Page 1 of Bianca and the Monsters

Chapter1

Bianca

I’m fighting tears and the tears are winning as I surrender to the one thing more comforting than all the ice cream, pancakes, and chocolate in this world. I pick up my phone—total lie, it was already clenched tightly in my hand. Thissurrenderhas been calling to me since before I watched his taillights fade into the darkness at the end of my winding driveway.

“Hello, Princess,” my father says, his voice gravelly from being selfishly awakened by his only child. But no matter how rough his voice is, his tone is the only one he’s ever used with me, on all my good days and my bad—even thegot caught smoking with the bad boy at sixteendays—sweet, loving, gentle, understanding.

“Hi, Daddy. How was your day?”

“It was fabulous,” he says, completely deadpan. “I played golf and then played more golf. Then I drove around thisgeezers’ paradisein a lime-green golf cart, feeling smug—I’ll be honest, lime-green golf carts are my besties.”

I’m chuckling and so is he, and I feel better even as tears dribble down my cheeks, leaping from my chin like lemmings to their deaths.

My father says softly, “Princess, tell me aboutyourday.”

A soggy sigh later, I blurt, “He left me… just moved out. That’s two in two years, Daddy. What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t anyone love me? Why doesn’t anyone stay?”

My dad gives me his epically caring sigh. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I would never wish even aregister a vehicletype of struggle in your life—you know that. But youdoknow what I think about moments like this.”

“Tell me again,please—tell me something hopeful. I can’t think of a single hopeful thing right now.”

After uttering an odd snort that defies description, he sounds almost apologetic. “Well,first—and this one is new and also proof that retirement has left me with entirely too much time on my hands—I made a list of all the boyfriends you’ve ever had, or at least admitted to, starting with that unfortunate redhead in the third grade who licked soap and thought putting chewed gum in your hair counted asgame.”

I catch my shocked expression in the distorted reflection from the window glass and the sight reminds me why I’ve never considered participating in a reality TV show. My face without constant minding is prone to unsightly configurations. “Wait—you actually made a list?”

“I sure did. And I found a pattern that I think we need to discuss.” His clear attempt to suppress his amusement is a sign that this is going to be good.

“What pattern?” I ask—this is exactly why he’s better than ice cream.

Sounding as stuffy as an ancient professor, he declares, “All of these cads have one-syllable names. Let me see… one Lance, two Todds, three Coles, a Clay, aFlynn—that one was a real treat, wasn’t he?—a Grant, two Shanes, a Troy, one Blaine—as if that’s a name—and we can’t forget that guy namedGuy. AndMr. Just Drove Away, remind me what his parents named him.”

My dad is grinning—I can hear it in his voice—but he’s not mocking. He would fight dragons for me and he always has. He intentionally left one name off that list, a very bad man named Chad who my dad threatened to destroy either legally or not so much—my dad wouldn’t have cared either way. Luckily,Chadwas the kind of bully that skittered back into the shadows when challenged by someone other than the woman he punched exactly once.

“Jack,” I answer, while frowning.

“Jack, right. Color me not at all surprised. So, there’s a pattern here and that gives us something to work with. One thing definitely stands out to me, the most important thing.”

“Which is?”

“I didn’t name you something as marvelous asBiancaso that you could spend your entire life withJacksandLances. You’re more interesting than that.”

I give him the small laugh he clearly wants and deserves, but then I demand the answer to the question that’s haunted my entire adulthood—something I’ve never dared to ask my father. “Daddy, why did you tell me every day of my childhood that I was a princess? Why did you tell me that I would live a grand adventure?”

I pause as the lump in my throat grows more unwieldy. “Ibelievedyou—I’vealwaysbelieved you. But this life… it’sblech. I’m standing here crying over a guy who is tragically boring. Do you remember that horrible fish that lived forever and judged me every day, staring at me with his beady bug eyes? That fish was more interesting thanJack.”

I swear I can hear my dad nodding. “That fish was namedClarence—two syllables, just saying.” Then he sighs deeply and I feel badly for waking him, demanding answers from him, possibly depressing the crap out of him, but hopefully not disappointing him too much—I really couldn’t take that today. “Sweetie, I told you that you were andarea princess because that’s who I raised you to be. A kickass princess who would demand to live a big life.”

I whine—no denying it, “Then what happened to me?”

With calm, supportive words, he responds, “You did what princesses sometimes elect to do.”

“What?” I whisper.

“Not ascend to the throne. You’re basically a princess in hiding—a witness protection princess, if you will—and that’s the choice you’ve made.”

Ouch. Why does the truth feel like the beginning of a rash? I’ve always wondered that.

My father continues, “But the hopeful thing—thetrulyhopeful and empowering thing that you need to remember—is that you can make a different choice tomorrow. Every morning when I’mnoteating the grain cereal the doctor wants me to eat, I think about you and I pray that one day you’ll see just how amazing you are, how intelligent and kind. You glow, B. You always have.”

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