Brittany

Far, very far behind lie Brittany’s birth, her childhood, the many hardships of a life before fame, when anonymity brought no advantages and any number of difficulties.

She was born on a sunny spring day in a hospital at the Stormport Medical Complex, in Midtown.

"Two kilos, eight hundred grams. She’s in very good health," the obstetrician said.

He placed a pink baby girl in the arms of her mother, forty-seven-year-old María. Brittany burst into tears. Her first-time mother cried with her.

"Where is Norman, for the love of the Almighty?" María asked those accompanying her in the hospital room. No one answered.

Norman, the child’s fifty-six-year-old father, was a police officer who generally patrolled the Midtown and Downtown districts. He was on duty that day and could not be present at the precise moment of delivery. When he reached the hospital a couple of hours later, shortly after dusk had begun to fall, he found María resting. María looked at him and brightened, though she seemed exhausted.

"Norman, Brittany has been born. Where were you?" María whispered.

"On duty. The traffic was hellish. I speak the truth with God as my witness," Norman replied coldly.

"You missed it. There she is." The mother pointed to the crib where Brittany slept. "Look at her. May God bless her for us."

Norman approached the crib, gazed at his newborn daughter, and smiled with a fleeting, glacial happiness.

"Hello, daughter," Norman greeted the baby.

"Don’t wake her, for the love of the Lord," María asked him.

"Nothing and no one will ever be able to break our sacred bond. Amen."

"Amen."

At last, the family was complete and happy.

A year later, the family celebrated the girl’s first birthday. The commemoration took place behind a humble dwelling on Lawrence Island, where a new, overcrowded, impoverished settlement had formed. Relatives, church friends, and neighbors gathered for the birthday. Her Orthodox baptism was celebrated at the same time. The gathering was austere, held in the small yard of the property, whose walls were made of sand and unpainted plastic bottles. The shack stood two meters above muddy ground that was constantly flooded, resting on thick wooden pillars.

Tables and chairs handmade by María and Norman were arranged, and sandwiches, punch, soft drinks, beer, and some kind of charred barbecued meat were served. The relatives invited included grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Among the church friends, two women close to María’s age stood out. A neighbor or two and two or three of Norman’s colleagues were also present.

Oblivious to it all, Brittany slept almost the entire time. She neither cried nor fussed and opened her emerald eyes only briefly. When she did, the mere flutter of her eyelids, lasting no more than a couple of seconds, left several guests astonished.

"May the Lord guide her along her path and fill her with grace," one of María’s friends wished.

"Yes, may God bless her, my little one," said another.

"Amen," María added, pride plain on her face.

As the girl grew, those close to her delighted in her joy, charm, and self-assurance. From an early age she proved exceptionally funny, talented, and intelligent. In time, at school, she showed her keen mind by earning the highest marks on her final science project.

One morning, when she was already eight, she was cheerful in science class. She was having fun with her little friend Rose, who in truth found studying boring. Their teacher at the time, a young woman named Abby, approached them. At her side was a smiling older gentleman with cheap glasses on his face.

"I want to introduce you to someone who would like to meet you. He is my former professor of historical sciences. Professor Aquilino, this is María Britania Machado, the girl I told you about."

"Hello, Britania. I’ve been told you’re a very talented and intelligent girl," Aquilino said enthusiastically.

"Thank you, Professor," Brittany replied shyly.

"Truly. Abby has shown me your assignments. You have a remarkable aptitude for historical science; your grades prove it. I’m eagerly looking forward to seeing your final project."

"I already know what I’m going to do. My friend Rose will work with me." Abby cast Rose a fleeting glance.

"Of course. Rose is her inseparable friend, Professor." Abby looked back at Brittany. "I have very high hopes for you. I won’t say aloud that"—Abby leaned closer to Brittany—"you are my most diligent, hardworking, and perceptive student."

"Thank you, Miss," Brittany said.

"I’m convinced you’ll have a great future in the sciences. Keep it up; never stop studying. I’ll be waiting for you in high school in a few years," Aquilino predicted with a smile.

Deeply flushed, Brittany nodded and smiled several times without lifting her eyes from the table.

As time passed, however, by the age of fourteen Brittany gradually began losing interest in her studies. Her father Norman knew nothing of that indifference on the day he bought his daughter a giant ice cream to celebrate another good science-project grade. Ice creams in hand, Norman and Brittany went to a Downtown park beside the Blue River. They walked through the park and ventured into the greenery.

"How’s your ice cream, daughter? Do you like this celebration the Lord provides us thanks to your excellent science-project grade?"

"Yes! The best celebration, Daddy," Brittany answered happily.

"God bless your future. Amen."

They went as far as a bridge spanning a lake near the bank of the Blue River and stopped midway across it. Lit by the sunset, they gazed at the water and Waterfalls Green while enjoying their ice creams. Brittany looked at her father; he returned her gaze, and they both smiled.

Every pleasant memory like that one was left behind when Brittany turned sixteen. One winter afternoon, before the front of the high school, her classmates gently pushed her into the arms of a handsome boy, Dave Freeman, one year her senior. Somewhat compelled by social rules, she went along with it. The kiss caught like fuel in flames. When their lips parted, their classmates celebrated it like a last-minute goal at the stadium.

"It’s my first kiss," Brittany told Dave.

"Liar, liar!" Rose shouted before bursting into laughter. Brittany and Dave ignored her.

"Mine too," he confessed. "Did you like it?"

Brittany gave Dave a couple of shy nods. They both smiled and admired one another. That same year, Brittany would kiss Dave many more times, in private.

One afternoon, they even kissed almost without pause for a long while beneath a fierce, uncontrolled downpour.

In time, Dave even won over her parents. He would visit her in her bedroom, painted entirely fuchsia. One morning they were kissing there when a little girl’s stifled giggles interrupted them. They stopped. Brittany sat up, turned, and looked at the child.

"Hi, Dave," the little girl said.

She waved rapidly, wearing a broad smile that revealed a missing baby tooth.

"Hi, little Louse," Dave replied, almost laughing at the child’s endearing manner.

"Go to your room, Louse. Stop bothering us!" Brittany said, greatly annoyed, then turned back to Dave.

"Bye-bye, Dave!" the girl called as she ran out of the fuchsia bedroom.

"Oh, God. Sorry about my little sister, interrupting as always. Um, well, sweetheart, where were we?"

They resumed kissing with even greater intensity than before.

Some time later, Brittany was at a noisy party in the dead of night. She danced without pause to erratic, deafening music. It was hot on the dance floor; she stripped off garments from her upper body and flung them away. No one had come with her, but she was not alone. At least two hundred people filled the club. She lost herself in the music, let the beat possess her. Someone approached. It was dark; she could not tell whether it was a woman or a man, nor did she care. She felt them dancing with her, felt a body pressing against hers. They caressed and kissed, and a tongue licked her neck. She allowed it all without ceasing to dance.

Amid the passionate kiss, she felt a pill enter her mouth. She accepted it and swallowed, smiled, danced. The body pressed to hers pulled away after a while; others soon approached. The night seemed stretched out, eternal, and she enjoyed it as never before. Problems and conflicts did not seem able to reach her there; she let herself revel in freedom. At some uncertain hour of the night, as though possessed, she shoved away those surrounding her amid defiant, uncontrolled dancing. Somehow she ended up near the DJ. Without a second thought, she snatched away the microphone and loosed a discordant song. The instrumental music fed on her voice. She did not stop. She improvised lyrics song after song, not even fully aware of the incoherent, foolish, absurd, vulgar words she sang.

She was astonished by the thunderous, clamorous ovation—the jubilation of people who were apparently listening, enjoying themselves, and dancing to her tuneless chants. She paused and drank vodka. Meanwhile, the club’s owner approached her, a man past thirty named Gabriel.

"One hundred eCoins a night if you come do this same thing on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays," Gabriel proposed into her ear.

She drew back in surprise, looked him in the eyes, smiled, and immediately nodded several times without hesitation. She had a firm goal: earn enough money to sever once and for all that blessed umbilical cord tying her to her parents. She achieved that and more.

Not long afterward, Brittany was walking the high-school corridors, holding her little sister Louse by the hand. Unexpectedly, she passed right beside Dave, but they neither greeted nor looked at one another. Brittany barely glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she went by, then hurried on. Dave never lifted his gaze from the floor.

"Is Dave not your boyfriend anymore?" her little sister asked.

"No. Not anymore."