The Underdogs Rise: Volume 1 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Underdog Press, LLC
Published: 2023-04-25T05:00:00+00:00

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I showed up at our old cottage soon after, as a blistering afternoon died into evening. I brought the Lady’s photo, which I had carefully snipped out with my pink craft scissors, and then dried, although I couldn’t get rid of the smell of coffee. The photo might be the very thing to untangle the air of mystery surrounding Papá, and the disappearances.

It had been years since I had returned to the dried-out remains of our town. Years since I had even talked to Mamá. It wasn’t like I had saved her number to my new iPhone. I had gotten the latest model, last year, and plastered limited-edition Hulk stickers all over its matte silver case.

I felt as though I was shrinking back into little Raquel, as I pulled into the drive and heard the comfortable hiss of the too-tall grass succumbing to the wheels of my BMW. Seen out of little Raquel’s eyes, the fancy-schmancy car made no sense here, beside Mamá’s beaten-up Buick. Same with my pink Ralph Lauren suit. I felt like I was a princess showing herself off in the slums. Getting down with the plebeians, just for a few minutes, until the cameras’ squeaks and flashes ended.

An imposter princess.

Our cottage, which I had always remembered as a summer palace worthy of a queen, was less shiny and welcoming than the place my imagined memories had conjured. Little scuffs, revealing tired wood, jarred against the places where the white paint was still bright. A long streak of slimy moss wound its way down from the roof, almost bordering the left edge of the door.

A quiet, cold weight shoved against my heart. No matter what had happened between us, Mamá shouldn’t have been left like this.

I took a deep breath and marched toward the door. If I solved the mystery of Papá, maybe I could bring the whole family back together.

When I reached the door, I hesitated, caught by a crude drawing above the brass doorknob. It was a cat, in thick red lines. Bright red lines. A squashed cat, drawn with no sense of perspective, wielding stiff whiskers.

I had drawn the cat when I was like eight, just before the ladies of the book club showed up--Mamá’s turn to host. Mamá scolded me, wagging her finger in my little face, telling me how hard she would have to work to scrub it off, how it would leave her knuckles pink and raw. She sent me to bed without supper. I still remember what that supper was going to be: macaroni-and-cheese with chili on top, the source of various tantalizing smells perfuming the whole cottage (especially my room). It was supposed to be a reward, for doing so well in my piano lessons, memorizing two whole pieces.

I found out the next day that Mamá hadn’t tried to scrub it off at all. She had probably laughed over it, oh, kids these days, with her “friends.” In the ten years after, before I left, the little red drawing had faded to the reddish outline of a shadow.

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