Sweet Torture

Sweet Torture

by

Kira Saito

Sweet Obsession

Everything about it was intoxicating: the shape, the smell, the texture, the way it gave me a hug when I most needed it.
 
It assured me that all was well in the world even when wars were raging and people were dying. It never judged me or criticized me for being fat or not pretty enough. It haunted my dreams in the form of never ending fountains, streams, flowers and hills that stretched on for miles and miles.

Sadly, I wasn’t referring to parental love or approval. I was referring to chocolate. It was exactly 5:00 a.m.,
 
and it was beckoning me from its well hidden place in my walk in closet. The rich, dark Belgium chocolate my dad had brought back from his latest trip to Europe was robbing me of some much needed sleep. As my chubby feet made contact with the icy floor, all I could think about was how good it would feel to devour the rest of the box.

Throwing any restraint I had out the window, I grabbed the silver, metal box from its resting place and sat on my comfy, queen-sized bed. Before opening it, I eyed the intricately carved box with its Christmas theme and admired its sheer beauty. It was definitely worthy of carrying what rested within it.
 
Slowly, I opened it and ran my plump, manicured finger over a perfect, star shaped chocolate. I lifted it in the air and brought it to my full lips. Waves of ecstasy washed over me as it slid down my throat and made its way to my generous stomach. Without even thinking, I grabbed another one and then another. One by one, the chocolates disappeared. I fell back into my warm duvet and entered into a sleepy coma that was filled with delicious dreams of seductive chocolate.

Sweet Torture

“Miss Claudia, you’re going to be late for school. You have final exam today, you cannot miss it.”

Vlada, our Russian housekeeper always had a way of snapping me out even the most glorious dream. “I’m up Vlada!”

“Breakfast is ready Miss Claudia,” she shouted from outside my bedroom door. “Mr. James made your favorite, chocolate Belgian waffles.”

“I’m just getting dressed,” I responded. The sound of chocolate Belgian waffles instantly perked me up. I scrambled out of bed and dashed into my private bathroom. The reflection that greeted in the gilded bathroom mirror was a little terrifying. The side of my mouth was streaked with chocolate and my mousy, brown hair was oily, and tangled into some kind of weird bird’s nest. Thankfully, my beady, green eyes looked well rested. I slipped out of my silk night gown and hopped onto the silver scale that rested next to the deep, ceramic bathtub.
 
Afraid of what depressing number the scale would scream at me, I prepared for the worst. The number I heard was way more tragic than I had expected. Living on Park Avenue and attending a private school where a Blair Waldorf type character ruled over all of us minions was hard enough, but being a chubby sixteen year old was even harder. I knew that it was my own fault. My mom, who was no more than a hundred pounds always had me on some kind of ruthless diet. Last month, it was the cayenne pepper cleanse, the month before was cabbage soup. My dad, on the other hand, appreciated my respect for fine chocolate and often snuck me back boxes of chocolates whenever he travelled.
 
If my mom ever found out about our little secret, I’m pretty sure she would divorce him. You see, on the Upper East Side, being miserable, but thin and pretty was much more desirable than actually being happy and average. Thankfully, my parents were spending Christmas in Aspen, and I was alone with the house staff who tended to spoil me when they were away. Out of pure pity I’m sure, being the only child to slim and insanely rich parents was much harder than most people assumed.

After cleaning myself up as best I could, and squeezing my body in to St. Emile’s unflattering navy skirt and white blouse, I was more than ready to attack the Belgian waffles that were waiting downstairs.

“Good morning, Miss. Claudia.” Vlada never sounded cheerful even when she was. “Did you have good sleep?” she asked, while she adjusted her impeccable, white apron. Vlada was a perfectionist. Her blond hair was always tied up in a severe bun, her posture was perfect, and her cherry red lipstick was never out of place.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered through mouthfuls of waffle mush and chocolate milk.

“Dream about Mr. Dante again?”

I rolled my eyes in an attempt to prevent myself from turning blood red. “No.”

“Sure,” she continued. “Sit up straight, Miss. Claudia, he’ll never notice you if you have posture like wobbly jello.”

“Not that it’s any of your business Vlada, but I’m sure the last thing Dante cares about is posture.”

“In my country, all men care about posture. We say good posture, makes even the ugliest woman beautiful. Not, that you are ugly Miss. Claudia. Mamba Clara says she sees bright future for you and Mr. Dante.”

“Thanks for the advice.” I gulped down the rest of my chocolate milk, so I could get out of there as soon as possible and avoid any more conversations about Dante, posture and Mamba Clara. Mamba Clara was Vlada’s trusty voodoo queen. Yes, that’s right. Vlada always went to Mamba Clara when some lame dude dumped her, or she put on a few pounds. Supposedly, the woman was a miracle worker.
 
Obviously, Vlada though I was in need of some desperate help if she was discussing me with Mamba Clara.

 
On the way to school, I couldn’t help but fantasize about Dante. A mere glimpse of him was sweet torture. The thing was, my crush on Dante Torres was epic. He was hot. No, he was super-hot. With perfect olive skin, pouty lips and icy blue eyes, if Johnny Depp and Jonathan Rhys Meyers had a love child, I’m pretty sure he would look exactly like Dante. His features were like a box of exotic, assorted chocolates. Each piece was distinct and unique, but blended together in sublime harmony. On top of being ridiculously hot, Dante was an incredible writer. His latest short story had been published in The New Yorker, and rumor had it that he was working out a lucrative deal with one of the big six publishers for his debut novel. The guy was only seventeen. The only problem was every other girl at school had their sights set on him, including Beatrice.

Beatrice was only one of the hottest and most popular girls at school. With her shiny, chestnut, brown hair, waif-like figure and Bambi like brown eyes, she was Upper East Side royalty at its finest. I’m pretty sure her parents had her genetically engineered rather than conceived naturally. Lucky for me, I was one of Beatrice’s handpicked minions. Probably because my family was rich enough to mingle with her crowd, but I wasn’t pretty or thin enough to ever threaten her status as queen bee.

The rumors were fake that pretty girls often liked to hang out with other pretty girls. The truth was, pretty girls liked to surround themselves with less attractive girls to make them appear even shinier than they actually were. Beatrice knew she was hot (gorgeous), but she never went near other girls who were almost as hot as her or hotter. She never wanted her status threatened.
 

 
Lucky for Beatrice, it was common knowledge that Dante had been in love with her since summer. Supposedly, she had been his muse for the story that had gotten published in The New Yorker. I knew for a fact that Beatrice was totally into Dante as well, but she would never just admit it. You see, one of Beatrice’s hobbies was testing boys and how far they would go to get a date with her. Her tests weren’t the typical flower and chocolates kind. No, they were far more daring.

Last year when Carl Rutherford wanted to take her to the Winter Ball, Beatrice dared him to randomly kiss another dude in front of his conservative parents at a fancy Upper East Side Brunch. Being the lovesick puppy he was, Carl actually did make out with Dennis Smith Richards the Third. While it was torture for Carl, Dennis evidently enjoyed it thus outing himself out in a painfully embarrassing manner. Of course, Beatrice had been privy to Dennis’s sexual orientation prior to this embarrassing incident thus making the whole situation all the more scandalous and juicy for her. Carl had done his part and was rewarded with a date to the Winter Ball with Beatrice. Rumor had it that Beatrice had been so impressed with Carl’s boldness that she actually treated him to some one on one time in one of the fancy Manhattan hotels her parents owned. Of course, Beatrice swore that nothing had ever happened. If a peep came out of Carl’s lips, it would mean social suicide, so the exact details of the supposedly illicit encounter were a little sketchy. It wasn’t exactly difficult for me to realize that if I wanted to survive high school, I needed to stay on Beatrice’s good side.

 
Staying on Beatrice’s good side meant complimenting her on a regular basis, snarling at those who she hated and basically being her personal assistant whenever there was a need.
 
Thankfully, Christmas break was starting tomorrow, and she was going to spend it in St. Bart’s. That meant two entire Beatrice-free weeks. Two entire weeks to myself and chocolate. I didn’t even care if my mom was too embarrassed to invite me to Aspen, I was more than happy to stay at home with Vlada and the other staff than put up with her snotty comments about how much of a disappointment I was.

“Hey Claudia, what’s up with the hair?” Beatrice asked as she examined the tragedy that was my hair.

“Rough night.” I lied as I caught a glimpse of myself in my locker mirror.

“Yeah, I can see that,” she snorted as she ran her fingers through her perfectly, smooth hair. “You really need to see Rodrigo; he’s a god with scissors.”

“I can see that,” I muttered half-heartily.

“I know, right.” Beatrice snapped up her first compliment of the day.

As I attempted to smooth down my hair, I caught sight of Dante in my mirror. His customary St. Emile jacket fit perfectly over his broad shoulders and his dark hair was carelessly disheveled. I felt him come closer; the mere presence of him was sweet torture. As he brushed by me, oblivious to my presence, he threw a wink at Beatrice and I felt my heart break into a million pieces.
 

Sweet Heaven

Flakes of snow were slowly finding their way to the cold pavement. The city lights brightened the already dark New York skyline and the city was filled with Christmas cheer. Street corner Santa’s rang their bells for charities and Heaven’s Kitchen, my favorite coffee shop, smelled like spicy cinnamon mingled with mysterious blends of coffee and dark chocolate.
 

I was in heaven as I sipped my Peruvian hot chocolate in a corner booth. Thankfully, school had just ended for two glorious weeks, and Beatrice was well on her way to St. Bart’s by now. Life was perfect, well close to perfect. I didn’t really have any other friends. Although I hung out with the other Beatrice minions at school, we really didn’t socialize away from it. I mean, we didn’t have anything to talk about besides Beatrice and when she wasn’t around, all we did was stare at one another and wonder why we
 
were all so tragic and easy to manipulate.

I was on my second cup of hot chocolate, when I saw him. Dante casually walked into the café and made his way over to the cash register. I was close enough to hear what he ordered.

“Can I get a cup of Colombian coffee, please?” He gave the barista a pearly white smile. Even from where I sat I could see that she turned a shade of red that rivaled the twinkling, Christmas lights outside.

I caught myself shamelessly staring and pretended I was too busy reading my Biology textbook. Seriously, was I that much of a loser that I had to be caught reading a biology textbook when school had just ended?

“Hey Claudia,” said a dry, sexy voice.

No, it couldn’t. Could it? Slowly, I peeled myself away from the ins and outs of contraceptive pills and glanced up. Crap. “Hey.” I tried my best to sound all cool and nonchalant.
 

“Can I sit down?” Dante raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. No. It wasn’t plucked, or anything, it just had nice natural arch. The kind of arch my mother paid hundreds of dollars for every month.

“Yeah, go for it,” I squeaked. Sadly, I had one of those voices that were prone to erupting in squeals whenever I got nervous or excited. “I’ve never been here before,” he said. “It’s nice to see a familiar face. Do you come here often?”

 
Okay, there were so many things about what he had just said that made me want to jump out of my seat and dance on the table. He recognized me!
 
I thought of something intelligent to say, you know something remotely interesting, but all I could think was about how flawless his olive skin was. Not a zit in sight. “Umm, yeah,” I stuttered. Snap out of it. You don’t want him to think you’re a mental patient. “I love the different types of chocolate drinks they have, no other place in the city can rival their selection. I mean you can travel to Dubai, Peru, or Indonesia without ever leaving your seat, that’s pretty awesome. Well, I think so, anyways.”

“You really love your chocolate, don’t you?” Dante’s full lips broke out in an amused smile.

“How can you not appreciate chocolate? Chocolate is the essence of life, its flavors, the smell and texture. It can taste extra sweet, sour, bitter, and even melancholy depending on how you’re feeling. A life without chocolate, that’s not a life at all!” I declared. I felt my cheeks getting flushed and knew my green eyes were shining. They did whenever I rambled on and on about chocolate. At this point, Dante was probably freaked out.