The Right Kind Of Wrong Girl

Malu   This is not the story about a princess who lived in a castle until, one day, she found prince charming, fell in love with him, and both lived happily ever, walking towards the sunset in a white horse. I’m not a princess, never was. That doesn’t mean that life hasn’t provided me with opportunities to be a little princess, on the contrary. I was born in a ‘conventional family’, so to speak. Conservative parents, traditional school. But I’ve always been the black sheep in this family, the one with colored hair and a shocking attitude. The one who smokes, drinks, swears and enjoys a bohemian life. The right kind of wrong girl. That girl mothers would never want as a daughter-in-law and boys don’t usually take home to introduce to their parents. That fun girl in the gang who is always ready for the next adventure. Until that day when life knocked me down and made me realize that everything can change in a heartbeat. It’s four o’clock on a Friday morning and I’m here, lying on this hospital bed. I look around and there’s Rafa, sitting on a chair right beside my bed, his eyes closed, immersed in a restless sleep. I can see his eyes surrounded by small dark circles, his unshaved hint of beard starting to show, his coat on the armrest. I watch him carefully: his brown hair, messed by fingers running through so many times; those expression lines on his eyes, which cause his eyes and lips to smile together, and on his cheeks, marking irresistible dimples. While I look at him, I realize how much his presence is important in my life and the only reason that I’m here, on this hospital bed, with all these things attached to me, is because of him. Everything I wanted was taking that trip, at peace with whatever life prepared for me, but Rafa wouldn’t allow it. The only thing I needed to reconsider this decision was a shred of hope and that was exactly what I received. To help you understand how things came to this point, we must go back about eight years in the past. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the first time I stepped into my college building. It was an extremely hot summer day, and the sun was burning. My neighbor and beer buddy Beto gave me a ride. Yes, I was only seventeen but already very fond of a night out. My friends used to say that I had an old, wise, and bohemian soul. I was in town for a bit more three months to study, guess what, Law. That was my last attempt to please my parents, who wouldn’t even consider the possibility of me not following the family career, since my father, uncles and grandparents worked in different Law fields. Beto was a Social Communication student, a couple of semesters ahead of me, who lived in the apartment downstairs. He was the personification of every woman’s surfer boy dream, almost a walking cliché: sun-kissed and almost always messy blond hair; tanned skin; a dragon tattoo on his arm; an honest smile, and flip-flops on his feet. No matter where we went, he never wore shoes or sneakers: he used to say they hurt his feet. And, honestly, it was all part of his natural charm. We left the car in a parking lot next to our campus. Beto’s old car clashed with most of the new ones from the playboys, as he used to call them, but he didn’t mind. He was in college as a promise to his mother, who died when he was fifteen. The only thing that really mattered to him, besides honoring his promises, was how good the waves were. We headed to the majestic campus, which comprised five huge buildings and a whole world of people. “Babe, that’s probably your building.” Beto showed me the construction a bit far ahead. “Mine is this first one. Are you okay?” he asked me, apparently worried, as if I was his little sister. Beto had always treated me as if I needed protection. That was just way he was, no romance from his behalf or anything like that. “That’s ok, Beto. I’ll check the schedule I’ve printed. I’m sure the classroom numbers are written there.” “Rad! See you after class then. If you have any problem, call me.” “Cool,” I replied before heading to the building he showed me. After hanging out with him almost every day, I was sort of learning his surf slang and incorporating some things on my daily routine. I reached for my headphones in my pocket, and I put them on before walking through the campus, listening to rock music, and watching everybody around. There seemed to be all sorts of people: frat boys, bimbos, rockers, skaters and so on, which was good, because that made me feel less “different”, considering my unusual look. My dark hair was asymmetrically cut, right above my shoulders, with purple tips. I was wearing jeans shorts, a black T-shirt showing the Brazilian rock band Legião Urbana and the drawing of a white guitar, sneakers and a backpack. I was sure that, if my mother could see me at that exact moment, she’d say I looked homeless. Overreacting much? I reached for the printed piece of paper in my backpack. I was comparing the written classroom number and building name to the ones on the sign hanging from the building entrance, when a deep voice resonated behind me, which made all the hair in my body suddenly curl. “Need help?” I turned around to a vision that took my breath away. I wasn’t the type of girl who fell in love. I was more into hook-ups or, even better, single but not alone. I didn’t even believe in love, happily ever after or any of this s**t. All I wanted to do was drinking, dancing and French-kissing. I still hadn’t had any s****l experience purely for lack of opportunity. The reason for that was simply the fact that the guys I used to date had never made me want to go any further, and not because I believed I had to save myself for the great love of my life, which I knew for a fact that was a likely story. But that guy standing in front of me was not like the other boys I knew. He was a man, in every sense of the word. His long hair was tied in a man-bun. His eyes were a shade of grey I’d never seen in my life. His brown skin, sun-tanned, contrasted with his bearded face and white-toothed smile. He was wearing a white T-shirt which hugged his body and washed-out jeans. Despite the bearded look and long hair, he didn’t seem sloppy, on the contrary. I shook my head, trying to organize my words. “I was making sure my classroom is here.” When he smiled, his expressions lines made his smile go all the up to his eyes. “What is your course? Fashion design?” he asked me, looking at me from the bottom up. What a cliché! “Law.” My answer came right away, which made him laugh. “Another rebel! Welcome to the family!” he laughed and pointed out to the building. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.” I nodded, feeling thankful, but suddenly realizing that I’d lost the ability to speak merely by standing next to that handsome stranger. He walked me to the building, craning his neck to look at my piece of paper to read the classes I was going to take. “Constitutional Law! Your classroom is right over there.” He pointed to classroom 101. “Thanks,” I replied, and he smiled back at me. “Rafael.” He introduced himself and offered his hand. “Malu,” I replied taking his hand. “I’ll see you around, Malu.” He smiled one more time and winked at me before he disappeared in hallway heading for another classroom. And that was the place, at the first day of boring Law school, that I met the man who stole the heart that I didn’t even know I had.   Chapter two   “Silvering the horizon, rivers and fountains shine, in a cascade of light.” Lulu Santos