blinds are supposed to be white, but the thick dust makes them look gray. Maybe I should wipe them down. I should wear a mask if I do, since I’d probably choke and later get sick from the amount of dust particles that enter my lungs. In all the years we’ve lived here, I don’t think they’ve been cleaned once.

  Curiously, I reach over, swiping my finger over one of the metal slats. Just like I suspected. Tons of particles fill the air. Fascinated by them, I watch as they linger around me until I start to cough.

  That’s just gross.

  I close my eyes, trying to keep the dust out and think about what woke me last night from my half slumber. Not quite the usual event I have to deal with. This time my interrupted sleep was from something a little more exciting—my bed rattling from an earthquake. I have no idea how long it really lasted since it just felt like a few seconds.

  Weird.

  I don’t think we’ve had one in a long time, not one I could feel anyway. I’m not big on surprises. Nothing good has ever come as a surprise for me. The only things that surprise me consist of, “Surprise! Your mom didn’t pay the rent again.” “Surprise! There are no clean clothes again.” “Surprise! There are no groceries again.” You know, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing exceptionally exciting. So, yeah, my bed shook for a few seconds last night. I’m sure Grace didn’t feel it. She seems to shake all day long.