Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Sit down,” she demands before rushing out the door.
I drop onto the floor, my back against the wall, while I try to catch my breath.
A few minutes later, she returns with a first aid kit and sits on the floor in front of me.
“Talk to me, please,” she says as she works on cleaning up my knuckles. “I don’t know what happened in the kitchen. One minute, I was baking and asking you to read me the ingredient and measurement, and the next, you were yelling at me. But I don’t know why.” She glances up at me. “What happened?”
I replay the scene from the kitchen in my head.
Her asking me to read the recipe.
Me telling her I can’t.
Her laughing …
I was so caught up in my own head, thinking she was laughing at the fact that I couldn’t read when she didn’t understand what I was trying to say.
“Matteo, please talk to me,” Dani says, applying a thin layer of ointment to the tops of my knuckles.
“I can’t read,” I whisper.
“What?” Her hands still, and she looks up at me. “What do you mean, you can’t read?”
“You asked me what comes next and how much, and I told you I couldn’t read it.”
Her eyes go wide as she takes in my words. “Oh, Matteo, I … I laughed. But”—she shakes her head—“I didn’t know. I thought you were joking, like the flour was covering it too much. I didn’t think …”
“I know.” I nod. “At the time, I assumed … but now, I know.”
“I would never—” She drops the first aid kit onto the floor and climbs into my lap, her hands going to my face. “I would never laugh at you.”
“I know,” I repeat. “I was stuck in my own head, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’ve never told anyone but my brother, and it all happened so fast. I’m sorry.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t listening, and I didn’t understand. But now, I am listening, so tell me what you meant by you not being able to read.”
I take a deep breath and then say the words out loud for the first time ever. “I’m dyslexic.”
Even when I told my brother, I didn’t say the words. He’d overheard our parents arguing over me being stupid, and he asked me if it was true—that I couldn’t read. I nodded, and that was it. After that day, we never talked about it again, but when I went to work for him, he always made sure to paraphrase any emails or contracts that were sent.
“Sometimes, I scramble letters, and when you asked me to read the measurement, I couldn’t tell if I was reading it correctly. It looked like the abbreviation of teaspoon, but then I thought it could’ve been tablespoon. It all happened so fast that I choked, and instead of reading it wrong to you and you laughing at me or me fucking up whatever you were making, I told you I couldn’t read.”
“But then I laughed anyway.” She sighs. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know you didn’t mean it like that, but flashbacks of getting laughed at by other kids when I was growing up hit me, and I couldn’t think clearly.”
“That’s so shitty,” she says. “Your parents didn’t get you help?”
I snort out a humorless laugh. “That would mean the great and powerful Andrey Antonov admitting his son had a weakness. No, he tried to beat the stupid out of me a few times, but when that didn’t work, he threw me on the streets since I was too damaged to work in the office, like Dominick.”
“That’s horrible. And the teachers didn’t help you?”
“They tried. When I got frustrated, I would lash out. Eventually, they started to put two and two together. But they couldn’t run any official tests to get me help without parental consent, and my dad refused to consent.”
Dani glares. “What? He refused to let you get help? What kind of parent refuses to get their child help?”
“Andrey Antonov,” I say with a shrug. “When I was fifteen, my English teacher saw firsthand how bad he was, so she told her brother about me. I had a lot of the same characteristics he had. Lashing out, unable to control my emotions. He brought me to his gym and showed me how to release the pent-up aggression I had. I learned I not only had dyslexia, but I also had emotional dysregulation—pretty much a fancy term to say that I can’t control my emotions. But back then, my dad just thought I was stupid and acting out.”
“That’s horrible. How did you get through school without any help?”
“Up until high school, I barely got by. But once I started high school, the teachers had too many teenagers to deal with, and I started failing. When I was sixteen, I dropped out and never looked back. During the day, I worked the streets for my dad, and afterward, I spent all my time at the gym. Lucian trained me, gave me an outlet, and when I was good enough, I started fighting underground. Eighteen fights, and I’m undefeated.”